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    Because I’m a Conservative

    Author’s Note: I’ve been asked more than once why I identify as a conservative and why I think conservatism is valuable and important. I offer some exposition on the topic below. It is not given as any antithesis to alternatives; it is not a “conservative is better” diatribe. It does, however, illuminate a key point: “conservative” is just another word hijacked by those that are anything but….

    Because I’m a Conservative, I believe in a strong separation of church and state. As Eliade wrote in The Sacred and the Profane, “the sacred always manifests itself as a reality of a wholly different order from ‘natural’ realities.” We do a disservice to the truly sacred when we force it into Caesar’s world. What is sacred to me is between myself and my Maker—and forcing that into the public square diminishes both of Us.

    Because I’m a Conservative, I care about the environment. Whether prompted by the Bible or by our own sense of morality (itself a part of the sacred), we are stewards of this earth, and we owe it to ourselves and our children—and to the plants and animals who cannot protect themselves from us—to provide not just good stewardship, but as perfect a stewardship as we can conceive.

    Because I’m a Conservative, I support gay marriage. I believe that a family with two loving parents is a benefit to children—and to parents. Kids get to see loving interactions (important to their development and world view) and parents can both join with—and rescue, when needed—each other, having a close friend with whom to share the thoughts, feelings, joys, and stresses of life, amplified even more with children.

    Because I’m a Conservative, I care about personal responsibility. Too often, though, the term has been re-interpreted to mean “taking care of #1” when personal responsibility should also include ownership and accountability for what goes on around me. That means I have a responsibility to understand the plights of others, to recognize when and how I might contribute to such ills, and to do what I can to correct them, to create a fair and level playing field where everyone has the same chances given the same efforts.

    Because I’m a Conservative, I care about reasonable gun control. For me, a key component of traditional conservatism is feeling safe and secure, knowing that risk is minimal, and understanding what to expect of my neighbors. Randomly politicized gun-waving does nothing to further this cause, instead making us feel less safe, less secure. There is nothing “conservative” about walking into a store armed with semi-automatic weapons; it is egocentric, narcissistic, and dangerous.

    Because I’m a Conservative I care about knowledge. Through the ages much has been learned, discovered, explored, and revealed. Not all of it has been good for us, but much of it has. And learning begets learning, all of which raises us up. To be conservative is not about the worn-out equation of ignorance and bliss, but about recognizing that our greatest assets include both our souls and our minds, and encouraging the growth of both equally. They are, after all, both a part of us, and handcuffing the one in favor of the other only insults each.

    Conservatism, I strongly believe, is not a bad word or a bad ideal. It is, however, a term misunderstood. Those who label themselves conservative today seem most often not to be conservative at all. They have, in reality, a highly radicalized agenda, one set on taking us backwards. It is that direction which seems to imply conservatism, but it shouldn’t. Radicality lacks a vector, and should be known only through the severity of its proposed changes. To roll us back to a time when religion alone led us, to a time when white skin alone defined the rules, to a time when only the few owned nearly everything, is radical and not, axiomatically, conservative.

    For those of you who embrace the roots of conservatism, I urge you to continue to do so. For those who seek to call out conservatives, I ask that you recognize the difference between those of us who are, and those who have stolen the terminology from us and bastardized it for their own specious use. And for those of you who claim the role of conservative but so clearly are not… well… I ask nothing of you, for you have already shown us who and what you are.

    NOTE: I recently put up Because I'm a Conservative, Part 2, which may also interest you....

    Copyright: / 123RF Stock Photo


    The New Terrorism

    Frequent visitors to my blog know that few things irritate me as much as when “they” co-opt language in a way so subtle that the rest of us barely notice it. I’ve written, for example, about the so-called “war” on just about everything, whether women or Christmas or religion or unions or teachers or poverty. I’ve also exposed the ways in which legislatures redefine such simple and obvious words like “zero” which, thanks to tremendous efforts from certain factions within the food lobby, now no longer means “zero,” at least when it comes to trans fats. We’ve also seen “global warming” morph into “climate change,” which seems rather like telling your dog that he’s getting “neutered” instead of “castrated.”

    All of this blather is preface to my latest anger: the narrowed use of the word “terrorist,” a word Oxford defines as “anyone who attempts to further his [sic] views by a system of coercive intimidation,” but which popular American usage has redeployed to mean “any Muslim we’re afraid of.” It feels like a combination of mass hysteria (something we Americans are quite good at, at least if you judge by what we did to Japanese-Americans during WWII, for example) and calculated (if opportunistic) planning by those with that unique combination of power and prejudice that too often serves as the fuel on which our country runs.

    Yet as we fall into our comfortable semantic sleep, real terrorism, Oxford-style terrorism, is all around us, and I think it’s time we called it out:

    • Somewhere today there’s a new mother cradling an infant girl in her arms, wondering what she can do for the next year, where she can go, to keep her child safe. She worries that her neighbor’s children, or a child in the park where she pushes her stroller, or the school-age daughter of a cousin, may not be vaccinated. She lives in fear every day, ticking squares on a wall calendar, waiting for that first year to pass so she can get her child the protection she needs.

    • Somewhere today a father and son are looking at toys in a big box store when around the end of the aisle three men appear, each with semi-automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. The child gasps; the father moves in front of the boy to shield him, not knowing—and unable ever to know—whether this is the time when it’s not just a political statement but, instead, bullets will fly.

    • Somewhere today a family farmer out west—one of a steadily shrinking minority—anxiously reads reports of expected drought, drought that presumes to linger for years. Meanwhile a midwestern mother wonders whether the schools her children attend are built to withstand the ever-increasing number of tornados, each seemingly more severe than the last. Further east a middle-aged and apparently healthy man in a Boston suburb collapses while shoveling more snow than the area has ever seen in a single month. All of this, so the overwhelming evidence shows, results from man-made global warming.

    Tell me truly, each of you: do you have more to fear, personally, from religious extremists than you do from any of those who contribute to the scenes just described? And if not, then why are the latter “terrorists” and the former just “people?”

    Yes, my words are harsh. But I sat with young friends recently who worried for the children they plan to have some day, who carry around with them an anxiety—a terror—that we are creating a world in which there are shadows around every corner, shadows that tell us to “be afraid.” And anyone willfully contributing to that fear, blindly claiming that they are only “raising the question” or “revealing the truth” or “having the debate” are terrorists, too, in every meaningful sense of the word. They daily terrorize millions and millions of people, attempting to further their views “by a system of coercive intimidation.”

    What else would you call intentionally exposing newborns to deadly diseases, or walking into a K-Mart fully armed?

    I imagine the responses even as I write. I’ll be accused of “false equivalency,” of “being an apologist,” of needing to “wake up.” But it isn’t and I’m not and I don’t. I’m well aware that the acts of those whom today we narrowly define as terrorists are abhorrent. It’s not that acknowledging them as terrorists is wrong. But acknowledging only them as terrorists is.

    If you don’t vaccinate your child without sound scientific and medical reasons, you are a terrorist.

    If you carry weapons without concern for how it frightens others, you are a terrorist.

    If you actively promote denial of climate change, you are a terrorist.

    It’s time to accept the true definition of the word, and label all who terrorize with it.

    (And my list, I’m sure, is not exhaustive…. Any thoughts?)




    How Schools Enable Income Inequality


    Years ago television options were few and there was no easy way to skip through commercials. As a result we watched them; many were tiny pieces of visual art, sometimes shocking us, sometimes pulling at heartstrings.

    One in particular has always resonated for me. It was an ad for Cracker Jack, that caramelized popcorn-and-peanut treat (“Candy-coated popcorn, peanuts, and a prize! That’s what you get with Cracker Jack!) starring the talented character actor Jack Gilford and a small gap-toothed boy. The spot shows Gilford sitting in a living-room chair reading the newspaper and eating Cracker Jack. As he hears the boy, playing son to Gilford’s father, return home from school, Gilford quickly tucks the candied treat inside the paper and forces a noncommittal expression onto his face. The boy walks up to his father and leans slightly forward. When Gilford asks the boy what he learned in school that day, the boy, with a subtle grin, replies, “Sharing….” Gilford puts on the awkwardly guilty expression he was so famous for, and tries to shift the topic, asking instead if the boy played any games in school that day. The boy nods and says “Yep.” Gifford asks what kind of games, to which the boy again replies, “Sharing….” At this point Gilford reluctantly pulls out the large box of Cracker Jack and hands it to the boy, who starts to walk away before Gilford himself asks the boy, “Sharing?” The boy turns and pours some into Gilford’s open hand.

    The reason the ad (which won the Gold Lion award at Cannes’ Festival for Creativity) resonates so strongly is not only because of its warm familial approach. It resonates also for pointing out something we all knew as children but somehow seem have forgotten as adults: the power in sharing.

    And how badly have we forgotten about sharing? As of this moment, the United States has an income inequality gap that is wider than any time since 1928. That’s 87 years!  There are currently only three other countries with income gaps worse than ours: Turkey, Mexico, and Chile.

    We just don’t like, apparently, to share money. And why don’t we like to share? Blame it on our educational system, which spends years training us not to share.

    And how has that happened? Well, funny you should ask….

    One of the things you were taught quite early on was that it wasn’t right to hog the toys you loved most. If other kids also wanted to play with those same items, you either had to take turns or learn to play together, sharing both the toys and the experience. This sharing wasn’t just a nicety but an imperative, part of our quickly developing moral compass.

    Well before you reached kindergarten, it’s likely that you had some exposure to the “rightness” of sharing. Perhaps you had a sibling or a cousin close in age that you played with frequently. If so, your parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles probably all told you more than a few times that you needed to “play nice” with someone or to let “your little sister take a turn.” Sharing is what we were told to do, what we were expected to do, and what we needed to do. Sharing, we were told in many different ways, is a cultural norm.

    Combined with that cultural norm was another, equally powerful, norm that we were all taught: the norm for being independent, for “standing on your own two feet,” for “being responsible for your actions.” If we drew with crayons on the wall, or left a muddy palm print on the kitchen cabinets, or found ourselves standing next to a younger brother crying and holding his arm in pain, we always heard the same thing: “Did you do that?”

    On the surface, these two imperatives—sharing and independence—don’t seem in conflict. Sharing with others doesn’t in any way mean that we are not being responsible; one could argue, perhaps, that the opposite is true, that sharing is a way of being responsible by helping others to learn, play, work, etc.

    But then we graduated from kindergarten into the mainstream environment of our elementary grades, and slowly the ideas of sharing and independence slip into competition, as if you can’t really do one and be the other. And it’s this dichotomy that continues into our adult lives.

    It begins very early, during the time we transition from a sharing-based play/learn environment to a more learning-centric environment in school. As we move through the grades, each progressive world we are led to relies more on individual measurement, usually in the form of grades. We are tested on what we know.

    In elementary school there is still a fair amount of sharing—working on various projects together in art or history or music,  for example—but we also experience our first tests. We learn about “A” through “F.” We understand—and very quickly—that we are expected to learn as individuals and to report what we’ve learned, also as individuals. We understand—and very quickly—that what is required of us is independence, and that this has somehow become the opposite of sharing, of working together, of jointly succeeding. No longer is there value in three or four of us constructing something interesting out of a pile of block; we may still engage in those kinds of activities, but the real value is within us, alone, and measured in red pencil marks.

    As we move through the latter half of elementary school and on into middle school and high school, we become less and less connected with classmates. We are reminded that our work is our work and, slowly, what used to be sharing is given a new name: cheating.  And cheating overrides everything. Cheating comes with a penalties. Worst of all, cheating becomes, in this artificial environment, synonymous with sharing. If you share with others or have others share with you, you're a cheater. Period.

    For the years and years spent in K-12 environments, this lesson endlessly repeats: you can only “share” so much before it’s considered too much, before it’s considered cheating. It’s the way we were trained, and the way we still (for the most part) train others within our educational systems.

    For those of us who go on to college, that training becomes even more intense. Now you’re not just going to be graded on what you know, you’re also going to be graded on what other people don’t know.

    It’s called the curve, and it means, simply, this: Too score well, to get a good grade, you must be better than the average within your class. Inherently that means that you must know more than other people around you in order to truly succeed, and so for these four years of baccalaureate pursuit, you will be further trained to hold on to what knowledge you acquire, to resist the urge to share anything you’ve learned from all but you’re very closest companions—and even to those you share what you know with some reluctance (and generally in exchange for what they know that can help you).

    This experience, for many, is the point at which we become conditioned to believe that not sharing is the preferred cultural norm.

    And so we go off to live our lives. To marry, raise kids, join churches, have careers. And we look around at our country and we see the greatest income inequality since 1928. But those who have the most don’t do anything about it. No surprise. Those that have so much and don’t want to share? Well, they’re just doing what we taught them to.



    An Apology to the Next Generation

    Every generation thinks it will do better than the last; every generation leaves something to be desired.

    Martin Flavin, in his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Journey in the Dark, has a character remark, on his return from World War II, that it was the older generation that caused the war, though it was his to fight. And it’s always that way. Always has been that way.

    Somehow, though, it seems worse this time, for this generation, for this legacy. And so I feel compelled to apologize—

    —for leaving so many of you to face weather disasters unknown since the dawn of time, with storms stronger, more frequent, more devastating. Each day the news begins and ends with the weather, the accidents, the downed power lines, the leveled houses. Meteorologists are the new Cassandras, ignored as she was.

    —for creating levels of hatred across religious and racial and economic lines not seen since the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition, but with economic and political Sees replacing Rome, while drones and tanks replace steeds and swords.

    —for allowing illness, disease, and epidemic to regain its foothold on our children. In the interests of “freedom” we’ve ignored the needs of society as a whole, allowing an insane few to risk us all with their conspiracy theories and false “medicines.”­

    —for asking children to grow up too soon in a world where we’re convinced everything and everyone is dangerous. They can’t be sent out to play in the neighborhood, can’t be left alone in a department store’s toy section. Instead we buy them electronic games that encourage isolation, or smartphones that pretend communication.

    —for worshiping the golden calf of money and forgetting that it’s not a thing to own, but a tool to be used. With income gaps at rarely seen levels and money mythologized, we bequeath you the carousel without telling you the brass ring has long since been removed.

    —for leaving you with crumbling communities: streets and bridges and highways and buildings barely holding on, the burden left to you because we believed there would always be time to take care of things later.

    —for creating an instantaneous network of fear, and for marketing it as a product. Each day what passes for “news,” isn’t, replace instead by packaged, ratings-oriented fervor delivered by people who once wished to be journalists but have since been reduced to reading facile copy while presenting a YouTube video that millions have already seen and ignored.

    ­­—for building a war machine that is so entrenched in our economy that disabling it would be virtually impossible, creating economic chaos and throwing millions out of work.

    —for creating a culture that conflates a hunting rifle and an AR-15 and calls them the same thing, meant to serve the same purpose, and then collectively cowers to a lobby that is so powerful that nearly every single politician in America cares what they think.

    I could go on and on and on. Anomie, as we sadly know, is self-supporting….

    Most of all I want to apologize for letting science become an option, and for letting facts become opinions. For letting “education” and “intelligence” and “logic” become four-letter words. This last, it seems to me, is the worst of all.

    It’s our legacy. And we leave it to you.


    Photo courtesy of: / 123RF Stock Photo


    Profile of a Police Officer

    [Editor's Note: In the midst of all the ugliness, tragedy, point, and counterpoint risen from recent events, we have once again fallen into an "us-and-them" attitude, categorizing police as one or the other. In an unsettling irony, we've created a police line that we will not cross, and too many of us--regardless of which side of the line we're on--have become stubborn and set in our thinking. 

    Today's guest post by New Hampshire author Carrie Cariello reminds us of a truth that our emotions often allow us to forget: those serving as police are humans, with sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, friends, pastors, teachers, partners, wives, and husbands. They are not just like us. They are us. --MC]




    I happen to know a police officer. He’s forty two years old, and he is six feet, four inches tall.  He has blue eyes and sandy brown hair that he keeps very, very short. His name is John.

    One morning when John was about two, he was walking with his mother in the vegetable garden they had in their back yard. She warned him not to eat one of the ripe red peppers because they were spicy, but when she turned her back to him, he was overcome with temptation and took a bite of the shockingly hot flesh. He cried.

    He was a terribly shy boy. He hated having his picture taken, and in every school photo I have ever seen of him, he is tearstained.

    He didn’t love guns as a kid. He wasn’t a boy who fashioned everything he got his hands on—sticks or rolls of paper towels or Legos–into a homemade weapon. He was gentle and kind, watchful and quiet.

    He loved basketball. After school he stood in his driveway, dribbling and jumping and making shot after shot in the hoop that hung above his garage.

    He was about eight when his parents’ marriage disintegrated. Or, more accurately, exploded. It changed his life forever because both his mother and father expected so much more from him. Somehow, even though there were three children in the family, it was John who was caught in the crosshairs of their vicious divorce.

    They were hard on him, this young boy who was tall for his age.

    When he was about fifteen, he got a job bagging groceries at the store down the street, and later on, he worked as a groundskeeper in a cemetery. For some reason, the men he worked with called him Clarence.

    How do I know all of this about a 42-year old police officer?

    Well, I know because he is my brother.

    I wasn’t there for the pepper. I wasn’t born yet. It is a timeworn story my mother has retold over the years. I hadn’t thought about it in years—decades, even—and I remembered it one morning last spring, when I was walking through the wet, dewy yard with my 5-year old son, Henry, and our new puppy, Wolfie.

    Slowly, the three of us made our way around the house and onto our front porch. I sat on the porch swing, and Henry plopped down next to me and piled the pillows on his lap.

    “Come here,” I said, pulling Henry’s chubby body closer to mine. “I want to tell you a story, about a little boy named John. One morning, he was walking with his mother in the garden, and he saw a pepper that looked so delicious.”

    From that point on, it became sort of our routine, walking the puppy through the grass after my older kids got on the bus. And each time, Henry insisted we sit on the porch and share “stories.” Like me, he adopted the pepper memory as his own.

    “Mommy, wisten. I want to tell you a story. About the boy and his hottest pepper.”

    And like a moth to a sizzling hot fire, my mind is drawn to other memories, deeper, darker childhood scenes of humiliation and shame and rage. But just before I reach out a finger to touch the flame, my subconscious shrinks bank, and I’m left with only the smoky remnants of a spicy pepper.

    John went on to play varsity basketball. He played for the Dover Dragons, and his uniform was black and orange. Although he was never the most aggressive player, his height made him a natural at the sport.

    As a teenager, he made all of our birthday cakes; Duncan Hines golden vanilla with chocolate frosting.

    We were so surprised when our gentle giant of a brother decided on a career in law enforcement after college. Mild-mannered and calm, it was hard to picture him driving a patrol car and chasing criminals.

    But the day he crossed the stage and accepted his diploma from the Police Academy, I noticed something in his tender blue eyes. I noticed the way the memories of a father who accused him of being weak and a mother who begged for him to be stronger swirled together like a snowstorm, until the flakes settled into a combination of power and pride and love and commitment.

    I noticed how something that could have easily set him back instead propelled him forward.

    John is married now, and he has two tiny daughters—one blonde and one dark—and every night after work he dances with them and sings to them and laughs with them. He searches for the lost stuffed animal and coaxes them to bed with a book.

    He calls our younger sister Gertie, even though her name is Sarah.

    And our second son—our unusual boy on the autism spectrum—is named for my brother, although we’ve nicknamed him Jack in order to avoid confusion between nephew and uncle.

    Despite his shyness, John is one of the funniest people you will ever meet. He can imitate our parents with perfect timing, and he will surprise you with a joke so shocking–so wicked–that you almost fall out of your chair laughing.

    These days, his uniform is navy pants with a white shirt. He is one of the youngest to make Captain, and every once in a while you can see him on television, giving an interview on behalf of the department.

    His favorite meal is spaghetti and meatballs, and he loves Halloween.

    Maybe you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this; random stories about vegetable gardens and nicknames and vanilla cakes.

    I am telling you as a way to honor the men and women who wear a uniform and serve, who put our lives and our safety ahead of their own. I pray for their safe return home every night and renewed strength every morning.

    I am telling you because to me, the message in this story is so strong. It is a message of rage and fear, compassion and change. I offer it to a nation that is divided and confused and maybe a little bit lost. It is all I have to give.

    But mostly, I am telling you because I want you to be able to put a name to the face of “cop.” His name is John. He has blue eyes and sandy brown hair that he keeps very, very short.

    He is a two-year-old biting into a fiery pepper on a warm summer morning, his eyes watering.

    He is the gangly boy in high school who grips an orange ball between his sweaty palms, closes his eyes, and takes a shot.

    He is a tall, reserved man who is gentle and kind and watchful and quiet. He is a husband and father, brother and son. He is patriotism and loyalty and security and freedom.

    He is a police officer.

    These days, it’s too cold to sit outside on our front porch. On Sunday morning the sky was cloudy, and sparkly snow flurries drifted in and around the swing’s faded cushions. So I sat on our red couch instead. I pulled my 5-year old close to me and whispered in his ear, “I want to tell you a story. About a boy who played basketball.”

    --Carrie Cariello