I was answering Jules in a previous post I called "The Gays," and realized that my comment was really too long for that format. So, I thought, why not give it it's own post? Jules contends that no one is born anything, neither straight or homosexual. I think perhaps with humans this might be so. Think of it this way...if two boys were dropped onto an island and grew up in complete isolation with no outside interference or cultural influence, would their natural sex drives cause them to be attracted to each other? On the flip, if the same thing were to happen to a male and a female, would they not figure out how to "do it," and procreate? I would say that both are likely, just as Jules seems to infer. Here's how I responded to his commentary:
Hi Jules, I have no idea how someone "gets to be," or "becomes" homosexual. I've heard where boys and girls have felt attracted to their same sex since they can remember, then again, "life-forming" events take place years before our "life time memories" begin. Mine started at 4 years, but a lot can happen to a person in those first four years of "unremembered" life... Genetics as a cause seems suspicious to me, since homosexuality can't possibly be a "trait" that is "passed down" through generations; that would require it to be one that would help propogate the species and that just can't be... In fact, it's contrary to maintainence and continuation.
I think its more about societal acceptance and awareness of the possiblity of homosexuality. Other cultures, such as the Greeks in Helenic times, completely accepted homosexuality and it was common for soldiers to have "partners" and "lovers." To the Greeks, and somewhat with the Romans, sex with another man or a with a boy was societally acceptable and so became a common and even the more desirable sexual "option." Many men, if not the majority, kept wives and families while preferring to be with their young boyfriend for most of the time.
Besides, there exists all sorts of other sexual variances and preferences, some barely tolerated by societies such as multiple partners, and others considered taboo, like bestiality, pedofilia, and incest, among a host of others. Interestingly, there are cultures high in the Himalayan foothills that accept incest and pedophelia as normal; those sexual "variances" exist because those respective societies see them as "okay" behavior, and so to them, there's no question about being "born" with a penchant for children, its just another way of obtaining sexual gratification.
Homosexuality in the Philippines and in many parts of the rest of the world becomes problematic because it flies in the face of the common religion. Yet, there is an element in those same societies, often driven by the homosexuals themselves, that seeks to make the rest of society accept them as normal and moral. The problem here and in much of the world is that there is not a single Semitic religion that accepts homosexual sex as moral. It is forbidden by Christians, Muslims and Jews alike. The Catholic church in the Philippines certainly doesn't "bless it" as okay behavior, on the contrary in fact; although it seems that many individual priests are willing to "turn a blind eye."
All I can say is, I'm thankful I'm straight. It must be tough for those that are not. Sexual appetites, no matter the persuasion," are difficult, if not impossible, to constrain and everyone who has one considered to be culturally "out of bounds" or borderline, seeks approval and acceptance for it... It's a struggle that has been going on since mankind started forming societies, and might in fact be the cause of the formation of many "sub-cultures." A good example: San Francisco!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
9/11 Flashback
My daughter, Rebecca, just a week before September 11, 2001
at the base of the Statue of Liberty...
This is the first time I’ve written about “where I was during 9/11.” Five years on and sometimes a whole day or two goes by when “that morning” doesn’t cross my mind, a function of the therapeutic effects of time I suppose. Thing is, I don’t want to forget. Mentally, I “rip the scab off” as often as it takes to keep that horrible memory fresh and throbbing. I WANT to keep the anger and sorrow alive in my mind.
Even as I write this, our people continue to fight the beasts that did this to us. Our enemies’ ethos – that of jihad, of hatred and intolerance – is hostile and unrelenting; hence, we must maintain a like-mindedness as far as maintaining a willingness to rise up to meet them, and the nearer “we close with them” at their “source” the better. (Hint: we can’t much closer than Iraq!) Our men and women in the law-enforcement and intelligence fields, and in the armed forces, maintain this high level of aggression, even as most of us go about our normal, self-serving lives.
The zealots of hatred circle silently the walls, waiting for an opening to exploit a single moment of unwariness with the express purpose of bloodying and frightening us—to “throw us off our game” if you will. The fiendish members of Al Qaeda and Hezbollah know that terrorizing the “irresolute and unwilling” among us will lead to second guessing and cries for submission. Our enemies know that “our weak link” is that which we love the most—our freedom
s, and the cumbersomeness of our liberal democracy. (Keep in mind that inherently, ALL free societies are “liberal” by definition). And it’s true—only five years after the unthinkable happened it seems that half or more of my fellow citizens have let the anger of that day fade away, with many even going so far as to blame the attack on their own country – like a traumatized animal biting at its own wounds – attacking itself instead of the attacker.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was home, in bed and on drugs, less than a week after foot surgery. A day before my operation, my 20 year old daughter, Becky, and I had made a pilgrimage to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Just across the waters of the wide Hudson River outlet, the twin towers had dominated the Manhattan skyline. The imposing presence of the World Trade Center was definitely part of the “experience.”
The phone rang, momentarily shaking away the wooziness induced by my pain-killers. It was my mom calling from Michigan. She sounded tense and worried, “Phil, are you watching TV? A plane just flew into the World Trade Center!”
I turned on the television in my room and saw a tower, made smaller by the confines of the screen, black billowing smoke pouring from a gaping hole high in its side. At that point, we figured it was just a horrible accident and nothing more. My mom and I watched from our respective States the unlikely sight of the burning mega-building, and casually chatted about our recent trip to the statue and how brilliantly beautiful the Manhattan skyline had been that day.
(Becky & I posing in "the crown" of the Statue...)
Our nonchalant chitchat ended abruptly when a second large commercial aircraft zoomed and slammed into the burning tower’s twin. I knew immediately we were under attack from some very evil force. I wanted to know WHO it was and I wanted revenge—I wanted it NOW! Forgetting myself I cursed, apologizing in the next breath.
“Mom, we are watching live a modern day version of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Whoever these people are they are in big trouble,” I said rapidly and evenly.
At that second I had never been so happy in all my life to be a member of my country’s armed forces. I wanted to be a part of the machine that I knew at that very moment was revving up its powerful and merciless engine of destruction. The rage I felt was boundless. My body shook uncontrollably with it.
My mom was now so shaken that she could hardly speak anymore. As we said our goodbyes and “I love you’s,” she bade me to be careful, knowing that where we lived in New Jersey that we were not that far from the destruction she was staring at on her TV set.
I hopped into the living room to watch with my girl. I sat heavily on the sofa across the room from her. For the next half hour or so we hardly spoke a word as we watched the events unfold in New York City. What was there to say? My mind was brimming with blind fury and the palpable need for retribution. Finally, I got my constricted vocal cords unlimbered enough to make a comment.
“People are dying in there Becky—a lot of people.” I almost choked as I said it, especially when shortly after my remark reports came of desperate jumpers, preferring to go that way instead of incineration.
Thoughts of the dead and the agonizing suffering of the dying overwhelmed us. We dared not look at each other, our eyes instead locked there, on that unbearable vision in front of us. And then, from the speakers came screams and cursing and a shocking rumbling as the first tower pancaked straight to the ground in a giant cloud of concrete dust and smoke. In spite of myself, I groaned and tried not to sob, instead, choking sounds came in fits and starts from my closed off throat, while unruly tears rolled down my cheeks unchecked. I could hardly see the TV for them. Devastating grief inundated my fury.
After the first one went, I knew the second tower would also go; and soon enough, just as with the first, the same explosion of rumbling dusty collapse ensued. At the same time, a huge hole was rent in my soul. It’s been said a million times, but at that moment I was changed forever. I could actually sense the lives winking out of all those thousands of innocents just a few score miles from where we sat.
For the rest of that long day and long into the night we watched over and over and over the replay of those towers coming down. My emotions were used up. There was nothing left to feel. Soon, I felt nothing at all.
Over the days and weeks ahead I took comfort in having a commander in chief that seemed determined to go after the people who hurt us so badly that day. Seeing his resolute determination to pursue relentlessly our enemies took some of the sting away and gave me hope that we would win by having the gumption to fight back.
After these five short years, I must admit that there are times now that I feel that the president is not doing enough—that he is allowing his Secretary of Defense to fight this war “on the cheap” instead of throwing the full fury and might at his disposal into the teeth of ALL these religious fanatics that seek our demise. But, I also realize that is just my typical American impatience wanting an immediate victory.
Luckily for us all, GWB, not the so-called "cowboy" his haters have labeled him, knows that we can’t kill every terrorist out there that seek our destruction. Instead, he knows that keeping them at bay will have to do, and with our adversarial political system that will probably be the best we can hope for. That is UNTIL one of these crazy bastards sets off a nuke – Then, ALL bets are off!
As I’ve said before—we only lose IF we disengage and quit fighting. Luckily for us, and luckily for the free world, the USA is NOT Spain. I’m convinced and hopeful enough to believe that EVEN if the democrats take power that we will continue to stand up to these Islamic thugs. After all, FDR and Truman were democrats and they proved to be some tough cookies. Just the same, I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
We will never see their like again...................................
at the base of the Statue of Liberty...This is the first time I’ve written about “where I was during 9/11.” Five years on and sometimes a whole day or two goes by when “that morning” doesn’t cross my mind, a function of the therapeutic effects of time I suppose. Thing is, I don’t want to forget. Mentally, I “rip the scab off” as often as it takes to keep that horrible memory fresh and throbbing. I WANT to keep the anger and sorrow alive in my mind.
Even as I write this, our people continue to fight the beasts that did this to us. Our enemies’ ethos – that of jihad, of hatred and intolerance – is hostile and unrelenting; hence, we must maintain a like-mindedness as far as maintaining a willingness to rise up to meet them, and the nearer “we close with them” at their “source” the better. (Hint: we can’t much closer than Iraq!) Our men and women in the law-enforcement and intelligence fields, and in the armed forces, maintain this high level of aggression, even as most of us go about our normal, self-serving lives.
The zealots of hatred circle silently the walls, waiting for an opening to exploit a single moment of unwariness with the express purpose of bloodying and frightening us—to “throw us off our game” if you will. The fiendish members of Al Qaeda and Hezbollah know that terrorizing the “irresolute and unwilling” among us will lead to second guessing and cries for submission. Our enemies know that “our weak link” is that which we love the most—our freedom
s, and the cumbersomeness of our liberal democracy. (Keep in mind that inherently, ALL free societies are “liberal” by definition). And it’s true—only five years after the unthinkable happened it seems that half or more of my fellow citizens have let the anger of that day fade away, with many even going so far as to blame the attack on their own country – like a traumatized animal biting at its own wounds – attacking itself instead of the attacker.On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was home, in bed and on drugs, less than a week after foot surgery. A day before my operation, my 20 year old daughter, Becky, and I had made a pilgrimage to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Just across the waters of the wide Hudson River outlet, the twin towers had dominated the Manhattan skyline. The imposing presence of the World Trade Center was definitely part of the “experience.”
The phone rang, momentarily shaking away the wooziness induced by my pain-killers. It was my mom calling from Michigan. She sounded tense and worried, “Phil, are you watching TV? A plane just flew into the World Trade Center!”
I turned on the television in my room and saw a tower, made smaller by the confines of the screen, black billowing smoke pouring from a gaping hole high in its side. At that point, we figured it was just a horrible accident and nothing more. My mom and I watched from our respective States the unlikely sight of the burning mega-building, and casually chatted about our recent trip to the statue and how brilliantly beautiful the Manhattan skyline had been that day.
(Becky & I posing in "the crown" of the Statue...)Our nonchalant chitchat ended abruptly when a second large commercial aircraft zoomed and slammed into the burning tower’s twin. I knew immediately we were under attack from some very evil force. I wanted to know WHO it was and I wanted revenge—I wanted it NOW! Forgetting myself I cursed, apologizing in the next breath.
“Mom, we are watching live a modern day version of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Whoever these people are they are in big trouble,” I said rapidly and evenly.
At that second I had never been so happy in all my life to be a member of my country’s armed forces. I wanted to be a part of the machine that I knew at that very moment was revving up its powerful and merciless engine of destruction. The rage I felt was boundless. My body shook uncontrollably with it.
My mom was now so shaken that she could hardly speak anymore. As we said our goodbyes and “I love you’s,” she bade me to be careful, knowing that where we lived in New Jersey that we were not that far from the destruction she was staring at on her TV set.
I hopped into the living room to watch with my girl. I sat heavily on the sofa across the room from her. For the next half hour or so we hardly spoke a word as we watched the events unfold in New York City. What was there to say? My mind was brimming with blind fury and the palpable need for retribution. Finally, I got my constricted vocal cords unlimbered enough to make a comment.
“People are dying in there Becky—a lot of people.” I almost choked as I said it, especially when shortly after my remark reports came of desperate jumpers, preferring to go that way instead of incineration.
Thoughts of the dead and the agonizing suffering of the dying overwhelmed us. We dared not look at each other, our eyes instead locked there, on that unbearable vision in front of us. And then, from the speakers came screams and cursing and a shocking rumbling as the first tower pancaked straight to the ground in a giant cloud of concrete dust and smoke. In spite of myself, I groaned and tried not to sob, instead, choking sounds came in fits and starts from my closed off throat, while unruly tears rolled down my cheeks unchecked. I could hardly see the TV for them. Devastating grief inundated my fury.
After the first one went, I knew the second tower would also go; and soon enough, just as with the first, the same explosion of rumbling dusty collapse ensued. At the same time, a huge hole was rent in my soul. It’s been said a million times, but at that moment I was changed forever. I could actually sense the lives winking out of all those thousands of innocents just a few score miles from where we sat.
For the rest of that long day and long into the night we watched over and over and over the replay of those towers coming down. My emotions were used up. There was nothing left to feel. Soon, I felt nothing at all.
Over the days and weeks ahead I took comfort in having a commander in chief that seemed determined to go after the people who hurt us so badly that day. Seeing his resolute determination to pursue relentlessly our enemies took some of the sting away and gave me hope that we would win by having the gumption to fight back.
After these five short years, I must admit that there are times now that I feel that the president is not doing enough—that he is allowing his Secretary of Defense to fight this war “on the cheap” instead of throwing the full fury and might at his disposal into the teeth of ALL these religious fanatics that seek our demise. But, I also realize that is just my typical American impatience wanting an immediate victory.
Luckily for us all, GWB, not the so-called "cowboy" his haters have labeled him, knows that we can’t kill every terrorist out there that seek our destruction. Instead, he knows that keeping them at bay will have to do, and with our adversarial political system that will probably be the best we can hope for. That is UNTIL one of these crazy bastards sets off a nuke – Then, ALL bets are off!
As I’ve said before—we only lose IF we disengage and quit fighting. Luckily for us, and luckily for the free world, the USA is NOT Spain. I’m convinced and hopeful enough to believe that EVEN if the democrats take power that we will continue to stand up to these Islamic thugs. After all, FDR and Truman were democrats and they proved to be some tough cookies. Just the same, I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
We will never see their like again...................................
Friday, September 08, 2006
"The Gays"
How about another school story, since I’m in class five days a week? I major in education, so one day; hypothetically, I’m supposed to teach young minds. Yeah right. Anyway, one of my classes this semester is Guidance and Counseling. I did a little of that for real during my decades as a non-commissioned officer, so it’s not exactly an unknown subject for me. Because of my long history as a supervisor over young airmen and marines, whenever we cover another facet of helping individuals from the standpoint of counselor, I tend to associate it with my past moments, as both counselee and counselor. But the other day we discussed a premise that thankfully, I never had to deal with in the workplace – how to counsel and help homosexuals with their potential problems that might crop up due to their sexual proclivity.
Right off the bat I went into the first of several monologues about how I felt about the subject. Before we got to my little tirades, though, the teacher began the discussion on “the gays” as the text of her handout described them. The handout, an excerpt from a Filipino textbook, went into all the different variations of homosexual lifestyles and couplings. It caused me to interrupt her: 0
“Maam, I don’t get it. Why is it important for us to read about all the different gay lifestyles and relationship variables? Can I ask you something – Will we be discussing all the deviant lifestyle possibilities of heterosexuals too? Why is knowing that homosexuals have monogamous and open associations, and everything in between, really necessary for us to know about before we counsel them? If it’s to prepare these kids for the shocking realities that they might someday confront, then maybe I can go along with it; but even still, I just don’t see the necessity.”
I think she kind of agreed with me because we quickly moved on and stopped going over all the sexual “weirdness” that not just gays are capable of, and that was my point to begin with – Why get into the “bedroom” part of it at all? In fact, I went into round two of my outburst:
“Maam, can I tell you what I would try to get across to a homosexual student that was having problems concerning at least one source of heart ache, which might concern their being accepted by other students?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Okay, well, I realize there are a lot of diverse things that can happen to someone considered different than the norm; BUT, when it comes to sexual inclination I say that that part of a person’s life SHOULD be as private as possible. Look, I realize homosexuality is a hot topic and it is everywhere, but to flaunt it openly is wholly unnecessary. Within reason, dress the way you want, talk the way you want, but there’s NO reason to make people uncomfortable. Can I tell a quick story to make my point and then I’ll shut up?”
The teacher nodded her assent.
“When I was 18 years old, my first military assignment was just across the bay from San Francisco. I would visit that city all the time, usually by myself, using the subway and bus, and nearly every trip some homosexuals would go out of their way to sit near me, and when in groups, around me. They saw that I was very young and it seemed they delighted in shocking me with their “doings.” They would kiss noisily with open mouths and tangling tongues, grope each other and do sexual things that heterosexuals wouldn’t normally do in public. It was all directed at me, to put it in my face, to FORCE me to accept their ways. If that is what their intent was, actually, all they managed to do was alienate me, disgust me, and humiliate me. Before that time I knew dimly what homosexuals were, that they were people of the same sex attracted to each other. After my years around them on the streets of San Francisco and Oakland, my conception of gays became clear, and right or wrong, I “judged” them to be aggressive, unnecessarily flamboyant, and prone to making straight folks like me extremely uncomfortable. My point is that doing those things to me was counterproductive to their “cause” of promoting acceptance. It certainly didn’t make me feel respect for them; if anything, it made me feel distrust and contempt. Okay, I got that off my chest!”
From there, we got into other aspects of homosexuals, especially how they are looked at here in the Philippines, where they make themselves as obvious as any do in San Francisco. I asked one of my classmates how he would feel about a gay family member, once that person was recognized as homosexual.
His response: “We would be ashamed of him. It’s like our family would be dishonored.
I asked him: “So, do you have any gays in your family?”
He admitted: “Yeah, a nephew.”
“Do you all accept him now? Is he okay?” I continued.
“Yes, we are used to him now.”
“In other words, you guys put him through hell!” I half joked.
Thinking of it that way, it would seem to me that perhaps gays seek to be “overly obvious” over here so that they can “find” each other. Anyone who comes to the Philippines notices that gay guys flounce and primp more than the most feminine girly girls ever would. They must feel very isolated and unaccepted in their own families and it makes sense that they would seek the reassurance of each other’s company.
That class discussion got me thinking on the subject of homosexuality…I wonder how Darwinists apply their theories of selection to the “homosexual gene,” if such a thing exists? I mean, homosexuals cannot mate and therefore cannot make that part of the chromosome more and more dominant through generations of procreation. So why does the same-sex-attraction-tendency not die out? It seems that there is no shortage of new gay people; so why do they exist, and what causes them to develop or to be born?
I’m an open-minded fellow and don’t seek to judge anyone, at least not harshly, but it’s always been a mystery to me why homosexuality exists at all. What is its biological purpose? I ask this question rhetorically, because most behaviors and processes in nature have a reason, and for most species of animal, for any living thing for that matter, reproduction is an ultimate goal, if not THE ultimate goal. It seems that the only way gays can “reproduce” is if they can persuade new converts, or perhaps search out and coax out those that might be latent.
I don’t have the answers, and to tell you the truth, I don’t intend to do any research concerning the subject – I’m just asking the questions. As far as I’m concerned, it will probably be one of those forever unanswered mysteries, like the origin of time and matter – it just is.
Right off the bat I went into the first of several monologues about how I felt about the subject. Before we got to my little tirades, though, the teacher began the discussion on “the gays” as the text of her handout described them. The handout, an excerpt from a Filipino textbook, went into all the different variations of homosexual lifestyles and couplings. It caused me to interrupt her: 0
“Maam, I don’t get it. Why is it important for us to read about all the different gay lifestyles and relationship variables? Can I ask you something – Will we be discussing all the deviant lifestyle possibilities of heterosexuals too? Why is knowing that homosexuals have monogamous and open associations, and everything in between, really necessary for us to know about before we counsel them? If it’s to prepare these kids for the shocking realities that they might someday confront, then maybe I can go along with it; but even still, I just don’t see the necessity.”
I think she kind of agreed with me because we quickly moved on and stopped going over all the sexual “weirdness” that not just gays are capable of, and that was my point to begin with – Why get into the “bedroom” part of it at all? In fact, I went into round two of my outburst:
“Maam, can I tell you what I would try to get across to a homosexual student that was having problems concerning at least one source of heart ache, which might concern their being accepted by other students?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Okay, well, I realize there are a lot of diverse things that can happen to someone considered different than the norm; BUT, when it comes to sexual inclination I say that that part of a person’s life SHOULD be as private as possible. Look, I realize homosexuality is a hot topic and it is everywhere, but to flaunt it openly is wholly unnecessary. Within reason, dress the way you want, talk the way you want, but there’s NO reason to make people uncomfortable. Can I tell a quick story to make my point and then I’ll shut up?”
The teacher nodded her assent.
“When I was 18 years old, my first military assignment was just across the bay from San Francisco. I would visit that city all the time, usually by myself, using the subway and bus, and nearly every trip some homosexuals would go out of their way to sit near me, and when in groups, around me. They saw that I was very young and it seemed they delighted in shocking me with their “doings.” They would kiss noisily with open mouths and tangling tongues, grope each other and do sexual things that heterosexuals wouldn’t normally do in public. It was all directed at me, to put it in my face, to FORCE me to accept their ways. If that is what their intent was, actually, all they managed to do was alienate me, disgust me, and humiliate me. Before that time I knew dimly what homosexuals were, that they were people of the same sex attracted to each other. After my years around them on the streets of San Francisco and Oakland, my conception of gays became clear, and right or wrong, I “judged” them to be aggressive, unnecessarily flamboyant, and prone to making straight folks like me extremely uncomfortable. My point is that doing those things to me was counterproductive to their “cause” of promoting acceptance. It certainly didn’t make me feel respect for them; if anything, it made me feel distrust and contempt. Okay, I got that off my chest!”
From there, we got into other aspects of homosexuals, especially how they are looked at here in the Philippines, where they make themselves as obvious as any do in San Francisco. I asked one of my classmates how he would feel about a gay family member, once that person was recognized as homosexual.
His response: “We would be ashamed of him. It’s like our family would be dishonored.
I asked him: “So, do you have any gays in your family?”
He admitted: “Yeah, a nephew.”
“Do you all accept him now? Is he okay?” I continued.
“Yes, we are used to him now.”
“In other words, you guys put him through hell!” I half joked.
Thinking of it that way, it would seem to me that perhaps gays seek to be “overly obvious” over here so that they can “find” each other. Anyone who comes to the Philippines notices that gay guys flounce and primp more than the most feminine girly girls ever would. They must feel very isolated and unaccepted in their own families and it makes sense that they would seek the reassurance of each other’s company.
That class discussion got me thinking on the subject of homosexuality…I wonder how Darwinists apply their theories of selection to the “homosexual gene,” if such a thing exists? I mean, homosexuals cannot mate and therefore cannot make that part of the chromosome more and more dominant through generations of procreation. So why does the same-sex-attraction-tendency not die out? It seems that there is no shortage of new gay people; so why do they exist, and what causes them to develop or to be born?
I’m an open-minded fellow and don’t seek to judge anyone, at least not harshly, but it’s always been a mystery to me why homosexuality exists at all. What is its biological purpose? I ask this question rhetorically, because most behaviors and processes in nature have a reason, and for most species of animal, for any living thing for that matter, reproduction is an ultimate goal, if not THE ultimate goal. It seems that the only way gays can “reproduce” is if they can persuade new converts, or perhaps search out and coax out those that might be latent.
I don’t have the answers, and to tell you the truth, I don’t intend to do any research concerning the subject – I’m just asking the questions. As far as I’m concerned, it will probably be one of those forever unanswered mysteries, like the origin of time and matter – it just is.
Monday, September 04, 2006
The Filipino College Student’s Mind; is there an Opinion in There?
I’ve mentioned in earlier posts that I attend a small local college using my GI Bill. Being at least 30 years the senior of most of the oldest students, and 20 plus years older than many of the teachers has led to some interestingly edgy moments. The difference in our ages isn’t all there is to it; there are wide cultural distinctions between us, mostly as far as the way students and teachers are expected to interface, and me not unusually abiding by those expectations. Then of course, there’s my bluntly adversarial, know-it-all personality that causes me to challenge and question things that no Filipino student would ever think to dispute.
These days, for the most part, I have few problems getting along with my teachers and classmates, but in almost every class I still manage to have my “bad boy” moments where I forget myself. Like most Americans my age, I have strong opinions about nearly everything, and at times I’ll use the classroom as a forum to pontificate on them. This is not a problem as long as the instructor agrees with me, but there are times when that is not the case.
For me, when I come upon moments of disagreement – THAT is when I am most in my element. However, I’ve found that Filipinos in the Philippines, as compared to those living in the U.S., especially the ones I come in contact with here in “the province” as they say, don’t tend to enjoy debating issues. For the most part, people here are very non-confrontational, especially when it comes to debate, and I find that puzzling, this near universal unwillingness to contest and argue. Filipinos who have lived abroad, especially those who have resided in the USA, seem to quickly lose this confrontation avoidance, which is why I make the distinction above.
Yet, there have been moments where a teacher and I have been clearly at odds over a topic. I know this because he or she might make an observation, or forget that I am there and offer an opinion during class. I say, “forget I’m there,” because it seems to me that some teachers don’t tender opinions around me knowing that I might counter their assertions. There’s an American saying, certainly not one shared by most folks in this country, that “opinions are like assholes; everyone has one.” Not so over here – certainly the part about “everyone having an opinion” that is.
Just FINDING someone with an opinion, or rather finding someone willing to SHARE one is rare. So when I find a person daring enough to proffer one, especially a teacher, I try to couch my dissent as tactfully as possible and to make my case in a sentence or two so as not to confound them. Usually though, “the discussion” does not progress past that point, because normally the teacher will simply dismiss me by making a noncommittal remark such as “anyway” or “nonetheless” and continue on as if I don’t exist. Besides shunting away my “challenge,” I will usually receive a chilly look, and for sure then I’ll know that I’ve just annoyed someone. Oops.
By contrast, American students are encouraged, if not cajoled, to participate in classroom discussion, where on the other hand, Filipino students are quite content and are more often than not permitted to say nothing at all in class. I have NEVER run into the problem of not being able to get a word in edgewise in a classroom situation. In truth, If I am not careful I can very easily find myself dominating classroom discussions, so I have learned to keep my comments to myself until I’m sure they are welcomed by my instructors. On that note, many of them DO value my presence knowing that all they have to do is prompt me and I’ll pipe right up with something. Others though, as I mentioned already, are not so welcoming; either because I threaten their ultimate authority, or more likely, because they worry that I deter the other students into reticent silence.
Having said that, I don’t think that my occasional outspokenness is the only reason I threaten some of the teachers and intimidate my classmates. I’m sure that a primary source of this insecurity is the requirement to speak English in the classroom. The teachers speak almost perfect English, but many of the kids do not have absolute fluency. Being aware of this, and due to my understanding of an Asian’s need to sidestep embarrassment, I NEVER correct anyone’s English; besides, that would be extremely bad form. So, perhaps some of their reticence to speak their minds is in large part due to their lack of English speaking skills, but I believe that is only a partial explanation.
And that brings me to what is probably a primary reason for the paucity of public and classroom debate – and that is Filipino aversion to being shown up or proven wrong for all to see. For those involved in Western education, engaging in debate and dialogue is a hallmark of the process, and perhaps this is so in the larger Filipino Universities, but not out here at the grass roots level. Rather than risk looking foolish, I’ve noticed that the kids around me will accept unquestioningly what is put forth by teachers or by me, or more likely, they simply keep their true feelings and any questions they might have to themselves. It’s called ‘avoidance’ and the people over here, especially students, have it down to a science.
Lastly, and I hate to say this, but I think there is a large measure of laziness involved, most certainly on the part of the students, and conversely, on the part of educators who don’t push their pupils to expand their minds. Because to have an opinion, a person must be willing to do “hard” things like reading, listening, researching, and analyzing – all before they can at last formulate their very OWN outlooks on matters in the world. From what I’ve seen, many of the students that sit in my classes just don’t want to extend their intellect. In other words, they don’t want to THINK. I find that extremely unfortunate and sad.
These days, for the most part, I have few problems getting along with my teachers and classmates, but in almost every class I still manage to have my “bad boy” moments where I forget myself. Like most Americans my age, I have strong opinions about nearly everything, and at times I’ll use the classroom as a forum to pontificate on them. This is not a problem as long as the instructor agrees with me, but there are times when that is not the case.
For me, when I come upon moments of disagreement – THAT is when I am most in my element. However, I’ve found that Filipinos in the Philippines, as compared to those living in the U.S., especially the ones I come in contact with here in “the province” as they say, don’t tend to enjoy debating issues. For the most part, people here are very non-confrontational, especially when it comes to debate, and I find that puzzling, this near universal unwillingness to contest and argue. Filipinos who have lived abroad, especially those who have resided in the USA, seem to quickly lose this confrontation avoidance, which is why I make the distinction above.
Yet, there have been moments where a teacher and I have been clearly at odds over a topic. I know this because he or she might make an observation, or forget that I am there and offer an opinion during class. I say, “forget I’m there,” because it seems to me that some teachers don’t tender opinions around me knowing that I might counter their assertions. There’s an American saying, certainly not one shared by most folks in this country, that “opinions are like assholes; everyone has one.” Not so over here – certainly the part about “everyone having an opinion” that is.
Just FINDING someone with an opinion, or rather finding someone willing to SHARE one is rare. So when I find a person daring enough to proffer one, especially a teacher, I try to couch my dissent as tactfully as possible and to make my case in a sentence or two so as not to confound them. Usually though, “the discussion” does not progress past that point, because normally the teacher will simply dismiss me by making a noncommittal remark such as “anyway” or “nonetheless” and continue on as if I don’t exist. Besides shunting away my “challenge,” I will usually receive a chilly look, and for sure then I’ll know that I’ve just annoyed someone. Oops.
By contrast, American students are encouraged, if not cajoled, to participate in classroom discussion, where on the other hand, Filipino students are quite content and are more often than not permitted to say nothing at all in class. I have NEVER run into the problem of not being able to get a word in edgewise in a classroom situation. In truth, If I am not careful I can very easily find myself dominating classroom discussions, so I have learned to keep my comments to myself until I’m sure they are welcomed by my instructors. On that note, many of them DO value my presence knowing that all they have to do is prompt me and I’ll pipe right up with something. Others though, as I mentioned already, are not so welcoming; either because I threaten their ultimate authority, or more likely, because they worry that I deter the other students into reticent silence.
Having said that, I don’t think that my occasional outspokenness is the only reason I threaten some of the teachers and intimidate my classmates. I’m sure that a primary source of this insecurity is the requirement to speak English in the classroom. The teachers speak almost perfect English, but many of the kids do not have absolute fluency. Being aware of this, and due to my understanding of an Asian’s need to sidestep embarrassment, I NEVER correct anyone’s English; besides, that would be extremely bad form. So, perhaps some of their reticence to speak their minds is in large part due to their lack of English speaking skills, but I believe that is only a partial explanation.
And that brings me to what is probably a primary reason for the paucity of public and classroom debate – and that is Filipino aversion to being shown up or proven wrong for all to see. For those involved in Western education, engaging in debate and dialogue is a hallmark of the process, and perhaps this is so in the larger Filipino Universities, but not out here at the grass roots level. Rather than risk looking foolish, I’ve noticed that the kids around me will accept unquestioningly what is put forth by teachers or by me, or more likely, they simply keep their true feelings and any questions they might have to themselves. It’s called ‘avoidance’ and the people over here, especially students, have it down to a science.
Lastly, and I hate to say this, but I think there is a large measure of laziness involved, most certainly on the part of the students, and conversely, on the part of educators who don’t push their pupils to expand their minds. Because to have an opinion, a person must be willing to do “hard” things like reading, listening, researching, and analyzing – all before they can at last formulate their very OWN outlooks on matters in the world. From what I’ve seen, many of the students that sit in my classes just don’t want to extend their intellect. In other words, they don’t want to THINK. I find that extremely unfortunate and sad.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
24 Hour Relay Race, The End
Part VI – The Definition of Agony
I had drifted off to sleep without realizing it, probably for 15 or 20 minutes, maybe longer. I tried to sit up and then roll up to my feet, but it wasn’t possible at first. My legs had turned to pain-wracked stone. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and took some wobbly, uncertain steps toward the track. All the muscles from my “glutes” down were stiff and they hurt beyond belief when I tried to work them in any way. The pain of trying to walk over to the start line caused me to pant. I was glad it was still too dark for anyone to see my wretched agony. I cursed bitterly under my breath at myself for having fallen asleep.
In all my years of running I had never experienced leg muscles so stiff, not even after my first day of track practice during my freshman year of high school, and that had been pretty bad. Just the same, my guy was already in the far bend of the last turn, and I was going to have to take the baton from him. There was nothing to do, but give it a shot.
I tried to jog in place to start the loosening up process, but managed only to shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I forced myself into a walk toward the onrushing runner barely visible in the early morning night, now chugging into the beginning of the final straightaway. I stopped 20 yards from the start and began a pitiful jog, back toward the start. The runner went into his finishing stride; with my back to him I heard his approach, his deep rhythmic breathing and urgent footfalls acting as sonar, letting me know the approximate rate of his progress. In utter dread I turned to take the baton.
With me hardly moving during the transition, he placed the baton into my outstretched hand, and for the first time, he practically had to come to a complete stop to do so. It startled him since I had taken off like a man on a mission during each previous handoff. Actually, I WAS still on the same mission, but now it was much modified.
I cannot come close to describing the sheer torment of the next few minutes. It hurt so bad that if I had been in any other situation I surely would have stopped and quit, but quitting was not an option. I felt like I was representing the entire Marine Corps, and quitting is not something marines do just because of a “little” pain. The USMC does a very good job of programming young minds when it comes to instilling the concepts of duty, honor and loyalty it seems. It worked on me. My fellow runners were depending on me just as I depended on them, so even the thought of trying to “walk it off” did not occur to me. No, I would “run” the entire relay and that’s all there was to it.
My gait finally began to resemble an actual jogging stride by the time I got to the 220-yard mark on the opposite side of the track. The toxins that I had allowed to settle into the tiny capillaries of my leg muscles were slowly being flushed out with every beat of my pulsing heart. Fortunately, they did not go into spasm, also called a “charley horse,” an agonizing contracture of muscle tissue that can cause even a full-grown manly man to fall to the ground and scream like a baby.
The first quarter mile was finally behind me and my split was dismal, almost 30 seconds slower than I would have otherwise hoped for. Still, as my legs began to loosen up I began to hope that I could salvage something from that infernal mile. I forced my pace to quicken, and then to quicken still more. To my relief, the pain and stiffness dissipated all the more, almost proportionately to my efforts to go faster. Even so, the damage had been done, and no amount of speed and willpower could totally force my legs back to normal. On the upside, I managed to put together a pretty good last half-mile, and finished the mile with an almost decent time of 6:21. As I handed off to the next runner, the sun peeked its way above the eastern horizon.
Looking now at the 29 year-old chart showing the mile times of all the 8 finishing runners of that relay, I feel the proudest of that 6:21, even though it was my slowest. I say that because when I woke up on the ground and found my legs paralyzed with pain, I forced myself to reach deep down for resources I didn’t know were there. Exhausted, famished and in agony, I kept going. For years, that nightmarish moment is what defined me; I compared it to all other tough times and nothing ever came close. Even my most difficult instance in bootcamp before my "hell mile" did not come close, since what happened to me in basic training was a dispiriting event, a time when I completely broke down – something I strove to forget rather than a time to be proud of. Still, I think I might reexamine it in a future post.
For me, the rest of the relay was humdrum, pretty much uneventful. I had experienced the roughest it could throw at me and survived. We were all going so slow from that point that I only had to run 5 more times before noon. In fact, my last mile ended just after 11 a.m. My times remained mostly faster than my running mates, and happily, they continued to call me “the machine.” A title I most certainly had earned since my average mile time over my 28 total miles was 5:44.2, a time that should have been closer to 5:30 if not for my "blowup" from falling asleep. Oh well, as I said, that “mistake” caused me to have to do something that became very important to me, and strengthened me for most of the rest of my life.
George, always the showboat, saw to it that he ran the last mile, and he did it with the same flare that he had run the first one 24 hours before when he had kicked off the relay. Incredibly, he managed to dig deep and ran a very fine final mile, everything considered, in only 5 minutes 18 seconds. You gotta LOVE those Ortega’s!
After the relay I completely sagged. Back at the Ortega house I could only eat a little and fell asleep for a time on their living room floor. Ray wanted to get started back to Alameda, but before we left I copied all the times into my running journal and have it to this day. Blessedly, I lapsed into unconsciousness and didn’t have to experience any of Ray’s crazy driving while awake. In less than a month I would pack my bags and leave for another difficult experience, Marine Security Guard School, but that is another story.
I had drifted off to sleep without realizing it, probably for 15 or 20 minutes, maybe longer. I tried to sit up and then roll up to my feet, but it wasn’t possible at first. My legs had turned to pain-wracked stone. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and took some wobbly, uncertain steps toward the track. All the muscles from my “glutes” down were stiff and they hurt beyond belief when I tried to work them in any way. The pain of trying to walk over to the start line caused me to pant. I was glad it was still too dark for anyone to see my wretched agony. I cursed bitterly under my breath at myself for having fallen asleep.
In all my years of running I had never experienced leg muscles so stiff, not even after my first day of track practice during my freshman year of high school, and that had been pretty bad. Just the same, my guy was already in the far bend of the last turn, and I was going to have to take the baton from him. There was nothing to do, but give it a shot.
I tried to jog in place to start the loosening up process, but managed only to shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I forced myself into a walk toward the onrushing runner barely visible in the early morning night, now chugging into the beginning of the final straightaway. I stopped 20 yards from the start and began a pitiful jog, back toward the start. The runner went into his finishing stride; with my back to him I heard his approach, his deep rhythmic breathing and urgent footfalls acting as sonar, letting me know the approximate rate of his progress. In utter dread I turned to take the baton.
With me hardly moving during the transition, he placed the baton into my outstretched hand, and for the first time, he practically had to come to a complete stop to do so. It startled him since I had taken off like a man on a mission during each previous handoff. Actually, I WAS still on the same mission, but now it was much modified.
I cannot come close to describing the sheer torment of the next few minutes. It hurt so bad that if I had been in any other situation I surely would have stopped and quit, but quitting was not an option. I felt like I was representing the entire Marine Corps, and quitting is not something marines do just because of a “little” pain. The USMC does a very good job of programming young minds when it comes to instilling the concepts of duty, honor and loyalty it seems. It worked on me. My fellow runners were depending on me just as I depended on them, so even the thought of trying to “walk it off” did not occur to me. No, I would “run” the entire relay and that’s all there was to it.
My gait finally began to resemble an actual jogging stride by the time I got to the 220-yard mark on the opposite side of the track. The toxins that I had allowed to settle into the tiny capillaries of my leg muscles were slowly being flushed out with every beat of my pulsing heart. Fortunately, they did not go into spasm, also called a “charley horse,” an agonizing contracture of muscle tissue that can cause even a full-grown manly man to fall to the ground and scream like a baby.
The first quarter mile was finally behind me and my split was dismal, almost 30 seconds slower than I would have otherwise hoped for. Still, as my legs began to loosen up I began to hope that I could salvage something from that infernal mile. I forced my pace to quicken, and then to quicken still more. To my relief, the pain and stiffness dissipated all the more, almost proportionately to my efforts to go faster. Even so, the damage had been done, and no amount of speed and willpower could totally force my legs back to normal. On the upside, I managed to put together a pretty good last half-mile, and finished the mile with an almost decent time of 6:21. As I handed off to the next runner, the sun peeked its way above the eastern horizon.
Looking now at the 29 year-old chart showing the mile times of all the 8 finishing runners of that relay, I feel the proudest of that 6:21, even though it was my slowest. I say that because when I woke up on the ground and found my legs paralyzed with pain, I forced myself to reach deep down for resources I didn’t know were there. Exhausted, famished and in agony, I kept going. For years, that nightmarish moment is what defined me; I compared it to all other tough times and nothing ever came close. Even my most difficult instance in bootcamp before my "hell mile" did not come close, since what happened to me in basic training was a dispiriting event, a time when I completely broke down – something I strove to forget rather than a time to be proud of. Still, I think I might reexamine it in a future post.
For me, the rest of the relay was humdrum, pretty much uneventful. I had experienced the roughest it could throw at me and survived. We were all going so slow from that point that I only had to run 5 more times before noon. In fact, my last mile ended just after 11 a.m. My times remained mostly faster than my running mates, and happily, they continued to call me “the machine.” A title I most certainly had earned since my average mile time over my 28 total miles was 5:44.2, a time that should have been closer to 5:30 if not for my "blowup" from falling asleep. Oh well, as I said, that “mistake” caused me to have to do something that became very important to me, and strengthened me for most of the rest of my life.
George, always the showboat, saw to it that he ran the last mile, and he did it with the same flare that he had run the first one 24 hours before when he had kicked off the relay. Incredibly, he managed to dig deep and ran a very fine final mile, everything considered, in only 5 minutes 18 seconds. You gotta LOVE those Ortega’s!
After the relay I completely sagged. Back at the Ortega house I could only eat a little and fell asleep for a time on their living room floor. Ray wanted to get started back to Alameda, but before we left I copied all the times into my running journal and have it to this day. Blessedly, I lapsed into unconsciousness and didn’t have to experience any of Ray’s crazy driving while awake. In less than a month I would pack my bags and leave for another difficult experience, Marine Security Guard School, but that is another story.
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