Source: Dueling: A Simple Solution

 

In a country where few of us have a national “pedigree,” we are all mutts to lesser or greater extent. Unless one can look to a native American ancestor, all of us share the same heritage.  People left their homelands, boarded ships, and stepped off the gangplank breathing American air and dreaming of a life that would be better than the one they left.

My eighth-great grandfather did just that. He sailed from England settling in Culpepper, Virginia in 1728. For seven years he worked as an indentured servant building barns, sheds, and houses as a carpenter. He married, had children, and died fighting in the French-Indian wars.  Another great-great grandfather sailed from Germany as a Lutheran pastor. He served as a chaplain in the Civil War and is buried in Wright Patterson Field military cemetery near Dayton, Ohio. Heck, on my in-law’s side, a Welshman was elected to the Maryland legislature. He was kicked out for drunken brawling.  Who doesn’t have someone like that in their past? My family is no different than the vast majority of American families. They came. They settled. They built a life. Some even screwed up. No green cards. No Immigration officers. No chanting “USA!…USA!”

Witnessing the ugliness of many of my fellow citizens, I wonder about their lack of curiosity about their own stories. Should we build a wall along the Atlantic seaboard to keep out Scots? (Oops…that would be The Donald’s family.) Yet, many have become a jingoistic, xenophobic, egocentric, and bombastic 21st Century brand of gun-toting hatred. So, what do we do America…with this mixture of cultures, languages, races, and journeys? I think I have a solution.

Perhaps its time to bring back the more civilized way to settle disagreements…dueling at dawn. Now I propose this as a natural next-step in America’s passion for the Second Amendment.  Just because Aaron Burr gave dueling a bad name doesn’t mean it shouldn’t make a comeback. It would certainly be a more efficient way to clear the over-populated field of Republican presidential candidates. The endless shrill debates should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. (Oops again…that’s a foreign thing.) We’ve been tortured enough!

As a capitalistic venture, we could sell tickets as a means of publicly funded campaigns. This would be it. One chance.  As they say in the fashion industry, “You’re either in or you’re out.” An immediate benefit would be the end of “And I approve this message” TV ads. People could finally watch Wheel of Fortune without all of the doomsday music and frenetic flag-waving.  More importantly, families divided by political skirmishes at the Thanksgiving table could reunite!  They could “friend” one another again on Facebook.  No longer “unsistered”and “unbrothered,” Americans could get back to Football and yell at their TV’s…together!

The political questions at stake would be quickly addressed by the politicians standing back to back.  Ten paces. Turn and fire. Ahh…not to see Carly Fiorina’s face twisted in self-righteous anger when she doesn’t like a reporter’s question.  Not to hear Ted Cruz whine in condescending ire at Marco Rubio’s attack during a debate.  No more about Hillary’s emails. No more “It will be HUGE” from Donald.  We can settle this right now…ten short paces and then quiet.

My proposal reinstating this time-honored contest of cool-headed bravado is the perfect remedy for such pent-up macho, Rambo-like testosterone. However, AK-47’s may not be used. No semi-automatics. No fancy-schmanzy high calibre gun-slinging.  We will do it the old fashioned way.  Colt-45’s in holsters.  One bullet in each gun. The winner pays for the other’s funeral.  Everyone retires to the local diner for an all-you-can-eat breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash-browns, and pancakes.

It’s the American way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Source: The Syrian Woman

Exactly one year ago, I left Istanbul after four wonderful days.  This encounter will always be etched into my memory of that lovely place and its people.

 

She stood on a grimy street corner in Istanbul. The old shops with dark windows smelled of spice and ancient wood. Narrow sidewalks with broken pavement lined the narrow road where cars parked on both sides, leaving a precarious path for moving traffic. An old city wall careened up a hill toward the historic Blue Mosque, one of the most beautiful sites in Turkey. But this woman, this refugee, possessed none of the airs of grandeur carried by the once proud sultans who trafficked this ancient road with their royal entourages, jewels, silks, and splendor.

She stood there…in a worn dark blue dress that swept the ground as she moved. A long plaid scarf draped her black hair illuminating her pleading dark eyes. A sleeping child, hair plastered against its face with sweat, lay across her outstretched arms his feet dangling on one and his head dangling on the other.“Syria…Syria…” was all she could say as her eyes connected with mine.

She stood there…begging, pleading not just with us as we passed. She pleaded for her home…for her memories…for a life where laughter and food and a bed in which to lay her sleeping child had once been hers.

She stood there…one of the four million refugees who fled their war-torn country. Two million found refuge across the border in Turkey, our closest ally in the region. Within this country 25 camps were created; yet, 1.7 million Syrians are trying to survive on their own scattered among 82 cities. This Muslim country as well as a secular democracy, pledged to provide aid. But the crush of people has put a strain on everything…housing, education, food, medical care. Over half of the refugees are children. Meanwhile in Syria, Assad’s regime has decimated their country. Nothing much is left to go home to.

As the politics of fear and hate fill the echo chamber of around the clock news, two things in particular brought back this moment in Istanbul motivating me to write this piece.

• A gun-toting Nevada Assembly member Nicki Fiore infamously stated earlier this week:

“I am not OK with Syrian refugees. I’m not OK with terrorists. I’m OK with putting them down, blacking them out, just put a piece of brass in their ocular cavity and end their miserable life. I’m good with that.” 

• And then, two days ago, Republican front-runner Donald Trump postured:

“Refugees from Syria “could be ISIS … and by the way, it is turning out that they probably are ISIS,” said Trump in Rock Hill, South Carolina. “There’s so many men, they’re so young, they are very strong. Where are the women? Where are the children?”

We crossed the street and approached her… standing there… far from her home. Curt reached into his pocket and put 50 Turkish lira in her hand. I touched my hand to my heart trying to say with this simple gesture that we saw her and that we hoped to help. Her eyes…and mine…filled with tears. She raised her arms with the dangling sleeping child and looked to the sky hands upraised thanking Allah… and in her own way… she spoke the words that needed no translation for her gratitude to us.

Of all the images during those four days in Istanbul, that particular moment remains the most vivid. Putting a face…her face…on the turmoil in that region made the struggle more real. It became personal. Everything I believe about my country is that America is based on our common decency and that our role in the world is to demonstrate that democracy leads to a better life. It was the grand experiment of our Founders that made America a place of opportunity, a place where anyone can achieve his or her dreams. Our freedom is not threatened when we accept the oppressed, the lost, those “yearning to be free.” We are enriched with this colorful tapestry of cultures and races woven with the bright gold thread of hope.