Happy half-birthday!

My second grade daughter’s birthday is September 21, so today, March 21, she is getting excited. She tells me it’s her half-birthday. What? She will be exactly eight years and six months old. Let’s celebrate! She would love it if I told her that, if we calculated the half in terms of an exact half-year, she would have to celebrate on another day. She already snarls at arithmetic, so why not bare her teeth for another number conundrum?

So what will she do for this great day? Well, we could check the half-birthday web site: yes, it exists. Its ideas play a lot on the ‘half’ part. I am not looking forward to her having half-presents. Wrapping only, with the present to come on the birthday? Promises to pay down half for gift cards for the actual birthday? I cannot see her going wild over half-slices of cake or 4 1/4 candles only. Her mother is planning to take her to dinner: early evening half-price special, I think.

But, I wont be half-hearted, so will wish her fully a happy half-birthday.

Are you my type? Redux: The Curious Case of Trayvon Martin

I wrote yesterday about how a chance remark reminded me about profiling and how it can be wanton. I was also reminded about how dangerous and destructive it can be to many, but it seems especially to young black men.

I follow Charles M. Blow on Twitter (@charlesmblow) and read regularly his columns in the New York Times. Yesterday, he wrote about the recent curious shooting of a black teenager, Trayvon Martin, in Florida. He is not the only commentator on this bizarre incident. Roland Martin (@rolandsmartin), a well-known political commentator, has also been pressing for action on this case. Last night, Mr Blow wrote about this case for his weekend column. I read it and it brought me to tears: yet another senseless killing of a young person. The column speaks for itself, but we have to wonder how events like this happen.

Many questions come to mind. I wont try to capture all of them, because they are personal and contextual. Those, like me, who cannot understand the American love affair with the gun, will be again scratching our heads and asking “When will they learn?” Those who have teenage children (whether black or not, but perhaps particularly those who are black) may be wondering “Will this happen to my child?” I thank my lucky stars that whatever profiling I endured as a youth or older was never in the face of someone ready and able to take my life.

I do not know what will be a just outcome to this killing, but justice will be one of those things that will be bombarding my mind for a while. In the meantime, sincere condolences for the parents of Trayvon Martin.

Are you my type?

My good lady and my good kid were chit-chatting in our car as we did our best to conserve fuel on the way to work and school, yesterday. A truck was making a turn as we waited at a junction and my second grader looked up at the driver, as my car blocked his completing the turn. “All truck drivers have beards and moustaches,” the kidder noted. “You shouldn’t stereotype, but yes, they are a bit rough-looking,” came back her mother. My reaction was instant. I immediately rolled my eyes, which sources agree can indicate incredulity, contempt, boredom, frustration, or exasperation. In this case, it was a combination of the first, fourth and fifth elements that made my eyes react.

Now, if there is one thing that I have not been able to tolerate or overcome with age, it’s stereotyping. It may be that I was too often on the wrong end of it. For example, while living in England for many years, I was too often a victim of the ‘suss law‘. I remember once being pulled over by a policeman as I walked home after a long day at university, then an afternoon football (soccer) match, then extra practice. I was passing the front of a store, when a squad car slowed then stopped. The police officers stepped out and asked me some questions and to produce some identification. I did. I asked why they had stopped me. “We’re following up on a report and you fit the profile,” one officer said. When I asked for details of the profile, I was told the suspect was tall with fair hair. Being average height, black, with black hair, I could not see how that could ‘fit the profile’. I rolled my eyes: it was dark so I don’t know if that gesture was seen. We had a vigorous discussion, and eventually ‘logic’ and ‘good sense’ prevailed, and I was allowed to continue on my way home. I was one lucky lad, as I was neither afraid, guilty, nor incapable of arguing in moderated tones.

I remember, also, the different reactions I used to get when I was going about my activities as a do-it-yourself homebuilder/repairer, usually during evenings after coming home from by banking job or at weekends. I would be treated very differently if I went to a wood yard or plumbing supplies stores, for instance. When I was in my ‘builder’s clothes’ I got good attention and advice and lower prices. When I went in my ‘office clothes’, I was treated with a general ‘what do you know?’ attitude, flaky advice and higher prices. I suspected different treatment early, and would often go with a friend who was a builder and we’d dress up as ‘builder’ or ‘office worker’ and try our hypothesis out in various places. Pretty consistently, we were ‘profiled’ or ‘stereotyped’. I learned my lessons and dressed the part to get the deals I needed. To make it better, it helped to ‘speak’ the part too: fortunately, I had a good working-class upbringing and had crossed into the middle-classes, so I could speak both languages fluently

Another day and again reminders of lessons learned.

Smith at his anvil

If the name Greg Smith does not mean anything to you, then perhaps you had left the planet yesterday in honour of Pi Day, March 14th (written American style that is 3/14; close enough to Pi = 3.1415926535…). When the news hit me, I could not help but think that Lent can be the time of many different forms of penitent behaviour.

Mr. Smith decided to quit his job with Goldman Sachs (a major investment bank) and also to do so by offering an op-ed piece to the New York Times (NYT), which they published. He had been upset, after 12 years working for Goldman Sachs, about the investment bank’s culture: “the interests of the client continue to be sidelined in the way the firm operates and thinks about making money…” Fittingly, the NYT adorned the op-ed with a Kerlow cartoon of vultures taking their meal of a carcass. Birds of a feather, flock together? Stark imagery, eh.

Many different views were expressed yesterday about Mr. Smith and his action, and his erstwhile employers issued a response in the form of an internal memo, which not-surprisingly does not see things the same way but understandably laments the way their now-former employee went about his leaving. “In a company of our size, it is not shocking that some people could feel disgruntled. But that does not and should not represent our firm of more than 30,000 people. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. But, it is unfortunate that an individual opinion about Goldman Sachs is amplified in a newspaper and speaks louder than the regular, detailed and intensive feedback you have provided the firm and independent, public surveys of workplace environments.”

I imagine that Smith and Sachs will continue to trend on the Internet for a few days, not least because some of his views suggest he is a man with a conscience, who has seen the error of his ways and been ready to buck his head against the financial megalith. “I knew it was time to leave when I realized I could no longer look students in the eye and tell them what a great place this was to work.” His revelations that clients were sometimes referred to as “muppets” will no doubt strike some clients and non-clients as offensive or dismissive. Some of his observations about himself are a little odd (my emphasis): “When I was a first-year analyst I didn’t know where the bathroom was, or how to tie my shoelaces.” Hard to imagine that latter part was true and that Goldmans thought they could turn this fledgling into a keen investment banker. But, literary license aside, for a while.

I wondered why the NYT published the letter. To encourage others who feel similarly disgruntled with their employers? Good news about bad guys? Dramatic insight into a part of ‘Wall Street’ that is already on the high list of ‘most hated’? Coming soon after another report of how living on lower bonuses was ‘stressing out’ some who work on the Street, I wondered how the bile would pile up about the apparently vile behaviour of the money-movers and money shakers.

What will Mr. Smith’s seek to do now is the question I have on my mind. Will he be looking to ‘repay’ some of the clients that were bilked? Will he seek to be contrite by helping the helpless or the needy? Will he do more to expose the behaviour he apparently now abhors? Will he do the talk show and night show circuits? Will he go hungry and homeless now he is jobless? My wife has signed up at our church for a quiet Saturday session on forgiveness. Should I send Mr. Smith an invitation? Is he a man in need of support or has he found that enough by ‘coming clean’? Many will think that Goldmans can take care of themselves, but can Mr. Smith take care of himself and his needs now that he has exposed what he thinks ails his former firm? Will he now be caught between losing old friends and assailed by those who want him to be their friends?

Doors open. Doors close. Life is full of challenges that can become opportunities.

My second grader told me this morning that her favourite Muppet character is Miss Piggy. “We are so alike: ‘gorgeous’, ‘supremely talented’, but always ‘still just little moi’”. I hope Greg Smith can find the same ‘love’ in coming day.

Pure Bunkum!

Honestly, I was always bewildered about the furore concerning President Obama’s birthplace and religion. Deep inside, I know that a lot of his fellow Americans do not see him as one of their own. Whether it is because of his colour and race, or over where he was born, or his religion, or the fact that he is one of the new ‘snobs’, having been to university (Ivy League, to boot) and taught a bunch of other snobs, a good crop of Americans are suspicious of the fellow.

When I read some press reports over the weekend about the President’s lack of support in southern states and the findings that many people were still uncertain about his religion and his right by birth to be eligible as president, I paused. Today, I listened to an NPR report from Alabama, which put some flesh on the poll findings. What struck me was how some citizens spoke with conviction about their doubts that the President met the stipulations in the Constitution. Thanks to the reporter for pointing out that the erudite-sounding claims about what the Constitution stated was in fact total bunkum. Yet, people are believing things that are wholly not true and been proven to be so, or blatantly do not exist, yet have convinced themselves of their existence. That’s the stuff of miracles.

I have never had any desire to be a politician and have a hard enough time in ordinary life dealing with how you cannot disprove negatives. I guess when you don’t like a feller, you really are hard pressed to find reasons to thing good of him. I am going to try to calculate how many people needed to have agreed to be part of the Obama conspiracy that has foisted this carpetbagger on his (maybe not ‘his’) nation. One, two, three… I may be some time, so bear with me, while I work it out. Eight million and one, eight million and two…

Simply speaking: Thank you, brown paper bag

My Saturdays have become quite simple in recent weeks; I’ve been trying to keep things simple and quiet. This Saturday, I craved some exercise so went to an early morning kick boxing class, after breakfast. The previous day’s burst of Spring had typically reverted to deep Winter, and a cold wind tapped my face as I walked up the short hill to class. It had been the same the previous Saturday, when my walk to class had been amid snow flurries. But, by the time class was over, Spring has awoken. My limbs ached; my arms felt tired; my shirt was soaked with sweat; my head was clear. I told myself that the aches and strains would go soon enough, and that I had plenty of dry T-shirts, and that I had done myself some good.

For the rest of the morning I kept to my plan to read a little and think about my handicap. Well, golf. I had another clinic due early afternoon and the clear blue sky made its prospect more inviting. I headed to the course after lunch and hoped to get the benefit of what was shaping up to be the nicest part of the day. I had a good laugh before the session started, when joking with another retiree who had bitten the bullet and bought a set of clubs online and also now sported new golf shoes–white. “He’s put you at a big disadvantage.” the pro said. He had the gear, but did he have the game? We got through a series of work on the driving range, with irons and woods–getting into the jargon, now. On Sunday, we were going to be let loose on the course. Fore!

A Jamaican friend had called me on my drive up to the golf club, and told me he was off to play squash but that I should call him after I had finished to see if we could catch up. I had no particular plans, but was open to the idea. After I called him back and arranged for him to pick me up, I spoke to my Dad in Jamaica, and heard how he and his household had just been enjoying some freshly dug yam that had been roasted. Don’t mistake this for the sweet potatoes that sometimes adorn an American table: this is the big, hard, starch-loader source of energy that Jamaicans love. That did it; my mind was set on eating Jamaican food

My bredrin (new to the Greater Washington area) and I headed over to Silver Spring and found a Jamaican restaurant that we knew, but had not frequented much. Chicken soup was on the menu, and we ordered two, “…with nuff dumplin…” The cashier (a Jamaican-born student doing part-time work) told us that we were picky, but she would serve the soup herself as she was picky too. We added some steamed snapper as our dinner. The soup was a good start, but when the fish arrived, we knew we were in business. “You have any fresh pepper?” I asked, and in no time some hot pepper sauce was on the table. The fish looked pretty, dressed with onions, green peppers and carrots. The accompanying rice and peas and steamed cabbage made the meal more than a handful for even a very hungry man. We each admitted ‘defeat’ and decided that lunch the next day was already assured. Then we made tracks to leave, once we had boxed up our left overs.

We struck up a conversation with one of the lady owners of the restaurant over the state’s new bag tax: “It’s important. Have you seen what they pull out of the Anacostia River?” she said. I quipped that it was fish. “But what do you imagine those fish have inside them?” she retorted. We smiled and put our food into the bags, then my friend posed a few questions about where the lady was from. We then got into a long chat about mutual friends, Jamaican entrepreneurs, nicknames (the lady told us she was known as ‘Choopsie’–kiss). We stood there at the counter for a good 20 minutes talking and reminiscing.

“The world is small,” Choopsie said as we readied to leave. Had we become friends? Not necessarily, but we had become more than passing strangers. A phone call. A idea to meet. A meal. Little things exchanged at a food counter. All had opened doors to other things. My friend needs to go to Jamaica soon, and he now has a person to try to reconnect with. Our lady owner wanted to make us feel more welcome: “Next time you’re coming, if you want to try the escoveitch fish and have it done with vinegar and pepper, just call ahead…” Appreciated.

A is for apple. L is for lentils?

Last night, I sat outside with my daughter’s second grade class listening to her teacher tell a story for their regular full moon party. As I have heard these stories, I understood that for certain months it is traditional to assign special names to each full moon of the year. The ‘rules’ that determine the name for a given month’s full moon have changed over time. An old method of assigning names is based upon seasons and quarters of the year. The Egg Moon (the full moon before Easter) would be the first moon after March 21, and the Lenten Moon would be the last moon on or before March 21.

The teacher, trying to make the evening interactive, asked various questions, which tested the understanding of her class. For instance, could they appreciate that the full moon glistening on a snow-covered landscape made a night seem brighter than when the snow was not on the ground. She asked why this month’s moon was called the Lenten Moon. A child, not too far from my heart, answered “It’s because it is during Lent. But it could be to do with lentils.” My child!

Our household is not into the sack cloth and ashes, but I wondered if her mind was associating Lent with things she would rather not be doing. I know she likes lentils and beans, but in the right kind of dishes, such as chilli. I think she was just trying her hand at off-beat humour. Someone mentioned to me that Lent is about lengthening, because the days are getting longer–and “sometimes Lent feels so looooong when we have given up candy and are eating all those lentils!”