Archive for the ‘Remembrance’ Category
12-year Veteran NBA Player Jason Collins Comes Out as Gay in Sports Illustrated Article
Today was a watershed moment in American sports history, because today was the day that Jason Collins, a 12-year veteran center in the National Basketball Association, came out as gay. Collins is the first-ever professional athlete in any of the four major professional sports — hockey, baseball, basketball, or football — to come out while he’s still playing.
My first reaction: Hallelujah!
Then I read Jason Collins’ three-page, first-person story in Sports Illustrated (written with Franz Lidz). There are many relevant things here, including why Collins felt the need to come out, what his background is (he’s Christian and believes in Jesus, who promoted tolerance and mutual understanding), and why being gay is not a choice.
Instead, it’s just who Collins is, right along with his basketball ability, his love for history and the civil rights struggle, and many other admirable qualities.
Here’s a relevant quote from the third page of the SI story:
Openness may not completely disarm prejudice, but it’s a good place to start. It all comes down to education. I’ll sit down with any player who’s uneasy about my coming out. Being gay is not a choice. This is the tough road and at times the lonely road. Former players like Tim Hardaway, who said “I hate gay people” (and then became a supporter of gay rights), fuel homophobia. Tim is an adult. He’s entitled to his opinion. God bless America. Still, if I’m up against an intolerant player, I’ll set a pretty hard pick on him. And then move on.
I agree.
Speaking of Tim Hardaway, as Collins said, Hardaway has completely changed his opinion. Michael Rosenberg wrote at Sports Illustrated about how others have reacted to Jason Collins’ groundbreaking announcement — remember, Collins is the first-ever pro athlete to come out as gay in a major male American professional sport while he’s still an active player — and he included a quote from Hardaway:
Several years ago, (Tim) Hardaway made some harsh anti-gay comments, and the backlash was severe enough that Hardaway decided to educate himself about homosexuality. His views have changed radically. He told me he was wrong several years ago, and that gay people deserve the same rights that heterosexuals have.
Hardaway, who now works for the Miami Heat, also said this:
“If people on teams were to come out, people would get over it and accept it and move forward. I really do think that. Any sport. If one person or two people, whoever, comes out in any sport, that sport will accept it and go from there.”
My second reaction: Amen!
Then I read this story by openly lesbian professional tennis player Martina Navratilova, also at SI. Navratilova knows a great deal about professional pressure to remain closeted, as she was the first major pro sports player in any league to come out as lesbian back in 1981.
Navratilova praises Collins, which makes sense, and then gives a brief history of how difficult it’s been up until the past few years to get support in any professional sports league for gay rights, including the ability to be open about your sexuality rather than closeted. But she stumbles a bit, in my opinion at least, when she references the late, great Reggie White.
White, as any Packers fan knows, was one of the greatest defensive ends in the National Football League (see this link from Packers.com that summarizes White’s career nicely), and was enshrined in the NFL’s Hall of Fame in 2006. He was also a Christian minister, and had been raised with fundamentalist Southern Christian values. Because of this, while White loved everyone, he was not particularly tolerant of gays and lesbians and actually took part in a well-advertised TV campaign to try and get GLBT people to “cease” their homosexuality.
This was offensive, and both the NFL and the Green Bay Packers objected — but for the wrong reason as they were more upset that Reggie actually wore his football jersey in the ads than anything else.
White also could be verbally awkward, as when he went to address the Wisconsin Legislature in March of 1998. White said something about how Asians are endlessly inventive that sounded awful, like a racial stereotype, rather than the compliment he had intended. And his comments about other races, including African-Americans, Latinos, and Native Americans were no better.
All of these things caused White to lose out on a professional announcing gig after he finished playing football. So White did suffer censure.
White died in 2004. And at the time, he was attempting to educate himself in ancient Aramaic, as he believed that certain scriptures of the Bible may have suffered by translation — which means that he had apparently had a consciousness raising of sorts. But he didn’t get the time he needed to learn more, as he died of sleep apnea. (Here’s a link to the Reggie White Sleep Disorders Foundation, which is located in West Allis, Wisconsin.)
Now, whether this means White would’ve evolved on this issue is unknown. But I do know that in 2004, President Obama was against gay marriage. Hillary R. Clinton, while adamantly for gay rights in most senses, was also against gay marriage, as was her husband the former President. Tim Hardaway was still against gay rights (which, to be fair, Obama and the two Clintons were for), and hadn’t yet educated himself on this issue. And there were many, many people in all walks of life who said ignorant and bigoted things about GLBT Americans — so Reggie White was not alone.
Look. I met Reggie White in the summer of 1996. He was promoting one of his books, which was a Christian missive about how you need to make the most of every day you’re on this Earth and treat people with kindness and respect. I got to talk with him for fifteen or twenty minutes, without handlers of any sort, as I apparently impressed him because I didn’t ask for an autograph and just talked with him as a real, live human being. (Thank God/dess for book tours, eh?)
I related to White as a minister, and didn’t see him solely as a great football player. And White was a compassionate, caring man — he wanted to know what was going on in my life, and he gave me some advice that’s stuck with me to this day.
I truly believe that had White lived to see 2013, between his studies of Aramaic (he even was studying the Torah itself) and his knowledge of people and his love for everyone, he most likely would’ve changed his opinion. He may have even worked with Athlete Ally, which is a group of straight athletes supporting gay athletes — something that didn’t exist in 2004.
We all have to remember that when White died, he was only 43. He lived a good life. He loved God (who he couldn’t help but see as male, but also saw as all-inclusive — I know this from talking with him). He cared about everyone, and he loved everyone.
But he didn’t get to live another nine years. And in those nine years, anything could’ve happened.
That’s why I wish Navratilova had picked a still-living athlete with a homophobic stance. Because there are still quite a number of those, and with one of those she could’ve had a good, spirited and honest debate as to why whomever she’d picked is still so closed-minded in this day and age.
But as she didn’t — and as I’m a Packers fan who once got to speak with Reggie White at great length — I felt I should respond. Because it’s only right . . . White was a great man in many respects, but yes, he was flawed on this issue.
Still. He was a great man, and he is now deceased. It is time to let the dead rest, while we continue to support progress in all aspects of American life.
Losing the Family Pet
A week ago, one of my family’s dogs died.
Blackie was a sweet-tempered, forty-two pound Cocker spaniel who enjoyed food, walks, driving in the car, and being around human beings. We were endlessly fascinating to him, and he to us — especially as he had two younger compatriots to keep an eye on that were always getting into mischief.
Over the last year, Blackie’s health wasn’t as good as it had been before. He showed obvious signs of aging, including the stark white muzzle contrasting amidst his all-black natural fur coat. He still ate well, drank plenty of water, and got his exercise . . . but he had obviously slowed down. He took many more naps. He didn’t hear as well. He startled easily. And he had severe separation anxiety whenever his family members weren’t around, which was worse than all the rest of it put together.
Still, he remained a gentle, good-hearted dog whose only flaw was in how many times he could knock the garbage pail over in his endless search for food.
That is, until last Monday.
Something happened on that day that I cannot explain. He started feeling poorly. He did not want to eat, but while I noted it at the time, Blackie did eat a little bit and drank as much water as ever. He even went outside, as he usually did, and sniffed for a long time at the yard.
That was the last time I saw him go out.
On Tuesday, he mostly lay on the couch. He was gasping for air, and it grew worse the longer I listened. But our vet had gone home for the day, and Blackie had only just gotten sick — so we thought we could wait.
A few hours later, Blackie somehow got off the couch and into the kitchen. By the time I got there, the floor was full of urine-tinged blood. Blackie lay quietly by the outside door, and before I set to clean up the floor, I petted him for a few minutes. I told him, my voice breaking, that I knew he’d been trying to go out. And I told him, “Good dog.”
Then I got out the bleach, put it in some hot water, and started cleaning up the floor. My Mom helped after a few minutes.
It took quite a while, an undifferentiated moment of eternity, before both of us were able to not only clean the floor, but get Blackie back up again. We cleaned him as best we could with paper towels as neither of us thought he could stand to be put in the tub, mostly because his legs were shaking and it was obvious he was extremely ill, then got him back up on the couch.
Mom and I discussed what to do. There is a local animal hospital that takes patients twenty-four hours a day, but it’s also extremely expensive. And we really wanted Blackie to see his own vet, the vet who knew him, if at all possible.
So we waited.
Overnight, I watched Blackie. I gave him a little water — maybe he drank a half a cup, if that much — and offered him a bit of bread soaked in milk, as that had calmed him a few times in the past. Blackie licked a bit at the milk, but could not eat.
This was an ominous sign.
Blackie insisted on being moved to his usual place in the middle of the hallway, where he could keep an eye on everyone. It wasn’t easy, as he could barely walk by this point, but he and I made our slow and stately way to the hall, where he lay on a freshly laundered, extra-large dogbed.
I needed to get some rest, so my Mom got up to watch Blackie as we waited for the vet’s office to open up. But when she called, it turned out that our vet was not in the office. We were referred over to a different animal hospital that’s less expensive than the twenty-four hour one, and prepared to get Blackie ready to go.
However, when Mom wasn’t looking, Blackie must have convulsed. She asked me to check on him as she was afraid he was dead. There was vomit on his muzzle by the time I was able to get to him, and he was no longer breathing. His eyes were open in puzzlement, while the other two dogs stared in shock.
It is not legal to bury your dog in your backyard where I live. We knew that. So we called to find out what was legal, and found that cremating your pet in a mass cremation (where you do not get to keep the ashes) would be fifty dollars. And as that’s far more dignified of an exit than putting poor Blackie in a garbage bag — something we flatly refused to do, even though people do it all the time despite its illegality — we decided to do that.
There was a nearly four-hour wait before we could bring Blackie in to the crematory. All that time, Blackie lay where he was, until Mom got out a sheet to carry him in. We got Blackie to the car, where Mom flatly refused to put him in the trunk. (I didn’t like the idea myself, but thought it might spare Mom what followed.) Instead, Mom carried Blackie on her lap all the way to the crematory, dressed only in a sheet.
The owner of the crematory was there to help us get Blackie inside, which was a good thing as both of us were about to break down. The kind man took our money, promised that Blackie would be cremated with dignity, and gave us a flyer about pet loss with several helpful Web sites on it.
Then we drove away again.
I haven’t discussed it publicly until now because it’s been a really rough go. I’ve been ill with some sort of allergy along with a nasty virus, and grieving Blackie’s loss just puts the snow atop the mountain.
Besides, even though Blackie was a sweet dog, he wasn’t my favorite.
Still, I enjoyed being around him. Blackie, like me, was a night owl, and an ideal companion for a writer. He demanded almost nothing, and gave back so very, very much.
Basically, Blackie was a dog that had all the classic Cocker spaniel traits, good and bad. He was a very kind-hearted dog that made canine and human friends extremely easily. He loved everyone he met. He adored being petted. And he lived the life of Reilly for eleven years, the eleven years he spent in my Mom’s household after being adopted from the Humane Society.
Maybe that’s the best epitaph anyone can ever write for a dog. “He loved everyone he met.”
I will miss that big, black dog. And I do hope that someday, maybe in the next world that is said to be far more beautiful than our own, I’ll get to tell him one more time what a good dog he always was. (Even when he was knocking over the garbage.)
The Importance of Wills for Writers
Over the past several weeks, I’ve been trying to get a few projects back up and running. These projects, some of them years in the making, have become stalled out not for lack of interest, but because of the lack of time I’ve had to spend on them.
This can be frustrating, mostly because I have more stories than I have energy to work with — and partly because I have the sense that I’m running out of time.
Mind you, I’m going to keep working on the various projects. But the idea of running out of time needs to be discussed . . . and as I’m here, I guess I’m the lucky one who gets to discuss it.
Don’t think that just because you’re not in your dotage that you still have plenty of time. Because maybe you don’t.
Consider, please, that my husband Michael died before he was able to become known as a fiction writer (though after he and I had sold one story, this a SFWA qualifying sale). The stories he left behind are ones I’m trying to keep alive, because they’re really good stories and I want them to see the light of day.
Then consider that my best friend Jeff also died before he was able to become known as a fiction writer. And then further consider that his stories — which were thoughtfully sent to me by his brother — will never be published, or finished either, because he didn’t get time to flesh them out.
And because, unlike my late husband, Jeff did not have an inheritor.
Kristine Kathryn Rusch wrote a post about how important it is for a writer to have a will — no matter how “unimportant” that writer may be, and no matter how unknown his or her work, your literary estate matters. (Yes, she wrote it last November. But the advice still applies.) This is why we all should sit down and make wills if we possibly can.
Bare minimum, we really should start thinking about it.
I’ve already lost two men in their mid-forties who mattered a great deal to me. I’ve only been able to “save” the output from one writer — my husband — and I’m not even sure where all of his files are. (I just believe I can reconstruct them if they’re unable to be found, because I knew Michael so well.) His writing will live on, partly because we’d discussed things and I knew what he wanted done . . . and partly because I’m too damned stubborn to just give up on them.
But my friend Jeff’s writing will not. And that saddens me greatly.
Please, folks. For the love of God/dess and little green apples, if you are a writer of any sort (including a musical composer), figure out who you want to be the executor of your literary estate. Then sit down with your chosen executor, discuss what you will need done after you pass from this earth, and make sure that the person you’ve picked not only understands your wishes, but wants to be your executor . . . then make out your will accordingly.**
That way, whoever ends up being your inheritor will have as good of an idea as possible as to what, exactly, you want done with your literary estate. Because otherwise, who knows what will happen?
So don’t take the chance. Figure out what you want done with your words, and make out that will as soon as you possibly can.
If you do that in a timely manner, your words will have a chance to live on.
And a chance beats no chance at all. Doesn’t it?
————
I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that Neil Gaiman blogged about this very issue a few years ago due to the problems that occurred after writer John M. Ford passed away. Gaiman’s post on the subject includes a simple PDF form will that should get you pointed in the right direction.
Easter Week Odds and Ends
Folks, I’ve been engrossed in several major projects this week, which is why I haven’t had much time for blogging. That said, it’s Easter Week and there are several topics I’d like to discuss — so let’s get to it.
First, there have been a number of stories recently about good deeds that have gone viral. (This particular phrase is vexing in and of itself, mind you. “Gone viral” used to discuss epidemics, not Internet usage. But I digress.) The latest one is about a family who had their meal “comped” at Olive Garden in Vernon Hills, IL . . . and of all things, people are actually posting comments saying this particular complimentary meal was a stunt by the public relations firm that represents the Olive Garden chain.
Look. I really don’t understand the motivation behind people posting every single thing that happens to them online, as if it’s not real unless it’s discussed on the Internet. But I’ve seen story after story lately about good deeds (such as the forty dollars left by an anonymous person on a windshield because a woman had a “half my heart is in Afghanistan” bumper sticker on her car), all of which have been picked up after some individual posts a story online — usually at Reddit or Twitter or Instagram, or any of the services that allow you to post a picture and a short caption of what’s going on.
I adore stories about good deeds. Yet there’s something about how people are posting these stories themselves that bugs me.
I’m glad that people are reaching out to help others in a time of need. (The first story about the Olive Garden is a case in point.) But I’m very concerned about this trend of posting every single thing you see or hear or want to discuss online, because it’s a way of eroding your personal head space.
Or to put it more bluntly, people seem to be giving their privacy away much more easily than ever before. And that is an extremely worrisome trend.
Second, there was a sad story today that I wish I didn’t have to write about. A retired couple from Indiana had moved to Washington to be close to their son, his wife and their newborn grandson, and had spent the first ten days of the child’s life with him. But today, a drunk driver who had already surrendered his driver’s license hit the couple as they were crossing a street with their grandson and daughter-in-law, killing the retired couple instantly.
The only good thing is that so far, the mother and child have survived. But they are both in critical condition, and the outcome is far from certain. I hope to post an update (with luck, a positive one) in a few days’ time.
This particular drunk driver had five previous DUIs, this according to the UK newspaper The Daily Mail. Somehow, he managed to slam into not one person, but four — and his weak excuse amounted to, “The sun was in my eyes, and I didn’t see them,” according to newspaper reports (such as this one from the Washington Post).
Mind you, this is a paraphrase of what the various newspaper and TV reports I’ve read (and heard) have said. But from all reports, after hitting four people including a newborn baby, this is all the drunk driver in question (I refuse to name him) had to say for himself.
He’s obviously learned nothing.
And last but not least, it is Easter Week. I’ve written about Good Friday before (last year, in fact), and about Easter itself (two years ago) . . . basically, Easter Week is all about transfiguration, repentance and redemption. And as such, it can be a very stressful time to deal with if you have any empathy at all, or any sense of what, historically, Christianity has meant to this world (for good and ill).
Religious historian Mircea Eliade wrote extensively on Christianity, and because I’ve read most of Eliade’s work, I realize that in many respects, Christianity was a major step forward.
Mind you, there were good Pagan cults that were suppressed, subsumed and/or stamped out. That was not good by any stretch of the imagination.
But there also were bad Pagan cults and bad pre-Christian religions of all sorts that were also suppressed, subsumed and/or stamped out, too.
On balance, Christianity when it was adopted was a major step forward. There were women who advocated for the church in early times — perhaps more of them than we’re currently aware of, because the chroniclers of that time were largely male.
It was only later, when the Church fathers (always fathers) got their hooks into Christianity that abuses were suffered. And while there have always been good and kindly priests of all sorts in the Catholic Church and other Christian sects (as there have been in other churches worldwide throughout our history), the Christian faith as a faith must be vigilant against anyone or any thing that perverts its overall message.
Which, believe it or not, boils down to one and only one thing: love one another. (Jesus said so, too. It’s in the Bible. Go look it up.)
Or, if you want two things, try the Golden Rule. (Which Wiccans know as, “An ye harm none, do as thou wilt.” Same thing.)
Everything else is window dressing. And everything else, as such, should be viewed that way — with extreme caution.
Jesus is celebrated because he loved everyone. The widows. The orphans. The lepers. Those who didn’t have enough to eat. The homeless. The scared. The dying. The condemned.
Jesus loved them all.
Yet the modern church, for the most part, has gone away from this. (There are individual exceptions, such as Mother Teresa, Father Damien the Leper Priest, and so forth.) They need to realize that any faith, if it’s any good at all, needs to care about everyone.
Not just those it understands.
Everyone.
Meaning the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered community. Meaning women who want to be priests rather than nuns (great as nuns are, it’s not the same job, yet it’s the best any female can do in the Catholic Church). Meaning kids who get so many piercings, you can barely see their skin.
Or convicts. Prostitutes. Villains of all sorts and descriptions . . . because redemption is possible even in the worst of all circumstances.
That’s what Jesus said, and that’s the life Jesus lived. It was a heroic life in many respects, which is why Christianity is a very tough religion (I’m not the only one who’s said so, either; so did G.K. Chesterton).
We tend to view Jesus as an example rather than a man like any other man — or, perhaps better stated, a man with a spark of divinity in him that could not be denied even by his detractors.
Maybe we’d do a little better in this life if we viewed what he did as a man in comforting widows and orphans, healing the sick, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, etc., etc., and tried to do the same in whatever small ways we possibly can.
That way, we would show how much we truly care for others. And we’d be following both the Golden Rule and Jesus’s “Eleventh Commandment” (that of loving one another as Jesus loved us) — which is something worthwhile to do whether you’re a Christian, a NeoPagan, a Muslim, an atheist, or a Martian.
Finished and Sent Off a Short Story
While I remain more under the weather than not — and boy, am I tired of having to write those words — I was able to complete a short story and send it off to an anthology over the weekend. (For those of you also on Facebook who’ve seen my recent status updates, this is the same story I discussed on Friday evening.)
Mind you, this is the first short story I’ve written in at least four months. And as such, I’m pleased with it.
Of course, as with just about all of my shorter efforts, my story has a plot that would probably better befit a novel. And I’ve already had one offer from a friend to help me turn it into just that down the line, so I guess there must be some promise in it.
Let us hope the anthology editor thinks so as well, whether she is able to buy it or not. (I take all the reassurance I can get.)
As far as everything else . . . you might be wondering why I checked both “remembrance” and “persistence” with regards to this post as far as categories go. It’s simple: the reason I came up with this particular short story has a great deal to do with my (deceased) good friend Jeff Wilson. In this newest of my short stories, I showed an unlikely friendship between a human and an alien and how many things were left unspoken between the pair that seemed to be in complete accord.
Then something happens where the alien is no longer able to speak for himself. (I know aliens don’t have to be male or female, but in this case this particular alien is male. So let’s go with it, shall we?)
The human friend does her best to figure out what’s going on even though her alien friend is no longer available to discuss all the options with her. And she solves a mystery — or perhaps comes up with a new one — while vowing all the while to never, ever forget her friend.
As I said, this story was prompted because of how much I miss my friend Jeff. It’s not a story that I would’ve come up with otherwise, though I have had a few stories since my late husband Michael’s death that, to one extent or another, were greatly impacted by his passing. (Most of them, to be honest. Save this one.)
I’d like to think that my friend would be honored by the fact that I’ve written this story, even though it’s far from perfect. (I know I shouldn’t say that, as the story hasn’t even been read by the anthology’s editor as of yet. But I tend to think none of my stories are perfect — not even ELFY, though that one comes the closest by miles to what I’d dreamed it should be — which perhaps means I’m being overly perfectionistic again.) I also think he’d be pleased that I’d written a science fiction story — when he had to know I’m more conversant with fantasy — because it means I’m better able to let the story tell me where it wants to go, rather than go where I think it should.
(This last may make no sense to non-writers. But it is still the truth.)
I would like to think that our loved ones — friends, husbands, makes no nevermind — will live on as long as we remember them.
All I know is, I will never forget Jeff Wilson. Not ever.
I just hope he knew that.
And I hope, someday, in some faraway place, that I’ll be able to ask him what he thinks of this story. Because when I wrote it, I thought a great deal about him.
And smiled.
Sandy Hook Massacre: Why did this happen?
Ever since the news broke last Friday morning about the mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, I’ve been struggling to find the words to describe how upset I am, and I just haven’t been able to find them.
I want to say something, anything, that might give some comfort to the victims’ families . . . but I have drawn a complete blank.
Because how can anything — anything at all — comfort the parents of the twenty innocent youngsters who lost their lives?
And how can anything comfort the loved ones of the six courageous and heroic adults — including the school’s principal, the school’s psychologist, and several teachers — who gave their lives so the lives of innocent children may be spared?
This is the third time in the past six months that we in the United States of America have had to confront a mass shooting. First, there was the shooting in Aurora, Colorado in July. Next, there was the shooting at the Sikh Temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin in August.
And now, this past Friday on December 14, we had in some senses the worst killing of all — the killing of extremely young children (none older than seven). Along with six of the adults who were there to teach, protect, guide and nurture them. And the shooter’s mother.
Here’s a link that will take you to a list of most of the victims, and give a bit of biographical information about them:
After reading that, the only question I had left is this: when will the killing end?
Because it just does not seem right to have incident after incident where nothing gets done. It just does not seem right, or ethical, or just, or anything that anyone with any brains and sense should ever want to see.
Some have already politicized this latest event. These who’ve done so basically fall into two camps. One camp is screaming at the top of their voices, “Hands off our guns!” Which does not seem sensible, especially as the shooter’s mother had guns in the house (at least four) and regularly took her troubled young son to the shooting range with her.
The other camp wants gun control now, thank you, and has seized on this terrible thing as a way to get what they want in a way to perhaps bring about a good thing from such a monstrously awful event.
I have sympathy for the latter position, and almost none for the former (not in this context, assuredly). Yet I think the answer lies in better mental health treatment, for one . . . and getting rid of guns won’t solve that part of the problem one bit.
Plus, some of the pro-gun lobby’s arguments are correct.
If someone wants to kill and can’t get a gun, he will use a knife. (As did a man recently in China, wounding twenty-three.) Or a bow and arrow. (As did a young man on November 30 in Casper, Wyoming; he killed his father’s girlfriend, then went to his father’s place of business — a local community college — and killed his father, then killed himself.) Or bombs in a rental truck, as did Timothy McVeigh . . . or God/dess alone knows what.
But that doesn’t mean we should tamely sit by and do nothing, not after we’ve just seen twenty-seven people killed for no good reason.
Most especially when twenty of them were seven years of age or less.
I do not wish to play politics with such a tragic thing as twenty-six innocent people dying in, of all places, an elementary school. Just because they were there to either teach children, nurture children, or learn something should not have been enough to sign their death warrants.
But something absolutely must be done. Because we cannot allow innocent children to be killed for no reason whatsoever.
I normally have sympathy for the mentally ill, even severely mentally ill types like it sounds like the latest shooter, Adam Lanza, probably was. (And I’m decidedly not talking about his Asperger’s Syndrome; I’m talking about the behavioral issues he’d have likely had whether he had AS or not.) But in this case, I can find no mercy in my heart for him — far less mercy than one of the parents of the victims, Robbie Parker, who’s already expressed sympathy for the surviving family members of Adam Lanza.
Mr. Parker is a far better person than I.
My focus is elsewhere, because I just do not understand why any responsible parent, such as Nancy Lanza has been described, would ever allow a troubled young man like her son to get a hand on any of her guns.
Much less teach him to shoot them herself, as it appears she did.
As it stands, Adam Lanza should never have had access to his mother’s guns. He should never have been able to stockpile so much ammunition, either. And I absolutely cannot comprehend why on Earth he’d wish to take the lives of twenty children who’d never done anything to him — could never have done anything to him — nor the lives of six innocent adults plus the life of his mother, either.
But he did have access. And he did do these horrible things, though it’s possible that the six adults kept him from killing even more innocents — I’d like to think so, anyway.
We must do something to prevent the Adam Lanzas of the world from doing these horrific things, which is we must start with mental health treatment. We won’t be able to prevent all of the possible violence, no.
But we may be able to prevent some.
And we assuredly will change the lives of at least some people for the better if we make sure that health care spending — particularly on mental health — becomes a priority in this country.
I’m tired of doing nothing to stop these random killings. And I’m incensed that it’s now led to this — twenty-six people dying, in of all places, an elementary school.
So, when will the killings end?
I don’t know.
But I do know we must try to put a stop to them. Because this is intolerable.
——–
Edited to change title (so more people can find this blog post), and to add a link to MSNBC’s Joe Scarborough’s stirring soliloquy about the terrible tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School, and why we must have at least some better control over our guns in order to protect the most vulnerable among us — our children.
Boxer Hector “Macho” Camacho, 50, to Be Taken Off Life Support
Folks, this is one of the more disturbing sports stories to hit the wire in the past several months.
Boxer Hector “Macho” Camacho — a man who was one of the best boxers in his time, or any time — was sitting in a car with a friend, Adrian Mojica Moreno, a few days ago in his native Puerto Rico. Thugs shot at the car, perhaps not even knowing Camacho was inside; they killed Moreno instantly and wounded Camacho severely. The motivation behind this shooting appears to have been drugs, as nine small bags of cocaine were found on Moreno’s body, with a tenth bag found inside the car.
Doctors now say that Camacho is brain-dead.
Camacho’s mother, Maria Matias, has decided to take Camacho off life support, saying in this article from The Sporting News that:
“I lost my son three days ago. He’s alive only because of a machine,” Matias said. “My son is not alive. My son is only alive for the people who love him,” she added.
(Camacho’s) three other sons were expected to arrive from the U.S. mainland around midnight Friday. “Until they arrive, we will not disconnect the machine,” Matias said.
However, the one son of Camacho’s who is already there, Hector “Machito” Camacho, Jr., does not wish his father to be taken off life support. And other family and friends continue to wrestle with Camacho’s mother’s decision, even though she’s the one who has the final say — and assuredly, she’s made up her mind.
Here’s a bit more from the TSN article, which explains Camacho’s significance to the world of boxing:
He won super lightweight, lightweight and junior welterweight world titles in the 1980s and fought high-profile bouts against Felix Trinidad, Julio Cesar Chavez and Sugar Ray Leonard. Camacho knocked out Leonard in 1997, ending the former champ’s final comeback attempt. Camacho had a career record of 79-6-3.
I remember watching Camacho fight. There was an ease and fluidity to his movement, yes, but a deliberate intelligence and cunning, too. He was often underestimated due to his “Macho” nickname; fighters would learn, to their everlasting chagrin, that Camacho did his homework long before he ever stepped foot in the ring.
Or to put it another way, Camacho did not depend on bravado to win in the ring; instead, he used his mind as well as his fists to forge an impressive legacy.
Camacho’s later life was marred by a 2007 conviction for burglary (he served two weeks in jail plus probation) and his ex-wife (the New York Times, in this article, says Camacho had only one) swore out two complaints of domestic abuse before finally divorcing him. He also abused both drugs and alcohol, though there is no evidence that Camacho was on any sort of drugs at the time of the shooting.
Camacho’s sisters have said that they are willing to fly him to New York in order for him to be buried where he spent much of his adolescence — Harlem. But it’s unclear at this time as to what the final disposition of Camacho’s body will be, as no firm decision has been made regarding organ donation or anything else according to the latest articles from TSN, Yahoo Sports, and other sources.
One thing’s for certain: Camacho was at the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’d not be brain-dead right now.
What a terrible end to an otherwise remarkable life.
******
UPDATE: Camacho was taken off life support this morning, had a heart attack, and died.
A funeral is pending in New York, and a wake may be scheduled in Puerto Rico later according to this article from the Chicago Tribune. He is survived by his mother, father, four siblings (three sisters and a brother), four children — Hector, Jr., Taylor, Christian, and Justin, and two grandchildren.
Another Sad Anniversary
The last ten days or so have been rather challenging.
In addition to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, which is nowhere near as much fun without my husband Michael (his charm, wit, love of football and willingness to cook made any holiday much more fun, not to mention more memorable), I’ve also observed two other sad anniversaries:
First, I observed the first anniversary of my friend Jeff Wilson’s passing on November 13. A particularly sad day, but I said nothing because I was too upset to even discuss it.
Next — today — I observed my friend Jeff’s 49th birthday.
Jeff was an extraordinarily kind and compassionate man. He was funny in his own, quiet way (often surprising himself as much as me), he loved his four cats, he followed politics and current events and some sports — the latter, I think, so he’d have something else to discuss with me as he knew I’m a big sports-lover.
And Jeff had a rare gift of insight, something I’ve only found in one other person (my husband Michael); because of this, he tolerated no weasel-words, and would not be fobbed off by any polite words (such as “I’m fine,” which to him always signaled something else, something along the lines of, “What’s wrong, and how can I help?”).
I never was all that great at observing Jeff’s birthday. I wish I had been better at it.
I can say that I tried, every day, to observe how important he was to me and let him know this. Because I felt that was the most important thing; he needed to know that I found him a worthy friend, and an interesting person, and someone with many special gifts to offer the world.
I miss my friend Jeff profoundly, and I wish he were here on his 49th birthday, just so he could tell me to stop worrying so much about him.
Even though he knew I wouldn’t.
A September 2012 Update
Folks, September is always a difficult month for me, because this is the month my wonderful husband Michael passed away. That I’m dealing with a sinus infection that refuses to go away is not helping.
I’m enjoying the Milwaukee Brewers and their recent run to respectability, as they’re now 66-69, only three games below .500.
Other than that, I’m continuing to work away while dealing with the most difficult month on the schedule . . . for the moment, at least at FB, I have a picture of myself with my late husband Michael up as one of the folks on FB complained that anyone who is unwilling to show his/her face must not be much of a person. Normally I’d shrug this off, but I figured just this once I’d put up my picture with Michael, explain why I normally do not use it, and go on from there . . . clear as mud, right?
More status updates as I get them.
Neil Armstrong Dies at 82
Tonight, raise your glass to commemorate the life of Neil Armstrong, a remarkable man who made history, yet remained humble afterward. He died today at 82.
Now, most of us know that Armstrong was one of the United States of America’s first astronauts and the first man on the moon. But did you know that Armstrong was also an engineer, a businessman, a farmer, and the role Armstrong seems to have relished the most, that of a “quiet old retired guy?” (I hadn’t, and didn’t, before I read so much today about Armstrong’s life after the moon landing.)
Please see this link for more information about Armstrong’s remarkable life and career; a brief excerpt follows:
Armstrong commanded the Apollo 11 spacecraft that landed on the moon July 20, 1969, capping the most daring of the 20th century’s scientific expeditions. His first words after setting foot on the surface are etched in history books and the memories of those who heard them in a live broadcast.
“That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind,” Armstrong said.
In those first few moments on the moon, during the climax of heated space race with the then-Soviet Union, Armstrong stopped in what he called “a tender moment” and left a patch commemorate NASA astronauts and Soviet cosmonauts who had died in action.
“It was special and memorable but it was only instantaneous because there was work to do,” Armstrong told an Australian television interviewer this year.
Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin spent nearly three hours walking on the lunar surface, collecting samples, conducting experiments and taking photographs.
“The sights were simply magnificent, beyond any visual experience that I had ever been exposed to,” Armstrong once said.
The rest of the Yahoo article points out the historical significance of Armstrong’s moonwalk, puts Armstrong’s life in context, and discusses Armstrong’s private life (which was very, very private indeed).
Armstrong leaves behind his wife of thirteen years, Carol, and two grown sons from a previous marriage — and, of course, the many people around the world who remember his remarkable achievements, and will forever more.
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