A Farewell to the Bishop

Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu – October 7, 1931 – December 26, 2021

The Bishop was ecstatic. He rejoiced, leaping and skipping around the room. It was the first really good news he had received in a long while for it was a tense time on the African continent. Although, it could be reasonably asked, when are times never tense on the huge land mass?

The continent covers six percent of the earth’s surface and twenty percent of its land area. Africa’s name came from ancient Romans, scholars believe, perhaps from the Latin aprica, meaning ‘sunny’ or from the Greek aphrike, meaning ‘without cold.’

Africa is where science says humans first evolved. Some anthropologists surmise that early in its development Africa consisted of ten thousand different states, tribes or clans with different languages and customs. History has proven where you find humans, you find conflict. From tribal conflicts to the Boer Wars with the British Empire, to the kidnapping of millions of Africans forced into slavery in the New World, Africa seems to have been in eternal turmoil.

But the closing years of the twentieth century’s eighth decade brought with them breath-taking events in southern Africa. South Africa’s apartheid, the government’s much reviled policy of racial injustice, was on its last legs. 

In 1985, the white population in South Africa was put at less than five million. The black population was estimated at around nineteen million. That number, however, was little more than an extrapolation because the white government eliminated census figures from the South African Bantustans, or black homelands, during apartheid. Nevertheless, Blacks and Coloureds, people of mixed race, outnumbered whites by nearly five to one.

Violent resistance by anti-apartheid activists, internal political strife and global pressure in the form of economic sanctions drove apartheid to its knees. Among the most vocal opponents of the government’s segregation polices was the Bishop.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu, an Anglican cleric, actively took part in South African civil disobedience. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 for his “role as a unifying leader figure in the campaign to resolve the problem of apartheid in South Africa.”

Tutu was the Anglican Bishop of Johannesburg during the time I came to know him. He eventually became the Archbishop of Cape Town, the first black man to hold either position. Outspoken as he was, Archbishop Tutu had an infectious sense of humor. He laughed easily and enjoyed a good joke. But, when it came to racial inequality and other human rights matters, his tongue could crack like a whip. He would often say, in various versions, “We don’t want apartheid improved. We want apartheid dismantled! You can’t improve something that is intrinsically evil.” 

Covering South Africa as ABC News Johannesburg Bureau Chief for four years, beginning in 1985, I encountered Bishop Tutu on several occasions. He was unfailingly energetic and unflinching in his crusade to tear down apartheid. The Bishop was relentless in his mission to have Nelson Mandela released from prison. As leader of the African National Congress, Mandela was arrested in 1964, accused of sabotage and conspiracy to overthrow the government, and sentenced to life behind bars.

Bishop Tutu was among several anti-apartheid figures, black and white, who participated in long negotiations with the government to secure Mandela’s freedom. Painstakingly, they made some progress. In the fall of 1989, Tutu and a few other activists met with South Africa’s new president, F.W. DeKlerk. Tutu came away from that meeting apparently impressed that their message fell on receptive ears. 

Not long after that meeting, I sat with the Archbishop in his Soweto home outside Johannesburg for a quiet talk. I had no camera crew with me. This was not so much an interview as it was a conversation, a background briefing, of sorts. During our chat, his phone rang in another room. Excusing himself, Tutu got up to answer it. I could hear him become increasingly excited as he spoke to whomever was on the other end. Hanging up, the Bishop burst back into his living room, his eyes wide and bright, a huge smile on his face, and announced, “Nelson is coming home! He’s coming home!”

He had just learned that the government had finally agreed to set Mandela free. It would be many weeks before that actually happened, but for the Archbishop it was as good as done. He began to literally leap and dance around, joyously whooping and hollering. He reached down to grab my hands and pulled me up out of my chair and, together, we danced in his living room. It was an incredible moment.

Many years later, I related that story to an old friend, Chuck, who lives in Columbus, Georgia. I had gone to Columbus for a reunion with colleagues I hadn’t seen in almost forty-five years. I had worked there as young reporter at WTVM-TV in the early 1970s. Columbus has changed dramatically since my time in the town. It had become a bustling and vibrant city. 

My friend proudly drove me around to see all the impressive developments, such as the old mills that had been turned into delightful lofts and condos, a pleasant riverfront walk along the Chattahoochee River, and gleaming headquarters for national corporations. As we drove, touring the sites, I wondered out loud what my career would have been like had I not left Columbus and had settled in as a resident and reporter. Chuck answered quietly, “You never would have danced with the Bishop.”

That simple phrase struck me like a thunderbolt as the perfect metaphor for what my career became. For nearly half a century, I had danced with events and phenomenon that changed the course of history. Some, indeed, now fill entire chapters of history books. I had danced, metaphorically, with presidents and dictators, with kings and saints, with good and with evil, with police and perpetrators, heroes and villains, with freedom fighters and terrorists, with fame and famine, with fortune and failings, with ordinary people with extraordinary stories, with war and with peace. 

I had also danced with technological developments in broadcasting that ranged from clunky black and white film to video tape to computer driven digital images and sound.

It was a dance that, at times, was smooth, like a waltz. At other times, it was more frenetic, like a jitterbug. But it always had a compelling rhythm.

Sadly, Archbishop Desmond Tutu died today, the day after Christmas at the age of 90. His passing makes my heart sad. I shall never forget our dancing together. Bishop Tutu was a lion in the fight for equality. He was a leader for a society in turmoil. His faith in humanity was unparalleled. He was an inspiration. He was a friend. 


In Search of Unity


We were at the brink. We were staring into the abyss. Our fragile democracy seemed to be on the verge of shattering. The breach in our two hundred and forty-five year old experiment in governing appeared ruptured beyond rationality. Reason seemed to have dissolved. Disapproval had desended into violent dissention

Then we saw. Our democracy was not brittle. It was pounded and pummeled, bent and bruised, but it was not broken. It has proven to be resilient. So far. Our unique republic has survived. So far. As Tom Hanks said in an inaugural-night television special, Celebrating America, many of us now ponder “the hope and dreams, we all share, for a more perfect union.”

We may all share that hope and those dreams, but we are far, far from any consensus about how to realize the aspirations of unity. One man’s dream can be, and is, another man’s nightmare. Millions of Americans still believe the election was a sham; they believe the new president is a false president. Changing their minds seems unlikely. Perhaps the most that can be achieved is to convince those angry Americans…nearly half the voting country…to simply accept what a little more than the other half democratically decided.

That will be a monumental task. While much has been gained…freedom, independence…with our democratic experiment, over the years much has been lost. Too many have lost trust and faith in government. Too many feel they have been abused, ignored and, perhaps worse, disrepected, far too long by our leaders. The recent explosion of emotions we witnessed was not an instanteous event. It had been building for years, spanning the terms of several presidents.

This, by no means, is an excuse for the obscene attack on the US capitol. It is acknowledgement that achieveing a more perfect union will take a massive effort by everyone, not just those we send to our capitals to do the job. It will take perverance, patience, a willingness to listen, rational thinking, careful consideration. It will also take courage. Much courage.

The young and brilliant National Youth Poet Laureate, Amanda Gorman, set the precise tone in her thrilling read at the inaugural ceremony, concluding with:

The new dawn blooms as we free it

For there is always light,

if only we’re brave enough to see it

If only we’re brave enough to be it

Amanda Gorman


‘Tis the Season…to be Smarter

“At the end of the day, it is a lack of compassion.”

Hospital Nurse in El Paso, Texas.

The above observation from the El Paso hospital nurse appears in an online HuffPost article with the headline, “Our Health Care Heroes Are Getting Fed Up With Us.” The frustration stems from the millions of us who are ignoring commonsense warnings about the coronavirus, or who, selfishly, just don’t care.

The rest of the nurse’s comment goes like this: “Stay home, take care of yourself, stop going to see other family members. Just stay home.” That plea comes from a front line worker who speaks from sad experience. It comes from a health care worker who has seen countless people suffer and die, virtually alone. Strangers, doctors and nurses whose names the COVID victims most likely don’t know, are the only people who can be there to hold their hands as they take their final, labored, painful breaths.

“Stay home.” The plea could not be more desperate. The good news is that AAA predicts most of us will heed that plea and follow the lyrics of that old seasonal song, “There’s no place like home for the holidays…” The bad news is that an expected 84.5 million of us won’t.

Think about that for a minute. More than 25 percent…more than one quarter…of all Americans will venture out…traveling hither and yon, risking exposure to the highly contagious and deadly virus…just to spend the holiday with family.

Just? I hear your objection and, perhaps, outrage at that depiction of familial connection. I agree. Family is extremely important. Blood really is thicker than water. But is it worth it to risk serious illness, even death, to spend a few days with relatives who are distant (not to mention distant relatives)?

We want to connect with our parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We surely do in normal times. These are not normal times. Is it too much to sacrifice a face-to-face holiday visit for one year, especially since online virtual visits have become so straightforward? Facetime, Zoom, whatever, is not the same, that is true. But this is certainly not the same old holiday season.

It is not too dramatic to say that holiday visits to grandparents or grandchildren could very well be the last time many of those 84.5 million travelers ever see those family members. COVID will see to that. Christmas Eve IMHE virus-impact projections are breathtaking. The respected Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation at the University of Washington predicts more than 567,000 COVID deaths in the US by April 1st. That is approaching the number of soldiers, 600,000+, killed during the four year-long Civil War.

It has been been suggested that some people are risking holiday travel because they fear it, indeed, may be the last time they can hold their loved ones. That is an understandable fear. But it is a gamble that could exacerbate that fear and become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Throughout this pandemic, health care workers have rightfully been called heroes. The nurse in El Paso said “Don’t praise me, don’t call me a hero – none of that. Stay home.”

Have a safe, merry, and smarter Christmas…at home.


Time Will Tell

“Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”

Fly Like An Eagle – The Steve Miller Band

“What we are doing is waiting.”

Shannon Stirone, nymag.com

As I write this blog, it is nine o’clock in the morning. But, what does that really mean? It is nine o’clock in relation to what? My granddaughters probaby aren’t even awake yet, for it is six o’clock where they live. However, it makes no sense to say they are three hours behind me. They exist at this very moment as I exist. As you exist. They are in the same space-time instant as we all are. It is just that we homo sapiens have assigned measurements to control time, to create more order in our lives.

But, alas, time cannot be controlled. And lately our lives have been in a state of disturbing disorder. Or as journalist Shannon Stirone writes in the magazine, New York, “The days feel as though they’ve been whipped through a blender.” Thank you, COVID.

The more we do, the faster time seems to pass. We do less and time drags. For the past year, many us have had a lot of time on our hands. Stay at home, self-quarantined, isolated and socially distanced long enough and pretty soon you start running out of things to do. Still, it is a paradox. On the one hand, the venomous virus goes on and on. Will it ever end? One the other hand, was it really a year ago that this pandemic began? It seems like, maybe, just last week. Time is funny that way.

UCLA Neuroscientist Dean Buonomano, a researcher who studies how our brains handle time, has a book called “Your Brain is a Time Machine.” In Stirone’s article, Buonomano says “…in many ways, the brain’s most important functions are to predict the future.” Think about it this way. Put a roast in a hot oven and about an hour or so into the future, you know it will be cooked. Or this way. Stay up late at night drinking too much wine and you can predict that you will feel lousy in the future, the next morning.

Those are the mundane, every day events. Our brains have been efficient at predicting larger, more important issues in time. We forecast that if we save and invest wisely, our future years have a fairly good chance of being secure. If we see a dentist regularly, we can fortell our teeth will stay healthy far into the future.

The coronavirus has turned this whole future-fortune-telling ability on it’s head. So much seems uncertain now. How long will this virus last? Will I become infected? Will my family? Should I visit my friends and neighbors? What about my job? What about school? How soon will I get the vaccinated? Shoud I get vaccinated? Will the vaccine really work? Am I going stir-crazy?

It hasn’t helped that other aspects of our lives have been upended, as well. The presidential election process has been confusing and upsetting on multiple levels. Our daily routines have been thown into chaos by matters than seem out of our control. As Stirone puts it, “We’ve lost not only the present, but our sense of the future as well.”

The good news is that we, as a species, are resiliant. Our brains know the heartache and grief will continue for a while. With grit and determination, we will tough it out. The future may be in flux at the moment, but our brains also know we will get through this. “What we are doing,” as Shannon Stirone writes, “is waiting.” Time will tell.


One Vote, One Person Does Matter

Sean Rayford for The New York Times

Were it not for Jannie Jones, it is possible that Joe Biden might not be President-Elect today. Who is Jannie Jones, you ask? She is not a pundit. She is not a powerful political operative. Jannie Jones is a 76-year-old church usher whose grandmother came to America aboard a slave ship.

To understand Ms. Jones’ role in elevating Biden to the White House, we must go back to the South Carolina primary election last February 29th. About a week before that vote, Jannie Jones attended a funeral in the small town of Hopkins, South Carolina, population 2,956, about 13 miles southeast of Columbia, the state capitol.

Democratic South Carolina Congressman James Clyburn, the House Majority Whip, also attend the funeral. As Ms. Jones tells the New York Times, “He didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat.” No matter. Seeing the Congressman leaning against a wall of the chuch, she got his attention. He walked over to the pew where she was sitting.

Clyburn remembers Jannie whispered in his ear, “I need to know who you are voting for.” This was no idle question, for at the time, Joe Biden’s candidacy was in serious doubt. In his acceptance speech, the President-Elect even said it was a time when his campaign “was at its lowest ebb.”

The Congressman, up until then, had made no public endorsement for Biden, nor any Democratic candidate. But he remembers whispering back to the woman he was voting for Joe Biden. As Clyburn recalls, Jennie Jones looked him and said, “I needed to hear that. And this country needs to hear that.”

That is when the Majority Whip, the third ranking Democrat in the United States House of Representatives, decided he did need to speak out. Five days later, he gave Biden a ringing public endorsment. Many credit Clyburn’s support for reviving the former Vice-President’s campaign, resulting in a South Carolina victory. The Times called the endorsement “seismic.” Biden’s primary win in the Palmetto State set up a cascade of political dominoes which fell, one after another, until this weekend, when Joe Biden was declared the next President of the United States.

He acknowledged as much in his acceptance speech. Speaking of that campaign’s lowest ebb, Biden said “The African American community stood up again for me. They always have my back, and I’ll have yours.”

So, don’t let anyone tell you one person, one vote, doesn’t matter. You don’t have to believe me. Just ask Jannie Jones.

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Our Nation Divided

As my friend, Chris Berry, reminds us, former CBS Anchoman Dan Rather had some choice words to describe past elections too close to call. These are just a few of them.

The race “is tick-tight right now.”
“This race is hotter than a Laredo parking lot.”
“This race is tighter than the lugnuts on a rusted ’56 Chevy.” “Are your fingernails starting to sweat?”

Fingernails are sweating all across the land on this day after November 3rd. As of this writing, we do not know yet who will be our next President. We may not know for days. But we do know some very important truths, no matter who wins.

Democrats expected a sweep. Republicans expected a landslide. Both were wrong. Oh, so wrong. Another Dan Rather-ism can be applied to what is happening in this already crazy, upside down year of 2020. “This race is as tight as a too-small bathing suit on a too-hot car ride back from the beach.”

What is happening? That question will be debated, studied, examined, probed and dissected for years to come. But as one early pundit put it, the Democrats hope of an overwhelming win by saying Donald Trump is bad did not work. The message of unity did not work. We are, simply, a nation too divided for those stratgies to be even close to successful.

Looking at the returns, which are still coming in at this hour, it could be argued that we are almost evenly divided. The numbers are nearly equal by every measure. That’s why it is taking so long to proclaim a winner. One half of the country cannot, for the life of them, understand why the other half supports Trump. The other half cannot understand how it is the anti-Trumpers don’t understand them.

What does this mean going forward? It means, among other things, niether half can claim to have the sole interest of the country at heart. Each has equal argument, equal say, about our nation’s future. Niether half is right. Niether half is wrong. That spells inertia, right? Maybe, but it doesn’t have to. It may be difficult, but stalement does not need to define what’s to come.

Whether Joe Biden is elected, or whether Donald Trump is reelected, it is abundantly clear that the next President will not have a national mandate to govern the country. Niether will Congress. Everyone, from the President on down to locally elected officials, will have the duty, the responsibility, to listen and pay attention to those who did not vote for them. Afterall, those voters make up half the nation.


The Simulator

A Sci-Fi Flight of Fantasy for Anyone Who Believes Reality is Fake News

Somewhere in the Multi-Verse


Oh man, you gotta see this!” said the young one in his native tongue.

“See what?” his older friend said.

“This new program I got! It is so freakin’ cool!”

The friend turned a full circle, looking at the large five dimensional hologram image that filled the room around them.

“It looks kinda like a universe, or something,” he said.

“Not just any universe,” said the first being. “My universe!”

“What do you mean, your universe?”

“This new algorithm lets me create any universe I want.”

“It sure doesn’t look like our universe.”

“Of course not. I made this one up. See all those planets and stars and galaxies and stuff? I created all of them with this program. Watch!”

The young one rubbed his appendages together in anticipation.

“Computer,” he commanded. “Make a planet and designate as Beta-8.”

Immediately a perfectly round, multi-dimensional object appeared in mid-air in front of the being.

“Computer, make Beta-8 light yellow-brown.”

The object changed color.

“Let’s see now,” he said. “I know! Computer, put pieces of ice and rocks in rings around Beta-8.”

In an instant, the pale yellow-brown object was surrounded by a series of rings made up of particles that varied in size from tiny to extremely large.

“Cool, huh?” the young one said to his friend.

“Yeah! Very cool. But what can you do with it beside make planets and stars?”

“Well, I can create systems. Watch.  Computer, place planet in solar system Alpha-2.”

The holographic universe changed shape, moving the planet to an obit around a medium large white-yellowish star that seem to be producing a tremendous amount of heat and light. Seven other planets of varying sizes were already orbiting the star.

“This solar system is part of a much larger group I also made. Wanna see?”

“Sure” the older being said.

“Computer, show me galaxy Alpha-1.”


The hologram zoomed out to a great distance to reveal a spiral galaxy consisting of billions of stars, planets, comets and other objects spinning slowly in this simulated universe. Solar system Alpha-2 was embedded in one of the spiral arms about twenty-seven thousand light years from the center. The older friend was impressed.

“You created all this?”

“Yeah,” the younger one laughed. “It took me a little while, though. Pretty neat, doncha think?”

“Why did you put your solar system so far out on one of those arms? It seems kind of out of the way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I had to put it some place. And I wanted it to seem, I don’t know, ordinary, I guess. Not at the center of my creation, anyway.”

“What else?“

“I’ll show you. Computer, return to solar system Alpha-2.”

The image zoomed back in to show the original system.

“First of all,” said the universe creator, “I think planet Beta-8 is too close to that star. Computer, place Beta-8 in the sixth planet position from the star.”

The planet moved away from the star and began an orbit between two other planets.

“It’s still not right,” said the young one. “I got it. Computer, make Beta-8 nine times as large as Beta-3.”

The planet quickly grew in size to become slightly smaller than another planet on one side and much larger than one on the other side.

“What’s Beta-3?” the friend asked.

“Computer, enlarge Beta-3.”

In a flash, another planet filled the area in front of the two beings. Beta-3 was much prettier than Beta-8. It looked like a blue marble floating in the star studded darkness. Large green areas were spread out on the globe and white mists of water vapor moved around the planet.

“That’s beautiful!” the friend said. “Why do you call it Beta-3?”

“Because it is the third planet from that star. Beta-3 is just code the computer recognizes. It’s real name is Earth.”

“Earth? Why did you call it that?”

“Oh, I didn’t call it that. The people did.”

“People? What are people?”

“The people are creatures who live on Earth.”

“Okay, now you’ve lost me. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, man, that is the coolest part of this version of the algorithm. You know the developers released the first version, oh, what…two million years ago? This is version  750,000.3 and it has the greatest features ever! It allows me to create creatures to populate the planet. People are the creatures I made to rule Earth. Here, I will show you. Computer, New York City.”

The image zoomed in fast to an overhead view of a metropolis teaming with creatures. Some appeared to be maneuvering with the use of bi-ped like appendages, others were encased in metal objects carrying them from place to place.

“Those are people,” the young one said. “They call themselves human beings or homo sapiens.  They call those metal box-like objects vehicles. They have other names for them depending on size and shape. Names like cars, trucks and trains. They call all those tall structures buildings.”

“Wait a friggin’ minute,” his friend said. “You keep saying the people named Earth, they call themselves humans, they named vehicles and buildings. So, I suppose they call that place New York City, too?”

“Yeah, they did.”

“C’mon, you’re pulling my appendage, right? How is it possible that creatures you created name anything? They are just computer animation, aren’t they. They can’t be or say or do….or name…anything unless you write a code for it, right?”

“That’s the real beauty of this new computer program. It places limits on what I can do with my creations. Now get this! The new software gives the Earth people in the program what they believe is free will! They think they are real entities. That is how brilliant this program is!”

“I don’t understand,” the friend said.

“It’s like this,” the young one said, pointing to the hologram with one of his six arms. “I set certain parameters and then activate the human reaction algorithm and watch what happens. Computer, show me the Middle East of Beta-3.”

The image changed to scenes of war and other violence in one section of the Earth.

“I set the parameters here so that various tribes of Earth people had different ideas about land and politics and religion. I set the start of those parameters two thousand years ago. With those parameters, the computer-created people begin to make decisions and take action. The algorithm analyzes those decisions, computes the intent, and produces the result. I may have made an error in my original parameters, but it appears these animated humans have not learned much in two thousand years. That’s how long this violence has been going on. Let me show you something else I just developed. Computer, United States of America.”

The scene changed to an overview of the USA.

“At the risk of being devious, I’ve created some challenges for the people-creatures in this part of Earth. I’ve programmed a virus that is unfamiliar to them to see how they would handle it.”

“How are they handling it?”

“So far, not so well. But to be fair, I have given them some other things to deal with, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well, over time these animated people have invented a form of government they call a democracy. They elect a new leader every four years. Call me crazy, but I wanted to see just how intelligent the computer program really is. So, I created a political creature who has really controversial and outlandish ideas to see how these creatures would react to him.”

“How did they react?”

“Much to my surprise, they elected him! And they may do so again. His efforts to stay their leader in the middle of the virus outbreak is really interesting to watch. He is really popular among some of the people-creatures. Others seem to hate him. These computer Earth people are not getting along well. That seems to be a commonality among so many people-creatures on that planet. I don’t why that is. Maybe its a programming glitch. Still, this computer simulation is amazing! I’ve even thrown in some weather problems, like wildfires and big storms to mix things up even more. I should be ashamed, I guess, but this is really fun.”

“And the creatures have no idea that they are just computer animations?”

“Oh, some suspect that. Some have even written papers about an imagined super intelligent race that has created a computer simulation of what they call reality. I’m letting that part of the program run, but I’m keeping a close eye on it. I’m not sure what will happen if the whole human race realizes they are nothing but electrical impulses.”

Both beings laughed so hard tears flowed from each of their three eyes.

“I can’t image,” the older one said. “I just can’t image what the program would do if those animated creatures discovered that their life is nothing but a game.”

The two friends continued laughing hysterically as they left the room, not realizing the tail of the older being had wrapped around the computer’s power cable, pulling it loose from the wall.

The hologram froze.

Then it went dark.


Carolina in the Morning

“Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning.” Gus Kahn, Lyricist, 1922

Sitting in a rocking chair painted Charleston Green, making it appear almost black, I am at peace. I am on my front porch, realizing why this architectual feature is so fundamental here in the South. It makes me wonder if Gus Khan had been sitting in a similar setting when he wrote those lyrics nearly a centuary ago.

It is a glorious morning. It is just past eight o’clock and the thermometer reads a comfortable eighty-two degrees. We may reach another scorching upper nineties before the day is through but at the moment, comfort is king. I am facing west, so the sun is still relatively low in the eastern sky behind me. It is casting a shadow of my house across the front law, thus I am seated in the shade. A slight breeze whispers past from right to left and disappears around the corner of my home. I breathe in the gentle wind’s plesantries.

The sky is rich in its shades of azure. Sometimes the Carolina sky is so blue you can almost taste it. This is one of those times. The color is punctuated by a shelf of scattered white clouds drifting by lazily. I see a large hawk circling slowly high above, no doubt searching for its breakfast.

The sounds of this morning are orchestral. I can hear the rapid, rhythmic tick-tick noise katydids make by rubbing hind legs on their wings. It is a soothing sound, in a strange sort of way. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them are hidden in the trees surrounding our neighborhood. It is as if they are being led by a conductor for their performance seems unified. In reality, however, entomologists believe they are in competition. The males are after the ladies. They make the sound hoping to attract the females of the katydid world, each trying to out tick the others to be the first in the cadence, if only by milliseconds.

Beneath the rhythm of the katydids I can hear the slower, bass-like beat of tree frogs who are also in a romantic mood. The volume of these tiny green creatures is amazing, vastly louder than their diminutive appearance would indicate. Providing a melodic counterpoint to this musical bottom are the songs of a multitude of birds calling to each other. Chickadees, cardinals, Carolina wrens and more are all singing different tunes. A mocking bird sits high on the rooftop of a neighbor’s house doing his best to imitate his feathered brethren. He is, yes, mocking them.

In front of me, the resident lizard of our front porch makes his morning appearance. He is about five inches long and spectacularly green at this hour. He can turn brown, though, chameleon-like. But this particular little guy is called an anole, a species of lizard native to the southeast. I know he is a ‘he’ because his dewlap, or throat fan, is bright red. Female dewlaps tend to be more pinkish in color. The dewlap, under his chin, bulges out when he is courting lady anoles, feels threatened or when he challenges other males of his species. He, like those others, is very territorial. As such, he suddenly stops in mid-scurry, casting an eye in my direction. Apparently deciding I am no threat, he just as abruptly scampers away, disappearing under the porch steps. I like him.

In the yard, just beyond the porch, I see a bumble bee busily negotiating the blossoms of various flowers. He is frantic in his pace, as if he had a quota of nectar to collect, a deadline to meet, is afraid he will miss it and will be fired from his job by the Queen Bee. I watch as he zips from one flower to another and then zooms off, presumably to carry his collection back to the hive. I wish him good luck and I hope he makes it on time.

In the distance, I hear a mechanical sound growing gradually louder. It is the droning buzz of a small airplane. It appears in my line of vision, sedately moving right to left, along with the breeze. My guess is the single-engine craft is preparing to land at the little, local airport nearby. As it passes, the tone of the engine changes pitch, the Doppler effect kicking in. The sound is oddly satisfying.

The neighborhood is beginning to wake, now. Several of my neighbors have emerged for their daily exercise. Here comes a couple riding their bicycles at a leisurely pace. She is about fifteen yards in front of him. They are not speaking to each other. Maybe their morning got off to a rough start. Another neighbor speeds by on his ten-speed, pedaling hard and fast, his shirt damp with perspiration. I raise my coffee cup in a toast to his dedication, perfectly satisfied that I can sit here and observe his perseverance.

A few joggers pound past my house, lost in their world of flowing endorphins. Most of them keep their eyes straight ahead, as if searching for an imaginary finish line. It is a solitary existence, I wager. One woman, dressed in stylish jogging gear, makes a turn and passes directly in front of my house. She, apparently, is lost in a world of music, for she is wearing a pair of Apple ear-pods and her pace is steady and even, as if she is keeping time to some tune. As she passes, the women suddenly notices me out of the corner of her eye. She quickly turns her head and, without missing a beat, she gives me a little wave, a cheery “Good morning!” and continues on her way.

I lean back and raise the cup of coffee to my lips. I decide Gus Khan was right. Little, if anything, could be finer. I am at peace.


Requiem for Beirut


Peter Jennings, I suspect, would be deeply saddened by what has happened to Beirut, in Lebanon. Peter, who passed away fifteen years ago this August month of 2020, was an expert in Middle East affairs. He was based in Beirut beginning in the late 1960’s at what was the first television news bureau in the Arab world. As such, he became thoroughly familiar with the complexities of the tangled politics in the region.

I first met Peter when I was assigned to bureau duty in Beirut in 1982. My charge, actually, was to spell Peter who was about to go on personal leave. The ABC News Bureau was enclosed in a tiny office off the lobby of the famed Commodore Hotel in the center of the city. When I arrived, one of the first things Peter said to me was, “What do you know about this story? This region?” My reply was “I know what have read, what I have researched.” Peter said, “You don’t know nearly enough.”

He led me to a back corner of the hotel restaurant where, for the next hour or so, Peter gave me the benefit of his knowledge. He instructed me in the underlying currents of Lebanon’s civil war. He told me who was important to know, and who wasn’t. He detailed the the political, cultural and religious divisions among the dizzying array of political factions, from Palestinians, to multiple Arab groups, to Syrians to the Isrealis. He taught me how to stay safe. Where to go. Where not to go. How to stay alive.

In short, Peter put me ahead, knowledge-wise, six or eight months in that quick hour of conversation. I will be forever indebted to him for his kindness, wisdom and professionalism. One thing I learned very well, Peter loved Beirut.

So did I. Despite the years of civil war and the terrible destruction it wrought, Beirut always seemed to remain a vibrant city. In the decades before the war, Beirut was known as The Paris of the Middle East with its fashion and intellectual culture. It had become a popular city for tourists. During the war, despite the bombs, death and destruction, Beirut appeared desperate to hang on to that sense of joie de vivre.

Of course, there was danger. It was in Beirut that I learned, first hand, the sound a bullet makes when its zips by, close to your ear. There was betrayal. There was deceit. There were atrocities. The massacre of Palestinian men, women and children in the Sabra-Shatilla refugees camps comes to mind. Hundreds, some say thousands, of civilians were gunned down by what was known then as the right-wing Christian Phalange militia in September of 1982.

The images of that slaughter remain in my mind today; the corpses of fathers lying motionless on top of their dead children as they tried fruitlessly to protect them from the onslaught; the mutilated bodies of several young men spread out on the ground, obviously executed, a concrete wall next to them splattered with their blood; the smell of death everywhere; the thick, black flies.

Yet with all the carnage that defined Beirut for years, there always seemed to be a sense of optimism, that the violence was finite, that it will eventually end and that the city would someday return to its glory days. Today, sadly, that optimism has become despair.

The awful, monstrous, August 4th explosion at the Port of Beirut could be a giant, ugly exclamation point for the conditions many Lebanese say they have been forced to endure in recent years. They suffer corruption in government, shortages in food and power, the worst economic crisis in recent memory, a failed currency. Rima Rantisi teaches english at the American University in Beirut. She writes, “We are all buckling under the pressure of hyperinflation, corruption, the loss of hope.”

That is something I never thought Lebanese would ever lose; hope. But in an eloquent soliloquy for her dying city for the online website Literary Hub, Ms. Rantisi says, “We are so embedded in the aftermath of our government’s crimes that we cannot handle any other concerns, any social media posts about webinars or readings in safe cute places across the world. We had those safe places. They are gone now. Memory and shock have replaced them.”

Lebanon had erupted into rebellion nearly a year before twenty-seven hundred tons of ammonium nitrate exploded into an obscene blood orange mushroom cloud; a blast so powerful it registered as a 3.3 earthquake. In October 2019, Lebanese took to the streets to protest rising taxes, a failing economy, shortages in such necessities as water and sanitation. Locals call it the October Revolution. That, as it turns out, may be hyberbole. As Rima Rantisi writes, “We were sure there would be a revolution; there was no way they could continue while gas and wheat became scarce, and the banks confiscated our money, and more and more people slept on the street or went hungry.”

But a split second altered the course of history. The explosion destroyed much of a once great city. It killed many and injured thousands. It killed dreams. “It was the moment that changed us all,” Ms. Rantisi says. “We would never live in the city we knew in the same way again.”

Hopefully Beirut can, like a pheonix, rise from the ashes. Still, Peter would be very sad.

Nuance: It is as Plain as Black and White

“Diversity doesn’t mean black and white only.” Henry Louis Gates, Historian

“Life isn’t black and white. It’s a million gray areas.” Ridley Scott, Filmmaker

If the title of this blog seems contradictory, it was meant to be. It is clear that nuance seems to be largely MIA in our polarized society today. If you are not with me, you must be against me. If you are opposed to President Trump, you have to be a left-wing, socialist snowflake. If you support him, you must be as stupid as he is. If you oppose Black Lives Matter, you certainly are a racist. If you protest along with Black Lives Matter, you are a dangerous revolutionary.

Gray areas, neutral turf, the middle-ground all seem to be non-existant. Trevor Noah agrees. The host of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show says the idea that there are only two sides to every story is misguided. He told CBS Sunday Morning that “if you only have two choices, people are always going to make one of two choices, which means people are automatically always going to be against each other.”

CBS spent a good bit of its time on this Sunday morning program dealing with the concept of nuance. The profile of Noah included a clip from his program wherein the comedian delivered a deadly serious monologue about the racial turmoil in our country. As a man born and raised in South Africa, Noah knows a thing or two about racism. He said he launched the stern monologue hoping to “explain the nuance of the situation,” meaning the racial divide. “Nuance,” Noah says, “means we have to talk a little more.” Until we recognize and appreciate the nuance that is the fiber of the American experience, we will have “the false impression that there is either this or that; there is only racism or not racism.” Neither and both, of course, are true. That’s nuance.

Another segment of the CBS Sunday program featured a pastor in Shreveport, Louisiana who has been working hard to bring black and white residents in various neighborhoods together. He has created a non-profit with the slogan “We Care.” The pastor admits it takes a lot of work to get people to trust each other. It takes “intentional acts of connected caring.” He says the phrase ‘random acts of kindess’ makes for a great bumper sticker, but “it will not stop the disintegration of the community.” In other words, it lacks nuance.

CBS also gave us the story of Daylan McLee, a strapping young African American in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. By his own admission, Mr. McLee has “a lot of animosity” toward police. He has had several runs-ins with them. But when a white Uniontown cop became trapped in his smashed and burning patrol car after a major collision, McLee did not hesitate. He ran to the flaming vehicle, wrenched open the destroyed driver’s door and dragged the officer to safety. Despite his past problems with police, McLee instinctly knew what was important. The young man put it this way. “I want people to start looking at everybody as Americans,” he said. “Not, he’s white, he’s black, he’s Asian. We are people and when we start realizing that, things should get better.”

Daylan McClee understands nuance.







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