Dog Poop Detail

Since back in the the US for two weeks now, I have been having many interesting conversations with people about the "differences in the details" of things between Europe and America, hence my impetus to initiate these blogs in the first place.

Today, while sitting outside at a coffeehouse having coffee with a friend from Santa Fe, one of those details came to light, albeit one that makes Americans more uncomfortable than many Europeans I have spoken with.

There were two policeman walking down Ft. Marcy street who happened upon a dog that was leased to one of the poles supports of the Santa Fean adobe portici that shelter the sidewalks from the elements, much like in Bologna, which is actually famous for its endless portici, but that is another story and another blog... Regardless, there was a dog tied up to the post. The policemen were asking everyone whose dog it was. Everyone assured them that the owner had literally just popped into the restroom and would be back soon.

The policemen were rather unmoved by such appeals, and waited it out for a couple of minutes, mildly scolding the woman who had left the dog tied up unattended. She seemed slightly put out, but went on her way.

My friend remarked that it is funny how laid back the Santa Fe police are for the most part, but often will choose a detail such as this to "make a statement" of sorts.

I then related a serious problem that had plagued northern Europe, and particularly Belgium, during vacation time in years past, namely, the abandonment of family pets by the side of the highway, chained up to literally die while the family heads south to escape to the sun in France or Spain for a couple of weeks of getting lobster-toned to insure a "good" vacation.

This practice escalated to such a level that a national campaign and hefty fines were levied on offenders, and apparently, it worked. I have not heard about this for a few years, but I also noticed something else, less people have dogs now in Belgium. I don't know if there is a connection, but I specifically remember many, many more dogs in the 1990's in Belgium, and specifically Antwerp, mainly because of the dog poop on the sidewalk. Cheech and Chong did a skit about dog poop on the sidewalks of Amsterdam many years ago, but it could have easily been "still smokin'" in Antwerp as well.

But, again, a major clean-up campaign, and fines and, well, less dogs. I have wondered if the fines and campaigns are directly responsible. What I find interesting about that though, is that it seems to be more effective to fine people than to appeal to a sense of ethics, but hopefully I am wrong about that, though, I wonder.

A Perfect World?

OK, here it goes.

I know that making a statement is rather a bold and foolish thing to do these days because we seem to not be able to make "statements" any longer as that means that we actually have something to say and feel that it might actually be right, God forbid. At the pool today, I heard someone in the locker room (after he took a gander at my plastic, Del Haize shopping bag ) say, in all seriousness, with no irony, "Now, of course, I don't want to make a statement, that's for sure."

So, deep breath. Count to three.

Here goes.

"A Perfect World," directed by Clint Eastwood in 1993 is Kevin Costner's best and most unsung role. There I said it. Hand me a tissue Tito...

Sandwiched in between the two major hits, "Unforgiven" and "The Bridges of Madison County," this odd tale got lost. In it, Costner is Robert "Butch" Haynes, a low-level criminal who takes a young boy hostage and drives across Texas, being pursued by Eastwood as the Sheriff, Red Garnett. During the course of the movie something odd happens--NOTHING, and that is what makes it so brilliant.

Costner pulls off a masterful role of not really doing anything, and I am dead serious about my praise in this. This is the crepuscular time of Costner's presence in movies being anything but doing anything but nothing.

Road trips are an American thing. Road trips across the West, that is. Getting in a car and driving from A to B is not a road trip. Going on vacation on a busy highway is not a road trip.

Driving across the vistas of the American West, where NOTHING happens is a road trip because it is a time to reflect, to meditate, to listen to Cat Stevens, buy horrible gas station coffee, stop at a Stuckey's, read the billboards for Flying C Ranch and Cline's Corners, look at the sky, play "I Spy" with your five-year old, but essentially doing no-thing.

The last time I was in Santa Fe, I went to a lecture on Liebniz at St. John's College on the outskirts of town. I had always had a passing interest in Liebniz, especially with his connection to the dispute over the invention of the Calculus against Sir Isaac Newton. However, it was through teaching Candide at the Antwerp International School that I had come to know about the concept of Liebniz's "Best of All Possible Worlds." Some years back, we went to see the opera, Candide, nearly on a lark of just happen to have had season tickets to the Austin Opera, but it was excellent. I was stunned that you could make an incredible boring book into such a great opera. And, despite the message, Voltaire's book is a snoozer.

I have tried to make a conversion in my vocabulary of "best of all possible worlds" from "perfect" because the latter seems to get me in quite a stew, while I actually mean the former. For me, they are the same. Per-fect, coming from the Latin, is to be be made through and through. Nearly identical is the concept of Sam-skrita, which means, made, or put together and was applied to the language because it was considered "perfect," which it is anything but. Sanskrit is a hybrid of Indo-European and Dravidian and has many irregularities, but is it less than perfect then?

Perfect does not mean without faults or flaws in my mind, but rather, like Liebniz, it is the best of all possible worlds. Ultimately, this will be the kicker in the Republic when Socrates is asked if he believes in the "perfect" city. (Answer to that question is coming soon to a blog near you).

Americans seem to get hung up on that word, perfect. I know that I have, and I have made it one of my demons to be exorcised, making Liebniz more and more my guide.

I do believe that life is but a calculus, leading ever closer to what we wish to accomplish, or become, but at each increment, each integrated integral becomes smaller and smaller, much like Cantor's dust between the cracks. Yet, at every stage, our integrity can become sharper, more focused, more perfect, with faults, flaws, and all.

City Different

When people grow up in the Southwest part of the United States, nearly without fail, when asked about what they miss most when away from this region of the country, the answer is: the sky.

I have made the drive from the Northern Texas Panhandle to Northern New Mexico nearly 100 times in my life, and I don't think that I will ever get tired of that journey. Moving westward from the Texas High Plains to the escarpment outside of Tucumcari that opens up to the Sandia range of the Rocky Mountains, I know that a part of me is coming home.

I was born in Albuquerque when the population was under 100,000, and now it sprawls well over 1 million, being one of the fastest growing cities in the United States for the past decade. I don't really know Albuquerque that well, though it was my place of birth.

I have often said that a part of me never left New Mexico. In thinking about that once again being here, it is hard to explain that without sounds too New Age or as my Yoga teacher, Bekir , would say, "woo-woo." So, with that disclaimer, I do feel that a part of my soul will always be in this part of the country, no matter where I am living. It is a recharge of my soul on many levels when I come here, and it is difficult to put into words.

Santa Fe, where we are currently staying, is a unique town in the States. For Europeans, it is something akin to going to a small medieval town for Americans abroad in Europe. The oldest established European-settled town, dating from the 16th Century. Close by is Bandelier (whose surrounding park was badly burned recently in a spate of forest fires), which is the ruins of the ancient pueblo of the indigenous Anasazi Native Americans dating several centuries prior.

Santa Fe is also one of the few Western towns that still retains a remnant of what most European cities would not be without--a plaza, or square. From the Grand Place in Brussels, the Grote Markt in Antwerp, or San Marco in Venice, nearly all European cities have at least one destination local of a square of some sort.

The Plaza in Santa Fe pales in comparison to these European counterparts in scope, but serves the same purpose, to meet in person and to celebrate the city as a living entity. Although many criticize the commercialized aspect of Santa Fe's art scene and the marginalizing of the Native Americans in the town, it is hard to overlook the fact that the Plaza does in fact bring people out of their cars and actually stroll at night from shops to galleries to restaurants, or just to head to the Plaza. 

Last evening after recharging my taste buds with New Mexican spices, we went by the Plaza and it was a beautiful scene. There are many large flower baskets with cascading pansies of earth toned-hues and lights strung from the light posts. It is what I miss most in a city when I am in the states as plazas, piazze, markts, and places are what make Europe so appealing to me.

At the Northeast end of the plaza, the City Different (Santa Fe's soubriquet) dead ends into the St. Francis Church, another exception to many American cities that is omnipresent in European urban centers. The Cathedral in Antwerp is one of the most imposing and impressive Cathedrals in Europe and forms one of the vistas of the city from many angles. At some level, the Cathedral is always in your mind, whether as an architectural wonder or as, less often in the modern times, a church.

St. Francis statues dot the urban-scape of Santa Fe and one is constantly reminded of the presence of the Church when in the city center.

This is just one of the things that makes this part of the country different.

However, it is still the sky that is an awesome sight. Whether it is sunny, partly cloudy, or a full-on summer monsoon rolling in with giant thunderheads, the sky never ceases to enchant here. At night, the sunsets are nothing short of a communion of the earth with the sky. When the stars are out, one can truly comprehend the fact that there are indeed billions and billions of them out there.

Perhaps one of the greatest memories that I have of the sky here was on a Christmas Eve, standing in the Plaza with no sound of traffic, Christmas lights dangling silently in the night and a snowfall came down with flakes the size of crystallized postage stamps. A memory I will never forget in the City Different and one that I keep in the watch pocket of my soul's waistcoat, keeping it there to remind me of New Mexico.

The Same Pool Twice

I am back in Amarillo again, visiting family with my daughter.

Amarillo is a strange place, to say the least. It is the epitome of America I think, encapsulating nearly every quirk, every good thing, and every questionable thing about my country, all rolled up into one, neat and tidy little ball.

As such, I have had a love/hate relationship with Amarillo over the years, as with America herself. Amarillo was the source of inspiration for the town "Yellow Sands" (Amarillo means "yellow" in Spanish and was thought to describe the dry soil here) that appears in my novel that I wrote in college, Instant Karma Koffie . Not exactly a flattering portrait, but honest to a degree. I would be more forgiving if I were to write it into a novel today, which I will with my current project,  Theodditty , but I wrote what I was feeling at the time.

Heraclitus is known for a parcel of fragments that have come down through the ages and are collected and mulled over by philosophers and scholars of ancient greek alike.

Perhaps his most famous one is: πάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει” καὶ "δὶς ἐς τὸν αὐτὸν ποταμὸν οὐκ ἂν ἐμβαίης
Translated, "everything changes and nothing remains ... and ... you cannot enter the same river twice."


One of the biggest conflicts that I had with Amarillo was the topic of swimming. Moving from the verdant horse country of Louisville, Kentucky to the dry, arid High Plains desert of Amarillo, Texas was a bit of a shock. Being a very shy, and at the time, slightly pudgy young kid, it was a tough transition. Because of a serious of mutual acquaintances, I joined the swim team.


Now, joining the swim team in a small, conservative town in Texas is about the biggest, blatant kabosh one can put on his or her social life and is more or less dooming you as a softy, queer, or whimp, or...pick your redneck pariah designation. Add to that that I was in the honors program in a mixed school and that I was morbidly shy, well, you probably are getting the picture. For some reason, can't imagine why, Goonies was one of my favorite movies...

Well, things progressed rather rapidly with swimming. Within two years, I went from the new kid on the block to the fastest kid in Texas, and rapidly in the country within two more years. We practiced at the Amarillo Town Club with the Amarillo Aquatic Club, AAC, of which I still have a large monogrammed towel from. It is a very, very bad pool with regards to swimming dynamics. Horrible gutter system that causes major splashback, no real deep end, and had massive concrete starting blocks, now removed. But, training in the worst (nearly, Pampa's is by far the worst) pool in Texas gave us an advantage. Basically, any pool was better, and faster. The University of Texas at Austin has one of the "fastest" pools in Texas and it was nothing short of hearing the angels sing walking into that building as an impressionable, shy kid from Amarillo.


However, rising up to the ranks in swimming to now the international level, being ranked in the Top Ten in the World in a few events didn't matter. I didn't play football. By this point, the pudge was gone and I was able to bench press more than any of the football players except for a couple truly neanderthal-looking guys, and the coaches were doing their best to get me to play football. 


Sure, so I could give up international recognition to beat--Lubbock? I think not. 
Kabosh.

Lots more on the swimming, for later, but the point is that I am now back in Amarillo, having also lived on international level as well, and swimming at the pool at, guess where--the Amarillo Town Club. Now, the entire building has been renovated, except for the pool. I went back there last summer as I had not been there for nearly 25 years because of the memories of the place and I was somewhat speechless. It was like walking back in time. Except for the concrete blocks being removed, a couple of doorways sealed off and an observation window gone, and a very, very curious large psychedelic mural of swimming elephants on the wall, nothing seemed to have changed, except me.


I was happy to be back. 


I swam there last summer and this summer as well while I am in town. It is a trip. I can almost here the swim meets from old in there, see my old coaches on the deck, see the old octagon-shaped pace clock that was to be my best friend in Amarillo for many years, but it was all different as well. 


Swimming has given me the opportunity to make friends in all the countries I have lived in or travelled to in various ways, it has been the one constant in my life. I love the water. I swam with a Master's team while I lived in Italy and plan to once back in Belgium after India (already located a pool in Madurai as well). 


There is another conundrum in ancient greek philosophy about a boat (sometimes a pen knife is used as an example). If you have a boat and you replace each part of it, separately, over time, piece by piece, plank by plank, until eventually no piece is original, but the boat looks the same, is it the same boat?


I thought of this while swimming the other day. What if all the tiles had been replaced, one by one, the pool repainted, the water is obviously different, was it the same? Was my body the same, with all of my cells changing over time, leaving only my memory of that shy kid swimming here 25 years ago?


When I checked out, the "kid" (probably nearly 30), who checked me out at the desk saw my name and asked, "Are you the Robert Fulton? You still have almost every record in town!" I think I know how Bono from U2 feels now...


But, good question, am I?

What's in My Name? A family Tree disaster

Okay, I'm screwed. A possible branch of my family tree just fell on top of my head.

I used to have a great mnemonic for people to remember my name, but now I can't in good faith use it any longer without making concessions to John Fitch.

Apparently, if you try to look me up on Facebook, which I'm not on, and type in my name, an article comes up proclaiming that my namesake, the New York inventor, Robert Fulton, did not invent the Steamboat, but rather, some guy named John Fitch did. What's even worse is that John Fitch, depressed and dejected, committed suicide over this oversight in Bardstown, Kentucky, just down the road from where we lived in Louisville.

Apparently, Fulton had some high-powered friends in the Patent office and was able to lay claim to the Steamboat, and well, the rest was, history.

Now, my condolences to the Fitch family and its untold legacy, and if this is true, give credit where credit is due.

In my classes for adults learning English as Second Language that I taught in Antwerp, as well as my undergraduate students at The University of Texas, I used to say, "Robert Fulton, you know, the guy who invented the Steamboat."

WTF, I'm screwed now. That always (or, at least quite often) worked like a charm.

What do I say now, "Hi, I'm Robert Fulton, you know, like the guy who ripped off the patent for the Steamboat because of influential American Capitalists, driving John Fitch, the unrecognized genius of the plan to commit suicide and be lost in the annals of history...that Robert Fulton, whom according to my father, now deceased, though also named Robert Fulton, we are related to..."

I am having an identity crisis.

Remembering Tragedy

I flew with my five year-old daughter from Brussels Zaventem to the newly refurbished Rick Husband Amarillo International Airport in Amarillo, Texas, where incidentally the album, "The Best of Bread's" inner spread photo was taking in the 70's. Looks quite different from that old black and white album jacket that I have.

Husband, who was a commander of the Space Shuttle Columbia when it exploded in 2003, was honored earlier this week as the new Amarillo terminal was unveiled. You could still smell the "new car" smell of the carpet, walking out into the 97-degree Fahrenheit, twilight atmosphere. Quite a change from the significantly colder, wetter climes of Belgium that we had left some twenty hours prior.

Appropriate timing for Husband's tribute as the Space Shuttle Atlantis marked an end of an era last week as the final Space Shuttle mission was launched. The end of the Space Shuttle is truly a demarcation of time for me. I was born in 1969, the year of the Lunar landing, which for some is the greatest achievement that America has ever had during the heated Iron-Curtain era space race with the Russians, set upon a world stage.

For my generation, it was the Space Shuttle. And, unfortunately the explosions, for tragedy often leaves a deeper impression than triumph.

I remember very well when Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I was a junior at Amarillo High School, and we had a moment of silence over the intercom. It was an odd experience for us all. Normally, in a "typical" high school, straight out of Grease or, closer to home, small-town Texas à la Friday Night Lights, announcements on the intercom where usually times to chat, goof off, ignore, or whatnot. But, that day, an eerie silence covered the halls. I remember one of my favorite teachers from Junior High, Mr. Devoe, had wanted to be a teacher selected to be on the Shuttle. That fatal day, Christa McAuliffe, the teacher picked for the Teacher in Space program, died in the explosion, along with the six other crew members, who have come to be known as American Heroes for their sacrifice.

When the Columbia exploded, I also remember quite well where I was and what I was doing. I was at a water polo tournament in Florida, acting as coach and player.

We had flown all of the way over from Texas for this event. No one really knew who this team from Austin was. We blew them away, until the game that counted. We lost the one game we needed to win to put us into the finals, against a B-team, whose A-team we had already beaten. We choked. As a coach, you take responsibility for your team's loss, even when it is not your fault. It is not the refs' fault, nor the fans, but you, the coach, must shoulder the burden. As Hopper from "A Bug's Life" says, "First rule of management, it's always your fault."

As we were transferring planes in Houston, we passed a crowd of onlookers watching the World Cup Womens' soccer finals, and the US team dismantling within seconds during the penalty kicks. Lots of disappointment in the terminal. The news commentary afterwards was essentially that even though it was a loss for the US, it was a gain for soccer "appreciation." On small penalty kick for woman, one giant leap for soccer...Perhaps, Americans are fickle fans with women's sports, and soccer.

After the disappointing loss in Florida, I remember talking with my team, who all had their tails tucked under their legs, like dejected puppy dogs who had just been caught peeing on the carpet, again. I was also going through a very difficult time as a teacher, as one of my favorite students had just been admitted to psychiatric hospital back in Austin that I had visited the day before we left.

I told my team that there were far worse losses and defeats in life. People were currently picking up body parts in a field from the Space Shuttle's second disaster, and one of my most cherished students was currently so doped up on anti-psychotic medication that I barely recognized this brilliant young man any longer. Perspective changes a great deal of self-pity.

In September 2001, I remember teaching my course, The Curse of Socrates, and the events of September 11th became a crucial component of that course. Walking into class that day, literally minutes after seeing the second tower fall, I walked into a room of complete and utter shock. The kids were sullen, speechless, bawling their eyes out. One latecomer, Mark, the only student who did not condemn Socrates to death when we voted after reading the Apology, saw the seen, had not heard the news and quipped, "Woah, I need to watch TV more often, I guess."

We talked about everything that happened. It was a no-holds-barred discussion. Anything went. One young man decided on the spot to join the Army, which he did. Others decided to change their majors. Many things were decided in the next 90 minutes, their lives had changed forever. They had grown up in a matter of minutes from goofy college kids to adults. Without fail, each one of them later recounted to me that every other class they had that day had gone on that day as if nothing had happened. Nobody talked about what had happened that morning. I was stunned.

People often deal with tragedy with the most damaging way of all, we ignore it. However, later, the memorials do come. But, have the emotions already passed?

Honoring a True (American) Hero(ine)

Today, Thursday, July 14th, 2011, America will lay to rest the final remains of a remarkable person, Elizabeth Anne Bloomer Warren Ford, better known as simply Betty Ford. The more I read about her, the more I am simply in awe.

To explain my curious orthography in the title, it is quite deliberate as it is tricky to praise such a human being. Betty Ford is not a hero(ine) because she is American, nor is she "just" a heroine, meaning because she is a woman. This person was without qualification, courageous beyond the normal human capacity, irrespective of gender, race or nationality. So, bear with me if I do settle with an "American Hero" for lack of more confusion.

A hero in ancient Greece was a dubious entity as heroes were not always known for being perfect, far from it in fact, yet, that is what made them even more human, sometimes supra-human. Odysseus (Ulysses) is often thought of as the epitome of the hero. If you know the story of Odysseus, however, he looses all six hundred of his men on their return from the battle of Troy, hangs out with a beautiful nymph-goddess Kalypso for seven years while wife and son are at home and when he comes home he murders all of his wife's suitors in a very devious and cold-blooded way. None of this in my mind makes him a hero. What does, on the contrary, is the final act we read/hear about in the Odyssey. Odysseus must humble himself before Poseidon, the god of the Sea, because the "hero" had insulted him and harmed Polyphemus, his son.

As penitence, Odysseus had to carry an oar so far inland that men would not recognize it, and there erect a temple to honor the insulted deity. Odysseus had to be the humble (and for the first 99% or the Odyssey we see anything but a humble man) servant to what he had disrespected, that which was his life, the Ocean. Only then, in my eyes at least, did Odysseus own up, grow up and become humble, he lived humility and made his amends to Poseidon.

Betty Ford was far better than Odysseus.

When one stops to consider the sheer power, humility, courage, strength, and gratitude that this woman exerted, it is nothing short of staggering.

Although I have no real opinion on Gerald Ford, Mr. President, I can appreciate what he was faced with coming into office. Following on the heels of Richard M. Nixon, Mr. President, was no easy task. This was not the job he signed up for I doubt. Coming in on the wake of the Watergate affair in a time that American was still reeling from the utter shock and awe of the disaster of the Vietnam War, being the President of the United States of America was not an enviable job, far from it.

Add to that, Betty Ford was "just" the wife of the President. Granted, though one could argue she didn't make her husband's job any easier as she raised the hackles on nearly every Republican with her outspoken views on abortion, ERA (Equal Rights Amendment), women's rights, gun control, and on and on. She talked openly on a 60 Minutes interview about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. She rumoredly wore a mood ring (I had one, did you?) in the White House! She rocked! Basically, she, the First Lady, was the scourge to many Republicans of all things Republican.

But, Betty Ford was no slouch, nor knee-jerk reactionary. She was a hero, not for being outspoken, but for humility.

In 1974, Betty Ford had a mastectomy for radical breast cancer treatment and she went public about her illness, an illness that just was not spoken about. She probably could have kept quiet about this, stayed out of the limelight during recovery, but she spoke out about the need for the awareness of breast cancer. This was the first time that Americans talked about breast cancer in public. I know the fear that this disease can bring, both to someone very close to me, and myself. Debilitating fear.

That was just half of the humility that Betty Ford exhibited. Within two years after of her husband having lost the election to become President to Jimmy Carter, Betty Ford came public with an even darker secret, she was an addict and alcoholic. Darker only in that this was a stigma seen as a weakness in an individual, not as something that happened to her. She had a problem.

A mother of four, the former First Lady of the United States of America was an alcoholic and an addict. I imagine that some of the crustier conservatives sat home wringing their hands in glee at this revelation. That "woman" as some called her "No Lady" was what they said all along, defective. People often like to revel in the misfortunes of others, unfortunately.

But, what did Betty Ford do? Did she run, did she hide? No. After having battled this problem for decades, she cleaned up, owned up, and began the Betty Ford Clinic. The Betty Ford Clinic, later the Betty Ford Center, has helped tens and tens of thousands of people, families, and gives hope for many more out there. Regrettably it has become associated with celebrities ducking from the public eye for a quick-fix media score, the exact opposite of its intentions. But, those are the exceptions. I have met many people in person who have had their lives changed by the Betty Ford Center. I know the pain and suffering that addiction causes individuals and families. Without people like Betty Ford, how many more would be suffering in silence, guilt, shame, or hopelessness.

Betty Ford single-handedly brought the awareness of Breast Cancer and Addiction to the public consciousness. Though we have far to go in both areas as well as others that Mrs. Ford addressed, she opened the door.

She did it with humility.

Betty Ford was a hero in my eyes, full stop. Hats off.

Filip Dewinter, "South California" Wants You!

Ok, well, time to put my foot in my mouth. I am going to have to openly apologize to Filip Dewinter  and all of the other wingnuts of the über-Flemish nationalist-separatist party, Vlaams Belang. Leave it to Americans to do everyone one step up on being a wingnut political extremist.

Apparently, Republican Jeff Stone from southern California wants to initiate a 51st State, known as South California, you know, like South Sudan? Oh wait, there is that civil war issue again, genocide, never mind.

For Stone, California is just too darn big and too many hippies, and...did someone say hippies? No, he didn't, but except for maybe a few small head shops in northern California near the Oregon border there might be hippies, but, c'mon Mr. Stone, the Terminator-governed California of 2011 is too liberal for you?

He is quoted as saying, "We are sending a message."

Yep, and that message is, "Duuuhhh, what me worry? what constitution?." Southern California is just going to suddenly become the 51st state and in order to live there you need to be Republican? Any one else see a problem with this? Last time I checked, coercion doesn't really work when it comes to forming new constitutions, like, you know, the US Constitution, 4th of July and all that good stuff--hot dogs, parades, fireworks, no more kings...

When Norman Mailer made his unsuccessful bid for governor of New York in the late 60's there was also talk of NYC being the 51st State. OK, a stretch Mr. Mailer, but at least there was no, one common political ideology behind the suggestion. Mailer lost (getting really drunk and threatening to stab his wife at a party around election time kind of quashed that bid), as did NYC becoming the 51st State, but the concept seems to arise every now and then, either as a political stunt or as an ideological query.

Gil Duran, a spokesperson for incumbent California Governor Jerry Brown is reported as saying, "If you want to live in a Republican state with very conservative right-wing laws, then there's a place called Arizona."

Oh, ouch, behave baby, yeah, grrr...

Is Being an "Ex-pat" passé?

I re-read  Sommerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge last week, which has for several reasons, awakened several thoughts in my head about what it means to be American first, and secondly an Ex-pat. It that time done? Is there such thing as an Ex-patriate any longer? I'm not so sure that the answer is as easy as the question.

In Maugham's novel, the narrator, an eponymous Mr. Maugham (caveat lector: even when an author uses his/her own name, he or she is lying to some extent...) begins his story about a group of Americans, one in particular, with trepidation. He goes on to relate this story, trepidation having passed, and it is a rather curious portrait painted. Why?

It is not easy to put a finger on it, but something just seems off kilter. This is the time of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Gershwin and Pound. Paris, baby, Paris in the Twenties! What greater time to be and what greater place to be, until 1929, that is. Some of the characters are ruined by the events happening back in America, while others, well... simply put, profit. Yet, that is not what sticks.

 It is the concept of America and what they have left behind, and will one day return to, that is the rub. They left America for Europe, usually Paris, to do ... what? Sow their wild oats? Learn French? Socialize? What is usually so surprising about novels of this time period is how well the Americans apparently did learn French, which is now the complete opposite stereotype. Wild oats, plenty to be sown in Paris, Montmartre...Quartier Latin...

Socialize, hmmm, to be social with the French? No, with OTHER Americans and a couple of Brits for good measure. For the most part, the Americans were not welcomed with open arms, they, whether by choice or duress, remained outsiders. They had communities of people who had left the home country, the fatherland, they were ex-patriated. And, they socialized with each other, for a while. Then, the party was over.

And, then, as many ex-pats do, they went home. They re-patriated.

This was before the Internet. Before blogs, Before Twitter. Before, ... Facebook. You had to actually face people first. You could not dabble and flirt in the electronic before engaging in social networks. The social network was, well, social.

With the virtual networks, does one then ever leave? The saying, "you can't go home again" becomes vacant, staring with dull, saucer-shaped eyes.

Huh?

You can't go home again.

Why?

You can't be re-patriated to something from which you were never ex-patriated.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am an American

Yes, I can...

There is a strange feeling that goes along with being American, something that I have struggled, fought, questioned, denied, accepted, embraced, loved, hated, you-name-it-ed since I was old enough to know that I was actually from a place called America.

This awareness became clear at the excellent school, Wilder Elementary, a G/T magnet-type school in Louisville, Kentucky in, you guessed it, the United States of America.

Memory is beginning to play tricks on me as to whether it was Ms. Rose's 2nd-grade class or Ms. Nievues' (note to self: need to check the spelling of her name...) 3rd-grade class that this became a startling self-awareness and realization.

Ultimately, it does not matter which, for the kids in the class did not change. The point was that we learned about where people really came from, like Poland or India, and not just from Brownsboro Farms or Whispering Hills. Shagufta B. (name withheld for privacy) was really from India, as in first generation. That blew my mind. A land completely on the other side of the globe. Thunk.

Then, being a much more urbane and cosmopolitan 4th grader and a bit more nonplussed about the ways of the world, (how could I ever have been a lowly 3rd grader...) Ms. Bell, on whom I had kid crush, gave me a book by Philip Nolan called The Man Without a Country about a Civil War soldier who was condemned to sail the world because he had wished to never hear the mention of the "United States" again.

Self-fulfilling prophecy, or a teacher with a keen insight.

However, do not despair, Ladies and Gentlemen, for, I am an American.

And, this blog is for my thoughts on that concept of being an American, in a Sense, abroad, though also on just being American in general as well.

Enjoy.