Stealing America

My friend Bill forwarded this link to the website of Stealing America, a movie about electronic voting and its susceptibility to error and outright fraud. After what happened in the last two presidential elections, NOW might be a good time to start insisting on adequate protections. It was the hanging chads and other egregious failures in Florida that brought us to the sorry state in which we find ourselves; and shenanigans in Ohio and elsewhere that led us deeper into the mire. I for one am grateful for the reminder that, this time, we must not allow ourselves to be caught napping.

On the political front, also, I checked out the New York Times this morning, and found virtually unanimous criticism of the Palin selection; this article may help explain why. The story of her petty tyrannies as mayor of Wasilla reveals an attitude toward executive power that is frankly pretty scary. I don't see how McCain can get away with this one. I'm sure she will rally the forces at the convention tonight, but am doubtful she can stand much further scrutiny in less adulatory circles. I could be wrong, of course--as I often am!--but I think McCain has served himself a large helping of Baked Alaskan trouble for dessert.

Having watched the effect of Gustav on the Republican convention, I now wonder what the imminent arrival of three other tropical storms on our shores might have on delegates who are not predisposed to dismiss the contribution of human activity to climate change. Will the timing of these successive events change any minds, shift any positions? Is the Earth's voice loud and persuasive enough to compete, in the minds of doubters, with what they believe to hear as the voice of God? It will be interesting to see how this plays out.

For myself, a disbeliever in deities of all colors and stripes, the dual voices of science and reason are powerful enough. It dismays me to see the current Republican candidate pandering once again to the voices of unreason, who find a way to twist each manifestation of failure into a token of success; who bend their dearly-held principles to fit the contingencies of the moment; and who find justification for their inanities in the supposed approval of an infinitely malleable God.

I heard, today again, the argument that the parties are essentially "the same"--that whichever way you turn, you find mendacity and abuse of power, self-righteousness and intolerance of the opposition. I understand that this argument comes from years of disillusionment and disenchantment. But a look at the policies of each party--and the tone of their politics--suggests to me otherwise. They are not "the same," and the preponderance of fanatical ideology rests clearly on the other side. Bush spoke last night (via satellite, courteously disinvited from his Party's party!) of the "angry left." Does that imply a beatific state of tolerant equanimity on the right?

And finally, watch even a few minutes of the convention as cameras pan across the sea of faces and you can hardly help but notice the nearly universal homogeneity--and its stark contrast with what we saw last week in Denver. Should this not be of pressing concern to us, in a country that prides itself on its founding insistence that all [men] are created equal, and which preaches equality of opportunity for all?

No, these parties are not "the same." Prefer one or the other, as you will. Or neither of them. But I won't be persuaded that they are "the same."

A Wonderful Opportunity for Hillary

Senator Clinton, it seems to me, has been presented with a wonderful opportunity to regain some of the high regard in which she was once held, and from which in recent months she has fallen with many people like myself. All she would need to do is to come out with a strong, public statement decrying Republican attacks on Barack Obama on the issue of the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. Were she to express some understanding of where the pastor's fiery words might come from, and to support Obama's powerful utterances on race in America instead of muttering about how she, righteously, would have shunned this pastor's church, she would do much to rehabilitate herself with those of us who believe that Wright was right in substance, if infelicitous in tone. If she were now to side unambiguously with her own party instead of the Republican candidate on this issue, she would demonstrate to Americans a good faith that has been singularly lacking in her campaign of late.

Alas, I think the opposite is likely: my guess is that she will use the opportunity of Reverend Wright's re-emergence, with his appearance on Bill Moyers tonight, to cast more stones. Not having seen the interview, I'm holding my fire about its content, but the network media seem content to let loose before it airs. I do plan to watch...

Racism

I happened to read HeartinSanFrancisco's entry yesterday about casually accepted racist attitudes in her blog, Guilty With an Explanation on the same day that Ellie and I got into a discussion with our gardener (yes, we are that spoiled!) about the election. He asked us, in fact, whether we had seen the most recent debate--the one where Hillary and Obama got into a head-to-head. He emphatically would NOT vote for Obama, he said, because if a black man were elected there would be uppity blacks rushing around all over with chips on their shoulders, proclaiming that "we" owed them something.

Strange reasoning, perhaps--even grotesque. But what struck me was the casual, unselfconscious racism--not unlike that of HeartinSanFrancisco's grocery store clerk. In addition to this comment, our friend offered up the joke that it would be good to invest in bananas if Obama were to be elected! This, from a man of Latino origins--legal, certainly, he has been here for many years and speaks unaccented English--and one who is approaching retirement age but remains ineligible for both Social Security and Medicare because he did not make his individual contributions. The above evidence to the contrary, he's a good-hearted man, if a little improvident, and has eked out a generally satisfactory living with his gardening business. He has been with us for, I'd say, twenty years. (I'm guessing that he doesn't read my blogs!)

The ignorance--I'm assuming that it comes out of ignorance, not malice--is breathtaking. It leaves us open-mouthed in sheer astonishment, trying in vain to "understand" it. But the truth is surely that it is more widespread than we have allowed for, as we think about the current year's politics and political attitudes in this country. Racism is mind-less, uncontested, bread-and-butter truth for a very large number of "good" Americans. It remains to be seen whether it will affect the outcome of the elections. Is it true, as these two examples seem to suggest, that a black man can not yet be elected President? I hope not.

I have to add that I'm disgusted by the recent Clinton tactics, and that I believe--reluctantly because I had thought better of them--they're playing consciously and cynically to the kind racism that we're talking about here. The suggestion that Obama seeks to emulate Ronald Reagan and Reaganism and that he believes the Republican "ideas" he spoke of to be good ones is beyond absurd, but this kind of rhetoric plays to the uneducated, undiscriminating, literal mind. As Buddha Diaries readers know, I was first for Kucinich, until the media succeeded in nudging him out of sight, then for John Edwards, hoping that he can resist that same powerful trope. I'll still vote for Edwards in the California primaries, and hope that many others will see the light and join me. A sad commentary on the otherwise truly wonderful fact that we have a woman and a black man running, with a serious chance at being elected.

Should it turn out to be a choice between Clinton and Obama, I would until now have been torn between the two. I'm wondering at this point if I'll be forced to hold my nose and vote for Clinton despite her recent relentless nastiness. And Bill's. To think I used to like him...

(By the way, I have been getting some wonderful responses to the entries on my Huffington Post blog--some of which are cross-posted here. If you have a moment, check them out!)

The Great Republican Debate

I watched a few minutes of it last night, this great debate for Republican presidential candidates on public television, on matters of import to minority communities, moderated by Tavis Smiley. A few minutes was frankly as much as I could bear. All the "front runners" made their point by not deigning to show up at all--a big, transparent fuck-you, if ever I saw one. The rest, as I saw it, were a bunch of morons, to put it charitably. (Not exactly Right Speech, perhaps, in Buddhist terms, but accurate enough!) To resolve the health care crisis, for example, and the awful disparity in health care service available to rich and poor (read Black and Hispanic vs. white,) these notables suggested fixing the malpractice problem and teaching poor families the values of self-reliance and responsibility. Ah well. I only hope the absentees get their comeuppance at election time for having thumbed their noses at these huge blocs of voters (read "human beings.") Enough. Sufficient unto the day.... As the Bible says.

The Jena 6: Blame the Tree

The incident in Jena, Louisiana has already resulted in one terrible injustice: capital punishment for the only innocent party in the entire mess--the tree.



What a sad sight! This pathetic victim of the folly and vengefulness of the human species was certainly a good deal older and more venerable than any of those people involved--whether the white high school students who obscenely abused it by hanging the provocative nooses, the black students who responded to provocation with violence, or the shameful adults on both sides who have made a mockery of justice. To deny that racism is at the root of all this seems to me only to compound the tragic absurdity of it all.

So, friends, let's blame it on the tree. Brilliant! Still, I have to say that's it's heartening to see that people can actually be moved to vociferous protest. In the face of Bush endless administration outrages in recent years, the silence has been, as they say, deafening. Back to the barricades, I say!

Karma Revisited; and a Poem at Five-Thirty

Meditation done,
I sit here wondering
where today
will take me. Where
will it take you?

and...

O.J.'s Karma

So we're back there again. The "loathesome O.J." as Mureen Dowd calls him in her New York Times column today. Such a dreadful, story, filled with so many ironies and complexities. Did he do it? That old question. I wanted, at first, all those years ago, to believe he didn't. He was, after all, a remarkable athlete in his time. He seemed, from everything one saw and read about him, to be a young man of charm and intelligence. Besides, I was, all those years ago, a professor at USC and, by virtual necessity, a USC fan. There was also, I confess, a kind of reverse racist part of me that did not want to think ill of him for nothing better than reverse racist reasons. I think, in this, that I shared a lot in common with those vocal parts of the African American community that sided with him.

Despite all of which, the evidence seemed indisputable: he did it. And his subsequent life--at least so far as it has come to our collective attention through the media--has done nothing to ameliorate his image or soften the gut feeling of hs guilt. He has seemed, as Ellie mildly put it, like a "very troubled man."

And now this further melodrama to distract us all from the war in Iraq, the health care problems that this nation faces--no, refuses to face--the widespread social injustices made worse by the inequality of educational opportunity, an administration beleagured in consequence of its own incompetence, cronyism and corruption, an ignorance and/or apathy that undermines the voting process in what we are pleased to call our "democracy"... despite these and other problems, we have this new melodrama to distract us.

Amidst it all, the word "karma" pops up, on the lips of no less a dignitary than NBC's Matt Lauer, who asks Kim Goldman, Ron's sister, if this is O.J.'s karma, as some, it seems, are saying. She says she thinks it might be karma giving that old Goldman family nemesis "a tap on the shoulder." (I'm with Thailandgal, by the way, on the subject of the Goldmans' publishing of that book. See her 9/14 entry.)

Well, I had a bit of a shudder hearing a word that's important to me used in this particular context. On the other hand, what's so precious about a word? I abuse them all the time, and they generously stick with me anyway. And who knows, maybe this latest episode in O. J. Simpson's ill-starred life is indeed a way of past actions catching up with him. I can't claim access to the secret inner truths of any other person's life. It's hard enough to hold myself accountable for mine.

Racism: The Confession

I promised the day before yesterday that I would do some personal accountability on the subject that has been predominant on these pages for the past few days, but I got side-tracked by my affection for Kurt Vonnegut and my sadness that we had lost the voice of his humanity. Anyway, the confession: here we go… It’s a story. Bear with me.

I’m a nice liberal boy. Well, maybe not such a boy any more, but basically “nice”, and “liberal.” It would have deeply offended me, before I learned better, had anyone accused me of racism. But I was offered an object lesson quite some time ago, which taught me to see myself a little differently. The story concerns Charles White, an artist who achieved a certain prominence in the post-war years and who was a distinguished member of the faculty at Otis Art Institute (now Otis College of Art and Design) when I went there as Dean of the College in the mid-1970s. It was a tough time for the school. The Los Angeles County Supervisors, who had munificently funded the entire school since its founding in 1918, had recently bowed to the Howard Jarvis taxpayer revolt, and had voted to cut off all funds forever at the end of that school year. The school’s Director resigned, and I was left, a neophyte administrator, still wet—no, dripping—around the ears, to try to secure the school’s future.

In this circumstance, Charlie was an always cheerful friend and supporter. When other faculty were understandably tearing out their hair—and sometimes mine—for fear of losing their jobs, and students doing the same for fear their degrees would be worthless, Charlie was a rock. Better still, he was a solid three-martini lunch man, and in those days my own metabolism was capable of absorbing that kind of intake, no sweat, and leaving me still capable of a long afternoon’s work. Too bad he was also addicted to cigarettes, which he chain-smoked to the eventual cost of his health—and indeed his life.

Once the Otis matter was resolved—a long story, not relevant here—I decided that it was past time for Charlie’s work to receive more attention than it had done in recent years and, inspired by the added incentive of a fellowship from the Rockefeller Foundation, I embarked on the research for a book-length monograph. By this time, Charlie’s nicotine addiction had complicated an existing lung malfunction that had developed during the years of his World War II military service when, as an enlisted black man, he had been sent off to labor in the murky swamps of some remote facility that had, as I recall, no particular connection with the war. By the late 1970s, his health was seriously failing and the prognosis for his survival was dim, but he insisted on making himself available for a series of long interviews, in the course of which I learned much about his life and the ups and downs of his career.

Sadly, Charlie died before we could finish the interviews, but he left me with a large number of leads to follow up. My first lesson in the institutional racism of the contemporary art world came with the gradual discovery that none of the usual research methods seemed to apply. There were simply insufficient written materials about White, his work, and the socio-cultural milieu in which he worked in his most productive years. To find what I needed, I would have to rely on the memory of men and women who had been there with him in the trenches, so to speak—and I would need to travel to find them. It was not to be a matter of art history so much as oral history.

There followed a year in which I traveled widely throughout the United States, went to some places (Jackson, Mississippi, for example) which I would otherwise never have visited, and met some extraordinary people from Charlie’s past. A solid socialist and activist from the mid-1930s until ill health put an end to that kind of activity in the mid-1950s, he had worked with other “Negro” movers and shakers of the period (and yes, “Negro” was the preferred appellation in those days)—artists, writers, actors and intellectuals coming out of the great wave of the Harlem Renaissance in the early decades of the 1900s. I found myself talking to some who subsequently became well known—to Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier—and also to artists like Jacob Lawrence and Romare Bearden, who achieved considerable and well-deserved renown in the art world, at least in circles that paid attention to artists other than those in the mainstream of American culture. Then there were those eminently respectable and diligent artists—too many of them—who would never achieve recognition outside the small circle of their regional and racial circumstance.

I was, in short, discovering a new world of art history and artists. Not really a new world, but one that had previously been unknown to me, and whose successors remain, to this day, invisible to what we’re pleased to think of as the “art world.” There existed a whole culture whose marginalization could only be attributed, so far as I could see, to inherently racist attitudes to which I had ignorantly subscribed. As a Dean, educator, writer, critic, I was a part of a culture that systematically excluded, apart from those few who were permitted to cross the line, a whole category of artists on the basis of their race and their alienation from the mainstream path.

As I listened to a multitude of stories and became more and more aware of this systemic racism, I also learned to watch myself a bit more critically. Oh, I was not an intentional racist, for sure, but there were subtle signs that I had missed before. I noticed certain attitudes and expectations I brought with me to certain places (Jackson, Mississippi, for example, or the streets of Harlem) that dictated how I carried myself and spoke—with a certain wariness, a certain self-consciousness, a certain diffidence and awareness of difference. In my interviews, I noticed a special care with my locutions… and my circumlocutions. I noticed a different sensual awareness in my body. And I noticed that I spoke and acted in subtly different ways with black people than with white.

The book I wrote was never published. It took two years to complete, and I think it was a useful and overview of the work of an artist who had made a special contribution to the history of African American art. The responses I got from publishers were polite enough, but the chorus was plain: no one could see a “market” for the book. The best of Charlie’s work—the height of his career was really in the 1950s and 1960s—was exclusively figurative and the best of it graphic, rather than painterly. He had eschewed the path that led the mainstream artists into abstraction, into pop, into minimalism and conceptualism and hewed to the path of his own social conscience. He was not hip. He was not a “seller.” Not to make too fine a point of it, I was convinced that racism played a part in my failure to find a publisher—but I could never prove it.

Okay, hardly rabid stuff. But the experience left me with a real and personal understanding that racism runs deep in our society, and that I could not too easily let myself off the hook. I have had the opportunity, since those days, to learn more about interpersonal communication skills, and have come to understand that I get nowhere in a situation of conflict unless I first fully acknowledge what I bring to it, what part is mine. Conflicts start to get resolved when both parties are prepared to begin with some hard, honest self-evaluation; when I am right and you are wrong, there’s basically no resolution possible.

Which is why I see no purpose or promise in this supposed “national dialogue” on racism until we’re all prepared to look into ourselves before we start hurling brickbats. I have not heard any of those self-appointed defenders of black dignity speak up as loudly for the racially-tarred and feathered Duke University athletes as they have done about the Rutgers team; and while I understand there’s a serious need for advocacy, and honor these leaders’ sense of mission to provide it where there was none, this might be an excellent opportunity to open themselves up to the recognition that racism works two ways, and that it will continue to be a blot on our society until we acknowledge equal responsibility on all our parts. If I were close enough to the Reverend Al Sharpton call him Al, I’d challenge him to make a public avowal of the baggage that he himself carries around with him, and then continue with the important work of advocacy for those whose voice needs the megaphone he offers.

Vonnegut

I promised the confessional piece today, but of course I can't let the moment pass without a word about Kurt Vonnegut. I was sad to hear that we had lost one of our most humane of literary voices. I knew Vonnegut a bit back in the 1960s, when I was at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop, and feel privileged to have known him--even though just a bit. I read a good deal of his work over the years, and was always enchanted by his peculiar spell as a writer (no pun intended...) I was moved by his last book, the overview of a man of a good number of years examining the world and our place in it, as a nation, with something approaching despair. I wrote about it in "The Bush Diaires"--the blog out of which "The Buddha Diaires" sprang. Here's what I said, in part, on Thursday, May 18, 2006:

"Just finished reading Kurt Vonnegut's "A Man Without a Country" last night. I started days ago and it's a very short book, a very easy read. I guess I'm a slow reader. Actually, I'm a fitful rather than a slow reader. But the book has been on my mind all this time. I've read extracts to friends. I've recommended it. It has to be one of the sharpest indictments of our culture you can read anywhere. An elegy for the human species and the planet earth in what he sees to be their final throes.

"But it's also kind. Avuncular. Full of quiet wisdom. Honest. Plain-spoken. Clear-sighted. It's the kind of talk you'd want to hear from your grandfather, out of the depth of his experience of the world. Funny. Witty. Angry. Full of grief and sadness that things have reached this pitch. Unadorned, unsparing of himself as well as others. And full of love for the world and, particularly, its people. He just loves people. All kinds, particularly those as plain and honest as himself. He reserves his wrath for those who are dishonest, stupid, short-sighted, self-serving, self-righteous, exploitative..."

I wonder what he'd have to say about the current affaire Imus? I'd like to think he'd be as bemused as I by our common aversion to the insults we gladly pay to have flung in our direction.Anyway, thanks to Vonnegut, for everything he had to teach us. Bon voyage to him, wherever he may be headed. Or not. And apologies for the bad taste of quoting myself. As for the confession, well... later. Or tomorrow.

Racist Words: Another Perspective

Alright. Racism bad. Insult bad. Bad Imus. True. But there's a piece in all this fuss that leaves me very uncomfortable with the way it's playing out. It's associated with what I think of--and have written about--as our American literalism. It's an almost childish inability to see things in context, an inability to perceive or understand irony, a way of taking everything as a personal insult, as though the world revolved exclusively around ME. It's perhaps a paucity of that imaginative faculty that allows me to see the world from multiple points of view, which results in a self-protectiveness that says. Oh, yes, of course, say anything you want--so long as you don't step on MY toes.

In this literalist context, by all means, Imus's words were unforgivable. But what else do we expect, for God's sake, when we Americans--black and white--delight in precisely the kind of language for which we now condemn Don Imus? And even demand it from our radio shows, our comedians, our musicians... We actually PAY them to do it for our amusement. I keep hearing that there's a line that mustn't under any circumstances be crossed, a sacred line that protects every God-fearing American from offense--and should by rights protect us, also, from the vicissitudes of life. But if that's true, it's a line that each of us draws according to our own sense of entitlement and our own fragile ego.

So I say, Bring it on. Do your worst. Offend me. Challenge my most basic assumptions and my most cherished beliefs about myself, about the world, about God... About the society and culture that we have created for ourselves and in which we live. I may smart when I hear it. But that way I hope to learn, to grow, to see myself in perspective, and get to be a better human being as a result.

So this dread insult may turn out to be a better thing that we imagined. Okay, bad me. But are we really ready to talk honestly about racism in this country, and about the real damage it wreaks on human souls? With poor people everywhere suffering from its ravages, with our schools increasingly de facto segregated, with our inner cities impoverished and neglected? With gangs marauding, with rage and ignorance abounding? Do we dare to talk honestly about racism?

The topic has been manifesting in our collective lives in a variety of ways in recent days, from the Imus gaffe to the dropping of charges in that infamous case against the Duke University lacrosse players and--for those who happened to watch it--the powerful American Experience piece on Jonestown on PBS last night. What a bitter irony that Jim Jones started out with a radical vision of social and racial equality, and ended up a demented tyrant bringing about the needless death of those whom he had enslaved to his overweening ego. In the Duke case, surely, the shoe was on the other foot. How many black leaders were ready to jump in and say, Wait, hold on a moment, before we condemn these white boys, let's first see where the evidence points? How many white civic leaders, for that matter, had the courage to resist the emotional prejudgment and the risk of being labeled with the "r" word? (I actually loathe that habit of substituting the initial for the word we pretend to be too sensitive to utter in polite society--for fear, presumably, of being tainted by it.)

Listen, I'm all up for some real talk about race. It's well past time we had that conversation in this country. But pointing the finger does not a conversation make. As I pointed out recently, the conversation has to start with an owning of responsbility. I'll practice what I preach in tomorrow's entry. Meantime, I will take hope when I hear the Reverend Al Sharpton copping to his own racism as loudly as he talks about the racism of others. Until then, brothers and sisters, it's frankly all hot air.

Right Speech, Again

I’ve been thinking a good deal about what Carly wrote yesterday in his comments. I respect the fact that he’s unwilling to duck issues or tolerate stupidity and ignorance. I’m also acutely aware of the possibility that certain “Buddhist” attitudes could make me sound like some kind of milquetoast, and it bothers me a good deal that I might be perceived as such. I don’t like waffle, and I don’t respect tolerance at any cost. I’ve noted in the past what Than Geoff has said: Being Buddhist doesn’t mean you have to be a doormat. If anything makes me cringe, it’s the fear of being perceived as one who lacks convictions, and lacks the strength of character to follow through with them.

That said—and a shared impatience with rednecks notwithstanding!—I still think that the concept of Right Speech serves me better than speaking out of anger and intolerance. If anything demeans me, it’s my own attachment to the rightness of my opinions and my own harsh words, much more than the judgments of others. Carly speaks—unconvincingly, to my ear—of “indifference” as a possible solution. As I understand the word, it implies a studied lack of care, and I don’t get that from the tone of what he writes. I get aversion, even disgust. Indifference suggests a hardening of the heart--and with it, possibly, a self-harming hardening of the arteries. I'd personally far prefer to have a hard head than a hard heart. For me, the Buddhist notion of equanimity is far more appealing than indifference—and far less harmful in its effect on me and on those around me, since it seeks to avoid both aversion and approval. It simply recognizes what is.

I want to believe, also, that such an attitude reflects a strength of mind rather than a weakness. It’s a challenging refusal to be drawn into senseless conflict either by instincts or by intellect (as I've said, I do share Carly’s instinctive and intellectual distrust of ignorance, prejudice, and intellectual indolence) in favor of a willing suspension of judgment which spares both the heart and the gut, not only emotionally but physically as well.

I’m honestly not sure how Taoism differs from Buddhism in regard to the way in which we talk to each other, and the way in which we deal with what we perceive to be dangerous ignorance and prejudice. But I’d sure be interested to hear. I’m also not sure whether Carly was speaking out of his Taoist convictions, or giving vent to a more personal view. Carly?

A final word: after watching the victims of Imus's intemperate remarks on the news this morning and hearing their sense of having their wonderful achievement in some way tarnished by what he had to say, I think it's important to remember that his words have the power to shame no one but Imus himself.

Right Speech: The Imus Flap

At last! Something for the media to get their teeth into! A racial slur, no less. And now it's all the news, all the time. Don Imus regrets. The Rev. Al Sharpton objects. Don Imus apologizes. Apologies rejected. Actually, it's not even much of a debate. If there's been a word of defense for the talk show host, I haven't heard it. And who would dare?

Okay, it was a hideous thing to say. The best thing I've heard or read about it from the plethora of commentators was Gwen Ifill's op-ed piece in today's New York Times, in which she castigates Imus on behalf of those girls he insulted so casually: they had worked too hard, she suggested, to achieve their moment of glory, to deserve this slap in the face from a self-important shock-jock like Imus.

Fair enough. The words he used may have been a casual aside in something that was intended as a comedy routine. They may, as Imus has been at pains to point out--have their origin in the commonplace black-on-black denigration of women in street talk and hip-hop lyrics. But their use suggested an unwarranted--and hugely arrogant--assumption on his part that he had somehow earned the right to use them casually, as he did, with a self-congratulatory chuckle, and without regard to any effect they might have on those who heard them.

There's a good reason for the Buddhist teaching on Right Speech, the third of the eight path factors in the Noble Eightfold Path that leads to the end of suffering. The principle of right speech includes "Abstaining from lying, from divisive speech, from abusive speech, & from idle chatter," so I guess that Imus's remark falls squarely into the last three categories to be avoided: it was divisive, abusive, and certainly qualifies as idle chatter. Had Imus spoken in full consciousness of what he was saying, I'm sure the words would not have left his mouth.

Such wisdom in this Buddhist teaching. It's not hard to see how this not-right, careless act of speech brought suffering upon the man who uttered it, as well as those who were its target. His endlessly repeated, abject apologies throughout the day yesterday and again today have apparently done him little good. His detractors--and they are legion--are still after his hide. It might be useful, however, to point out that the principle of right speech should apply equally to them. If not abusive--and I guess it depends, here, on your understanding of what constitutes abuse--their words are unquestionably divisive. Good liberals and conservatives alike, everyone is quick to condemn a racist.

But if we're really intent on healing the wounds of racism, self-righteous finger-pointing is hardly the best approach. A good place to start might be the recognition of our own responsibility. When it comes to racism, we're all busy with denial: who, me? A racist? No, no, not me. I'm not a racist. I wonder if it's real honesty that promotes this knee-jerk denial, or true self-examination. The fact is, I know that there's a racist part in me. I've seen it. I have experienced it in my daily life. If I examine my actions and reactions without the blinkers of what I'd like to believe about myself, I have to cop to succumbing to some of those prejudices, preconceptions and stereotyping habits that are symptomatic of racist attitudes. It's not something that I'm especially proud of, but I'd be a damn liar if I denied it.

And what's good for the goose is surely good for the gander. It seems to me that all of us, black and white, would do well to start the healing, not with denial but with truthfulness and clarity about ourselves--an admission that is sadly lacking in today's debate, but which might prove a much-needed first step toward an exchange of Right Speech with each other. I'm not optimistic, though, that Buddhist wisdom will prevail over indignation and retribution in this particular scrap, nor that those involved will be able to let go of the attachment to outcomes that might allow a peaceable resolution. There's too much at stake.

Racism: Mine

A naughty, stubbornly inattentive puppy-mind in meditation this morning. How strange it is, after a good session yesterday evening at our sangha with Than Geoff, to find my mind so... well, mindless, this morning. It was almost that it had decided, independently, that it had worked hard enough yesterday and needed a good rest this morning. Ah, well..

At sangha, after our hour's sit under the guidance of Than Geoff, the topic for discussion turned to racism. One of our group had received an email from a man he had thought to be a friend and was stunned to find it filled with hate-filled rhetoric--so stunned that he could think of nothing to do except to write back and say he could no longer pursue a friendship that had apparently lasted for years. Than Geoff's response was typically wise: he would have written back to say he was truly taken aback by this outburst and to ask simply where it could have come from? Non-judgmental honesty, followed by a question that would open up a field for investigation, rather than judgment and closure.

For myself, I would have wanted to explore my own response--my indignation, anger, and judgment. My practice, when I have a strong emotional response, is to see what, if anything, it has to say about myself. In this case, I would have wanted to explore that secret, unacknowledged part of me that harbors racist thoughts and racist habits. I may not like it, but I know it's there--even if only in the tendency to stereotype and categorize, in a mindless, automatically responsive way. I know that I share that kind of easy, "liberal" self-congratulation that says: Racist, who, me?--a way of absolving myself of responsibility for thoughts of which I would otherwise be ashamed. But the truth is that they're there, buried deep, perhaps, out of sight except when sought out and examined.

The other topic for the evening is related, surely: equanimity. This is not, in Than Geoff's teaching, a mere rejection of responsibility, and not mere, passive acceptance. Equanimity, for him, needs to be worked for. It's earned by some serious examination of the options: is there anything I can do to change this situation? If there is, I should work to make the change. It's only when I conclude that this is something I'm powerless to change that equanimity kicks in. As for racism, I can work to make changes in my own attitudes if I take the time to observe them honestly and examine them with thoughtful self-criticism. I may also, with care and compassion, have the power to bring others to an understanding of the harm that results from racism--harm to oneself as well as to others. If not, not. At which point, assuming that I am blessed with so much wisdom, I practice equanimity.

A confession: I read back through these words with a familiar fear of seeming pious or self-righteous--qualities about which I find it very hard to remain equanimous when I suspect them in others! But I don't see any of this as particularly holy. I just see it as a practical way to live in harmony with myself and others.