Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Who is this guy Obama and what the heck is he up to?
Who is this guy Obama and what the heck is he up to?
Posted 8/25/2007 12:02 AM
by Paul Servelle on Tuesday, May 24, 2011 at 4:25am
I searched my computer and found 23 Obama entries dated pre-Presidential election November 4, 2008. Here is one.
Our campaign, which had hitherto seemed inspiring, innovative, and mercurial to me, began to click, strategically speaking.
"Obama is, obviously, running for President: it's not that he isn't hungry for converts but that his way of courting them is subtle... That is Obama's theory of speeches, and it seems, also, to be his theory of campaigning: don't try to score huge points at every moment, don't kill yourself for every vote--a campaign is a long, slow story, and you don't want to exhaust your audience or yourself."
Obama: "Let me explain it to you in sport terms. It's like we're in a basketball game, and someone's gonna steal the ball, and I'm gonna miss a free throw, but we're gonna win the game. You can't get yourself worked up over every little thing that somebody says about me or you're gonna go crazy."'
Obama is in the process of building and organizing a national movement for change; we are an imperfect work in progress.
We are led by a singular human being named Barack, who not only had the wisdom, alone among the major candidates for President, to speak out against an invasion of Iraq when it was highly unpopular to do so, but also is the only candidate whose election can send the world a message from the American people that we too are wise, tolerant, and hopeful of a major change in the way our country is perceived throughout the world.
Assistant Professor of economics; Whittier College; circa 1970
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The real world was junior high.
The real world was junior high.
by Paul Servelle on Wednesday, May 25, 2011 at 5:18am
This post was originally delivered by Tom Brokaw as a commencement address at St. Lawrence University on May 22, 2011.
The real world was junior high.
You'll be astonished by how much of the rest of your life will be consumed by the same petty jealousies you encountered in adolescence, the same irrational juvenile behavior, the cliques, the dumb jokes and hurt feelings.
Most of all, remember -- you cannot get through this world alone. You need each other -- and we need you to celebrate one another in a common cause of restoring economic justice and true value, advancing racial and religious tolerance, creating a healthier planet.
We do that by listening and reasoning not by shouting and fighting. Beware of ideological tyranny and uncompromising certainty. Do not become hostage to the orthodoxy of others.
This country was built on big, bold ideas that served the common welfare. We're a democratic republic, not a collection of fiefdoms changing the fundamental rules of governance with every election cycle.
No remarks of mine or parental advice will be adequate substitute for your own determination and commitment to excellence. We're not your GPS system; at best, as commentators and parents, we're road signs. You must find your own way and I have little doubt you will.
On these occasions in the past I've said, "It's easy to make a buck; it's tough to make difference." Then a parent suggested a re-wording: "It's tough to make a buck but if you make a lot of bucks, you can make a big difference." So for a time I offered both observations as a final word.
This year and these times required still another revision:
"It's a lot tougher to make a make a buck but making a difference has its own rich reward."
Go forth and make a difference.
God knows, we need your help.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Paul Simon is in the spot light
#1 Paul Simon is in the spot light with: Sesame Street: Paul Simon Sings Me & Julio 1972 and
The Afterlife | Paul Simon http://paulsimon.com - Here's "The Afterlife" from Paul Simon's new album "So Beautiful or So What," in stores everywhere April 12th, 2011.
ESSAY # 1 Hair-balls and laughter
Good day dear friend.
I hope you will allow me to address you as a “dear friend” in this group email. My typing skills, and lack of physical dexterity are such that what would take a person of average skills maybe 15 to 30 minutes to complete will take me an hour or two. I mean no disrespect and hope you also think of me as a dear friend of yours.
Some (most?) of you will know that after about a year of being on Face book, I have decided that it was not quite satisfying what I am trying to
accomplish. That said, I am not clear, myself, on what it is that I am trying to facilitate. Community; conversation; observation; sharing; etc.
What I, personally, am not so keen on: joining any organization; having a specific agenda; converting anyone or claiming ownership.
Here I go.
Today I wish to say something about “hair-balls and laughter”.
(Transparency requires that I reveal that I am not a cat fan nor am I a frequent laugher.)
I have an unhealthy attraction to the woes of the world. Unhealthy in much the same way as the practice of tornado chasing or rushing forward to get a close-up view of a multi-vehicle crash and catching a glimpse of victims, both the dead and the survivors.
Like other addictions, attraction to the woes of the world is a constant threat to my sobriety. Oh, I can handle just one world calamity. No I cannot!
I must be constantly aware of the power and pull of the darkness. Turn quickly away from the dark and re-direct myself to the light. The light
will save me; and it will attract ever more light to me.
One would think that repeated lessons will produce lesson learned. Not so with addictions; hiding as they do just beyond the light. But there are ways to jolt the light into the power of an outdoor search light that crosses the night sky to draw you to a grand opening of a new business. This jolt of light will drive the darkness back into smallest corner of our being.
This jolt of light serves much the same purpose as does the coughing up a hair-ball does for a cat. Once expelled, the cat is relieved and is so more at peace. The cat will accept that there will be hair-balls to be expelled in the future but for this moment there is total peace.
How can I find my way to jolt my light? Reflect on things that you turn to nourish your soul. For me that will be music, books, friends, reflection, prayer. But these are my on-going sources of light.
But what can I turn to for a real jolt? Earlier today I was talking with one of my brothers to whom I was recently re-connected. There was instant recognition that a powerful love bond remained undiminished over time and space. So we have immediate access to intimate conversation. I was down and everything I was saying had a negative edge (the woes of the world pushing back) and then he said something that was so funny and caught me
completely off guard that I laughed out-loud. And it jolted my light! It expelled my hair-ball!
It so lifted me up that I felt renewed. As to the power of laughter; no doubt.
To love and laugh: doesn’t get any better than that. (Michael Z; this one is for you!)
I hope you will allow me to address you as a “dear friend” in this group email. My typing skills, and lack of physical dexterity are such that what would take a person of average skills maybe 15 to 30 minutes to complete will take me an hour or two. I mean no disrespect and hope you also think of me as a dear friend of yours.
Some (most?) of you will know that after about a year of being on Face book, I have decided that it was not quite satisfying what I am trying to
accomplish. That said, I am not clear, myself, on what it is that I am trying to facilitate. Community; conversation; observation; sharing; etc.
What I, personally, am not so keen on: joining any organization; having a specific agenda; converting anyone or claiming ownership.
Here I go.
Today I wish to say something about “hair-balls and laughter”.
(Transparency requires that I reveal that I am not a cat fan nor am I a frequent laugher.)
I have an unhealthy attraction to the woes of the world. Unhealthy in much the same way as the practice of tornado chasing or rushing forward to get a close-up view of a multi-vehicle crash and catching a glimpse of victims, both the dead and the survivors.
Like other addictions, attraction to the woes of the world is a constant threat to my sobriety. Oh, I can handle just one world calamity. No I cannot!
I must be constantly aware of the power and pull of the darkness. Turn quickly away from the dark and re-direct myself to the light. The light
will save me; and it will attract ever more light to me.
One would think that repeated lessons will produce lesson learned. Not so with addictions; hiding as they do just beyond the light. But there are ways to jolt the light into the power of an outdoor search light that crosses the night sky to draw you to a grand opening of a new business. This jolt of light will drive the darkness back into smallest corner of our being.
This jolt of light serves much the same purpose as does the coughing up a hair-ball does for a cat. Once expelled, the cat is relieved and is so more at peace. The cat will accept that there will be hair-balls to be expelled in the future but for this moment there is total peace.
How can I find my way to jolt my light? Reflect on things that you turn to nourish your soul. For me that will be music, books, friends, reflection, prayer. But these are my on-going sources of light.
But what can I turn to for a real jolt? Earlier today I was talking with one of my brothers to whom I was recently re-connected. There was instant recognition that a powerful love bond remained undiminished over time and space. So we have immediate access to intimate conversation. I was down and everything I was saying had a negative edge (the woes of the world pushing back) and then he said something that was so funny and caught me
completely off guard that I laughed out-loud. And it jolted my light! It expelled my hair-ball!
It so lifted me up that I felt renewed. As to the power of laughter; no doubt.
To love and laugh: doesn’t get any better than that. (Michael Z; this one is for you!)
Essay # 5 Winter in Sheboygan
The lead up to the general election to be held in November 1968 was chaotic for the Democratic Party. (After his lost to JFK in 1960, Nixon was a foregone conclusion for the Republicans.) The opposition to the war was growing daily on the campuses across the country.
I was in my second year of teaching at Lakeland College located near Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Surrounded as it is by miles of cornfields and with the nearest town 20 miles away, Lakeland College would not be expected to be fertile soil for the strikes, sit-ins, rabble-risers, protest signs which had become the daily fair at the Berkeley campus of the University of California and the Madison campus of the University of Wisconsin. And, it was not fertile or even tolerant toward such “in-appropriate” activities on it’s campus.
The first significant anti-war candidate to emerge was Eugene McCarthy, a Democratic member of the U.S. Senate from the neighboring state, Minnesota. Significant, yes but serious, maybe. More of an enigma than anything else. Known in the Senate as an odd duck, aloof and a loner, given to citing obscure poetry to support whatever position he was taking on issues coming up for a vote.
When I learned that Sheboygan would be one of his first campaign stops, I was both surprised and excited. This was a “must see” event. The night of his scheduled appearance found the town of Sheboygan under a fresh 6” blanket of snow and temperatures in the mid-twenties and falling.
I am not sure what surprised me the most: the large number of Sheboyganites heading to the HS Gym or the report that candidate McCarthy was plowing through the snow and was still expected to attend the event. The size of the crowd owing perhaps more to the fact that excitement was not a regular occurrence among the predominately German-American population. A pretty and well cared for town on the banks of Lake Michigan, Sheboygan had, or so it seemed to me, a very large number of churches; all carefully trimmed and showing signs of large, active congregations.
The fact that the candidate would leave his large, comfortable, office with real fireplaces burning real logs providing both heat and that ephemeral glow of make-believe stories for 6’” of new snow turning to ice as fast as the temperature was falling was a conundrum befitting this candidacy.
Surreal is an apt description of the scene as my wife and I joined the townsfolk and the local farmers in a crunching march across the snow turned to ice landscape. The freezing cold air speeding our march as if we already had collectedly decided there was a purpose to be served here. What that purpose might be remained elusive.
Entering the Gym only intensified the vertigo among the attendees. It was very warm; the warmth being generated from all the bodies stuffed inside. And bright as in an interrogation room. And silence. As if in a church. No southern Baptist church to be sure. Were these mostly German/Dutch, town folk/farmers the forerunners of what would later be known as the “Silent Majority”?
When the dour candidate stepped forward, the awaiting microphone would not be needed. His naturally low voice could, without amplification, be easily heard in the most remote parts of the Gym.
I do not recall anything he said. For me, it conjured up attending Mass in Latin. Even today it takes my intense concentration to follow a Mass in English. It would surprise none of his colleagues in the US Senate if he had delivered his whole campaign speech in Latin.
Looking back on that evening, I become nostalgic about that evening. Maybe it is this: I prefer an authentic sermon delivered in Latin where I don’t understand the words but have no trouble hearing the message to a campaign speech perfectly understood and knowing that every word spoken is a lie.
ESSAY # 3 When mom went to work and dad hit the road
When mom went to work and dad hit the road, where did all the children go?**
Thanks to whomever was responsible for marrying two of America’s passions, sports and technology, and despite the modest fortunes of my family, I was in the very first group of Americans, even before the pre-boomer generation wave, to literally grow up with front-row seats to everything.
Although I was born in1943 (making me a WW II baby) in many ways my life journey began on what had been a typical 1949 summer day in Redwood City, CA. Contently hanging around in my front yard, mostly by myself, day-dreaming about nothing in particular. My fantasy world revolved around two poles: either “being” Black Bart, fighting off the bad guys and saving what-ever women folk (that being my mom, and my two sisters) consented to being rescued; or “being” the key player (pitcher/batter) in a key moment of a crucial baseball game. My real world time horizon extended to day’s end when my Dad would return home.
All of these memories can be triggered by a single family photo: my Dad trying to keep his white gasoline service station man uniform clean while at the same time kneeling on the backyard patio trying to gently restrain a pair
of young puppies. His black hair shining, perfectly parted and combed with
just a strain of it falling across his forehead. His dark warm eyes matching his wide, white teeth showing smile. His gentleness on full display in the way he cups his loving hands around those pups who are so excited they are trickling peep in unison onto the patio. How many times would I see and hear that same expression, saying “Okay but don’t get so excited that you hurt yourselves.” Safety was his constant concern. The constancy of this concern over his life-time would much later be seen in his chewed-up inner lips from his constant worrying about our safety.
This particular day in 1949 was not going to be in any way typical. It would actually turn our lives, all of our lives, in ways we could never of imagined.
My dad had allowed himself to be lured into a door-to-door salesman’s promise to bring a “live” baseball game into our front room; thus, did TV enter our lives. We had no need to call our friends; the whole neighborhood was a-buzz…I would hazard to say faster than the quickest of today’s
text messaging queens could accomplish. Kids we hardly spoke to at school (we Servelle kids, girl-boy-girl, were so close together in age that when separated by grade level at school we felt separation anxiety) now were coming around to our house after school. Re-united and safely at home, we kids were happy to welcome our new friends into our home. We didn’t know it, but we had acquire a certain “cache“ along with our TV.
Even with our own children to learn from, our knowledge and perception of children has come, in no small measure from, surprise, TV! A long line of “kid” shows have addressed themselves primarily to children. Beginning in the early fifties with the growing access to in-home TVs, popular kid shows featured “real” children. A fore-runner of the current rash of “Reality TV” shows, these shows would typically have a re-occurring group of kids chosen to represent real kids.
From Art Linkletter‘s, “kids who say the funniest (darnest?) things“, to Mr. Rogers’ serene neighborhood; to learning with Big Bird & Barney; to having fun with Bill Cosby’s’ “hey, hey, hey.”, the notion of who and what it was like to be a kid emerged. No matter that these kids were chosen for their acting talent and were given clever lines to deliver. Thus, our idealized children were bright, happy, knowing, loving and virtuous. But what about the real reality. If the children you know are bright, happy, knowing, loving and virtuous, you bear witness to a miracle that should be treated as such.
If you don’t know many kids that exhibit most of these positive traits, shouldn’t you wonder why. I believe that worry over what is wrong with our kids is truly the number one concern among most Americans. Certainly, there is no shortage of remedies in the market place. Take pills, eat healthy, exercise, live in a tree house, love your parents/hate your parents, go away to boarding school, be home schooled or get over it.
The child development experts, from Dr. Spock, to Dr. Brazelton and, now, Dr Phil have been more than ready to say what a normal child could be, if only, they were “appropriately” nurtured. Thanks a lot Docs. Duh.
A disconnect occurs when we try to reconcile this “model” child with all the real children that we know. A source of the disconnect is how few of our children are “appropriately” nurtured. While the details of “appropriately” would undoubtedly be debated, I believe a consensus exists for the broad elements of such nurturing.
The elements would likely include: safety, consistency, respect, affection, positive reinforcement, caring inter-action, play, talking, reading and holding. The providers of this nurturing can be anyone who can “genuinely” offer such nurturing. The sad and troubling reality is that there are vastly fewer providers of “genuine” nurturing then there are children to be nurtured.
Little mention will be made of the obvious outcomes resulting so often from the absence of nurturing parenting. Head of house today is more likely to be a working single parent than a clone of the likes of Donna Reid, or Ozzie Nelson or Fred Murray’s Father Knows Best. Far too few in our society ever develop an understanding of their own self -worth and therefore are unable to imbue others with it. Lacking a sense of something (anything) having value, it easily is concluded that all things (including lives) are value-less. And value-less things need no consideration, or compassion or other human emotion. Generations of single mom house-holds (where are the dads) have relied on whatever help they can find to deal with school drop-outs, bullies, and, in too many instances, non-feeling, loners that do monstrous deeds.
I raise this question: “if parenting (or it’s absence) is so powerful in determining who we become, why do we leave it to chance.?” One would expect that we would forget about everything else and concentrate our full attention on improving the chances (e.g. “increasing the odds”) that we end up with individuals who understand and respect the notion that all of our individual actions, good/and bad ones, come with some consequence attached to them like an unrelenting shadow. And, alas, that the individual gives a damn about that consequence.
** Bob Dylan
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell.
When I'm gone don't wonder where I be.
Just say that I trusted in God and that Christ was in me.
Say He defeated the devil, He was God's chosen Son
And that there ain't no man righteous, no not one.
Thanks to whomever was responsible for marrying two of America’s passions, sports and technology, and despite the modest fortunes of my family, I was in the very first group of Americans, even before the pre-boomer generation wave, to literally grow up with front-row seats to everything.
Although I was born in1943 (making me a WW II baby) in many ways my life journey began on what had been a typical 1949 summer day in Redwood City, CA. Contently hanging around in my front yard, mostly by myself, day-dreaming about nothing in particular. My fantasy world revolved around two poles: either “being” Black Bart, fighting off the bad guys and saving what-ever women folk (that being my mom, and my two sisters) consented to being rescued; or “being” the key player (pitcher/batter) in a key moment of a crucial baseball game. My real world time horizon extended to day’s end when my Dad would return home.
All of these memories can be triggered by a single family photo: my Dad trying to keep his white gasoline service station man uniform clean while at the same time kneeling on the backyard patio trying to gently restrain a pair
of young puppies. His black hair shining, perfectly parted and combed with
just a strain of it falling across his forehead. His dark warm eyes matching his wide, white teeth showing smile. His gentleness on full display in the way he cups his loving hands around those pups who are so excited they are trickling peep in unison onto the patio. How many times would I see and hear that same expression, saying “Okay but don’t get so excited that you hurt yourselves.” Safety was his constant concern. The constancy of this concern over his life-time would much later be seen in his chewed-up inner lips from his constant worrying about our safety.
This particular day in 1949 was not going to be in any way typical. It would actually turn our lives, all of our lives, in ways we could never of imagined.
My dad had allowed himself to be lured into a door-to-door salesman’s promise to bring a “live” baseball game into our front room; thus, did TV enter our lives. We had no need to call our friends; the whole neighborhood was a-buzz…I would hazard to say faster than the quickest of today’s
text messaging queens could accomplish. Kids we hardly spoke to at school (we Servelle kids, girl-boy-girl, were so close together in age that when separated by grade level at school we felt separation anxiety) now were coming around to our house after school. Re-united and safely at home, we kids were happy to welcome our new friends into our home. We didn’t know it, but we had acquire a certain “cache“ along with our TV.
Even with our own children to learn from, our knowledge and perception of children has come, in no small measure from, surprise, TV! A long line of “kid” shows have addressed themselves primarily to children. Beginning in the early fifties with the growing access to in-home TVs, popular kid shows featured “real” children. A fore-runner of the current rash of “Reality TV” shows, these shows would typically have a re-occurring group of kids chosen to represent real kids.
From Art Linkletter‘s, “kids who say the funniest (darnest?) things“, to Mr. Rogers’ serene neighborhood; to learning with Big Bird & Barney; to having fun with Bill Cosby’s’ “hey, hey, hey.”, the notion of who and what it was like to be a kid emerged. No matter that these kids were chosen for their acting talent and were given clever lines to deliver. Thus, our idealized children were bright, happy, knowing, loving and virtuous. But what about the real reality. If the children you know are bright, happy, knowing, loving and virtuous, you bear witness to a miracle that should be treated as such.
If you don’t know many kids that exhibit most of these positive traits, shouldn’t you wonder why. I believe that worry over what is wrong with our kids is truly the number one concern among most Americans. Certainly, there is no shortage of remedies in the market place. Take pills, eat healthy, exercise, live in a tree house, love your parents/hate your parents, go away to boarding school, be home schooled or get over it.
The child development experts, from Dr. Spock, to Dr. Brazelton and, now, Dr Phil have been more than ready to say what a normal child could be, if only, they were “appropriately” nurtured. Thanks a lot Docs. Duh.
A disconnect occurs when we try to reconcile this “model” child with all the real children that we know. A source of the disconnect is how few of our children are “appropriately” nurtured. While the details of “appropriately” would undoubtedly be debated, I believe a consensus exists for the broad elements of such nurturing.
The elements would likely include: safety, consistency, respect, affection, positive reinforcement, caring inter-action, play, talking, reading and holding. The providers of this nurturing can be anyone who can “genuinely” offer such nurturing. The sad and troubling reality is that there are vastly fewer providers of “genuine” nurturing then there are children to be nurtured.
Little mention will be made of the obvious outcomes resulting so often from the absence of nurturing parenting. Head of house today is more likely to be a working single parent than a clone of the likes of Donna Reid, or Ozzie Nelson or Fred Murray’s Father Knows Best. Far too few in our society ever develop an understanding of their own self -worth and therefore are unable to imbue others with it. Lacking a sense of something (anything) having value, it easily is concluded that all things (including lives) are value-less. And value-less things need no consideration, or compassion or other human emotion. Generations of single mom house-holds (where are the dads) have relied on whatever help they can find to deal with school drop-outs, bullies, and, in too many instances, non-feeling, loners that do monstrous deeds.
I raise this question: “if parenting (or it’s absence) is so powerful in determining who we become, why do we leave it to chance.?” One would expect that we would forget about everything else and concentrate our full attention on improving the chances (e.g. “increasing the odds”) that we end up with individuals who understand and respect the notion that all of our individual actions, good/and bad ones, come with some consequence attached to them like an unrelenting shadow. And, alas, that the individual gives a damn about that consequence.
** Bob Dylan
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell.
When I'm gone don't wonder where I be.
Just say that I trusted in God and that Christ was in me.
Say He defeated the devil, He was God's chosen Son
And that there ain't no man righteous, no not one.
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