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August 31, 2006
Impressions from the Hall of Justice
A young black man swaggers down a hallway, one arm draped over his young woman. She's trying to share his good mood, but her manner betrays ambivalence. As he passes a cluster of dispirited juror candidates, he boasts:
"I beat it. I beat that case, y'all. I beat that shit."
In the elevator, an Asian man in his fifties leans against the wall, head slightly bowed. His rimless glasses are spotty, but his forehead is unlined. Something about his peaceful manner and twinkling eyes reminds me of the Dalai Lama.
After a moment, I realize I'm standing next to the crime reporter for our local Fox affiliate.
A gigantic young Latino smoking outside on the courthouse steps during lunch is holding court. His posse sits on a retaining wall drinking Mountain Dews, looking up while he gesticulates wildly. At one point, el jefe literally pounds his chest.
The front of his 5X T-shirt is completely covered by an airbrushed portrait of Al Capone chomping a cigar.
As we file out after voir dire, a white male public defender with a puffy white ponytail escorts his client, a skinny black man, into the courtroom. The lawyer walks three paces ahead of his client, whom I recognize as a homeless man from my old neighborhood.
The client stops every few paces, looking around with fear and exhaustion. The lawyer keeps walking, whispering hushed advice to the man he believes is keeping pace:
"It's gonna be okay, just do exactly what I tell you," he stage-whispers to no one in particular.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:12 PM | Comments (0)
August 28, 2006
Right here, right now.
I'm working in the back room with bare feet, despite the chill.
Polly is curled up at my feet, deeply engrossed in her personal grooming. Liz sleeps in the other room, having wrapped up another all-nighter while Scooter perches on her hip and snores.
This is where I get my best work done; where I'm happy and comfortable.
Figuring out how to do this every day is not beyond my grasp.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:46 AM | Comments (0)
August 24, 2006
A quick thought.
George Allen's macaca moment is old news, but this came across Bloglines this morning:
COUSHATTA -- Nine black children attending Red River Elementary School were directed last week to the back of the school bus by a white driver who designated the front seats for white children.
CBS' plan to segregate next season's Survivor teams by race and pit them against each other disturbs me, but when I saw this last night, I stopped dismissing Liz's Bushworld-banishing mantra of "Vancouver."
Limbaugh handicapped races in new Survivor series, suggested "African-American tribe" worst swimmers, Hispanics "will do things other people won't do."
For reasons I don't completely understand, my mind wants to connect all of the above to the upcoming Katrina anniversary.
Can someone please shake me awake?
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:24 PM | Comments (0)
August 21, 2006
Remarks from Tom Cole's memorial service, 8/20/06
I'm glad we're all here this weekend so we can recognize the thread that connects us. We're all fortunate enough to have known Tom Cole.
I knew Tom well, but not completely. We were close in some respects, and not in others. I'm okay with that. We all show different faces to different people; each of us have many names. Even though he passionately embraced new experiences, people and places, Tom was a private person.
Double rainbow, Woody Creek, CO 8/20/06
This gathering is an opportunity to take the aspects of Tom that he revealed to us so we may exchange them with each other. Sharing big and small Tom Cole moments paints a rich portrait of the man. A scholar. A clown. A seeker. A teacher. A loving partner. Friend of the four-legged.
The most definitive things I can say about Tom is to simply tell you what I loved about him:
- In Zen practice, they call it "beginner's mind." Tom always exhibited openness, perspective, clarity, and an insatiable curiosity.
- His unique ability to be in the moment and to bring others inside so they could share the delight he took from experiences both generic and extraordinary.
- And his genuine concern for friends and family; his constant craving for connection is the reason we're here today.
Tom Cole was a very good man.
It's hard for me to accept that any good that might arise out of our shared loss could ever outweigh the light and the substance that Tom brought to our lives.
But the incomprehension and rage I've felt since his passing makes me more mindful about remaining in the present. When I wake up and think of Tom, I know I have a greater capacity for adventure, confidence and play than the day before.
I'm speaking to more strangers and spending less time in the office. I crack jokes in crowded elevators and remind myself to ask the woman at the coffeeshop how her day is going.
I only hope I was able to return the friendship Tom showed me, because knowing him made my life better. Definitively. I know he's given each of us many gifts we've yet to discover.
Thank you, Tom.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:35 AM | Comments (0)
August 17, 2006
Incomprehension. Rage.
Such is the state of modern man, according to Sartre. I don't spend a lot of time reading French existentialists. Neither does Dubya, so let's just put that shit to bed, shall we?
On July 25, my good friend Tom Cole died of a heart attack at the age of 43.
On August 10, my grandfather passed away at 92.
On August 12, my 61-year-old aunt Bev lost her battle with cancer. We buried her on Tuesday, the day after my father got back from burying his father back east with my grandmother.
Today, I was called up for jury duty.
I feel like the star of a Neil Simon play that written for a very harried Jack Lemmon who's fraught with pain, bourgeois hobgoblins and an overriding sense of his own insignificance. Enumerating the above for an audience makes me feel especially selfish and small-minded.
I don't need sympathy. Rachel lost Tom, her partner, the love of her life. They had plans.
My fiercely independent grandfather spent his last year relying on Dad, Ella and a retinue of home health care workers for everything.
It wasn't enough that my brilliant, irascible aunt was debilitated at age 48 by a stroke -- she was diagnosed with late-stage lung and brain cancer last Thanksgiving. My parents visited her at the hospice every day.
"Nothing especially bad has happened to me," is what I want to say. "It's everyone else who's getting the worst of it," is what I want to tell people when they offer me a kind word. But I duck my head a little, and say "thank you."
Liz and I did our best to lighten to load on my parents last weekend by driving to Arizona. We're hosting Rachel in the sunny back room that was formerly a depository for collapsing boxes and unwanted furniture. I'm going to Aspen tomorrow for a memorial service to celebrate Tom's life with his friends and family.
I'll write more about each of these individuals separately, soon.
But I'll tell you something: when I called the automated line last night and found out I'd been confirmed to appear this morning for jury selection, I thought of how Tom, Bev or my grandfather would have faced it, and I followed my instinct.
When I walked into the living room, unable to stop laughing, Liz did seem a little concerned.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:16 PM | Comments (0)