Tag Archives: history

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: The Ghosts of Shoeless Joe and Charlie Hustle

Did you know that you can now place bets on the speed of a particular pitch that is about to be thrown in a Major League Baseball game? Did you know that you can bet on the outcome of the next running play in a National Football League game? You can even bet on whether the next shot in a National Basketball Association game will be a two-pointer or a three-pointer.

It’s called “micro-betting” and it is just one way in which the reach and profitability of sports betting has exploded in recent years. If you watched the World Series this year, you might have noticed that almost every other commercial was for a sports betting app or service. Bettors are now able to wager as well on the performances of individual players. How many points will my team’s shooting guard score? How many strikeouts will my team’s starting pitcher have? How many receiving yards will my team’s tight end gain? This isn’t your dad’s sports betting, to borrow a clichéd phrase. It’s not just about who wins and loses and by how much. Gambling has seeped into pretty much every part of every game in every sport. And this new gambling reality is starting to impact the integrity of the major professional leagues.

Gambling is a vice, obviously. For many, it is an addiction. It can be argued that any legalized gambling places some people at risk — gamblers themselves as well as their family members, not to mention those who may be victims of the organized crime syndicates that often involve themselves in gambling. State sponsored gambling in the form of lotteries has long been controversial. It would be irresponsible of me not to mention all of this, even if these things are not the subjects of today’s post. For the purposes of this essay, I will focus my discussion on the new developments in sports betting.

Over the weekend, two pitchers for the Cleveland Guardians, relievers Emmanuel Clase and Luis Ortiz, were indicted on gambling charges. Prosecutors allege that the two pitchers told associates ahead of their late-inning appearances what pitches they would throw in sequence. Those in the know would place a bet that, say, their fourth pitch would be clocked below 95 mph and would result in a ball or a hit batsman. The relievers would then throw a wild slider on that fourth pitch and would later receive a share of the winnings.

Videos accompanying the mobile version New York Times story about the scheme show Clase, a three time all-star and one of the best relievers in the game over the past several seasons, burying the bet-upon pitches in the dirt in front of home plate again and again and again. One of those pitches bounced up and struck his team’s catcher in the shoulder, causing the catcher to clutch his shoulder in pain.

This baseball scandal comes only a couple of weeks after the National Basketball Association was caught up in a gambling scandal of its own. Chauncey Billups, a coach and former player, Terry Rozier, a current player, and Damon Jones, a current assistant coach, have been arrested for their roles in the illegal activity. They would inform bettors of inside information on upcoming games — which players were hurt and would not appear — so that the gamblers could more accurately predict the games’ outcomes. In one instance, Rozier told gamblers to bet on him underperforming in an upcoming game. He then faked an injury during the game and removed himself from play in order to keep his statistics low. The men were also involved in a poker cheating scheme that involved mafia figures, which has nothing to do with NBA games directly, but seems like a really bad idea . . . .

Since a 2018 Supreme Court case loosening restrictions on sports betting, similar cases have led to harsh disciplinary action being taken against other players in the NFL and NBA, as well as in Major League Baseball. For baseball, though, gambling is more than just a recent problem. It is, in a sense, the sport’s original sin, the historic black eye that shaped its early development into “the national pastime.”

In 1919, the Chicago White Sox played the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series. Eight of its players, including star outfielder Joe Jackson, are said to have conspired with gamblers to throw the series to the Reds, earning themselves a lifelong ban from baseball, and the sobriquet “the Black Sox.” The Black Sox scandal has been the subject of two fine movies: Eight Men Out, starring John Cusack and directed by John Sayles; and a personal favorite of mine, Field of Dreams, starring Kevin Costner, Amy Madigan, and James Earl Jones. Both portray the players as simple-minded, easily duped by the gamblers who paid them, and, in the case of Joe Jackson, innocent, despite the fact that he accepted a payment of $5,000. I offer no opinion on the matter; I don’t know enough about the particulars. But I grew up hearing about the Black Sox. Because in the wake of the scandal, baseball’s owners hired Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis as baseball’s first commissioner (in fact, if not name) to oversee the direction of the sport and to cleanse it of gambling influence. For a long time it worked.

Pete RoseUntil Pete Rose came along. For those you who don’t know the name, Rose was one of baseball’s biggest stars in the 1960s and 1970s. A winner of the Rookie of the Year Award in 1963 and the Most Valuable Player award a decade later, he was a key figure in the Cincinnati Reds’ dynasty of the mid-70s. He won several batting titles, finished his playing career as the Major League’s career leader in hits (as well as in games played and at bats), and was a shoe-in to be inducted into the Hall of Fame in his first year of eligibility.

Now, I should say here that I never liked Rose. He was what people call “a hard-nosed player.” He was intense and competitive. His fans called him “Charlie Hustle,” because he always played like his life depended on it. If he drew a walk, which he did a lot, he wouldn’t jog to first base like most players, he’d run full tilt. During one memorable all-star game, which is essentially an exhibition game that counts for nothing but bragging rights, he won the contest for the National League by barreling over the American League catcher, Ray Fosse, to score the winning run. In the process, he broke two of Fosse’s ribs. The catcher was never the same. In short, Pete Rose was an asshole. His “hustle” was, to my mind, showmanship. “Look at me! Look how I run even when I don’t have to.” He was a great baseball player — I would never dispute that — but after his playing days were through and he had become a manager, I was not at all surprised to learn that he had been accused of betting on baseball games, including those in which his teams played. Rose denied it for years, but the evidence was clear and, like the White Sox players, he was banned from baseball and deemed ineligible for the Hall of Fame. In a 2004 autobiography, he finally confirmed what everyone else already knew: that he had, in fact, bet on games involving his team.

My point in retracing this history is quite simple: Gambling and sports mix poorly. I’m not naïve. So long as there are contests on which to wager, people will look to make money by betting on them. I know this. Players are, by nature competitive people, and at times, during the full grind of a 162-game season, their interest in just winning games might wane. I always believed that Rose bet on baseball because, once his playing career ended, managing wasn’t intense enough for him. He needed more of an edge, more excitement. He also probably didn’t handle his money well, as evidenced by his 1990 conviction for tax evasion. Other players have faced similar issues post retirement. But this is all the more reason to avoid making every play of every game a betting opportunity. Because as long as players are the subjects of wagers, they are going to feel that they have some right to be cut in on the winnings. It’s hard to argue with them on this, even if it is illegal and against established league bylaws. So why create the incentive? The games ought to be interesting enough. Failing that, being able to bet on the outcome of those games, ought to add interest enough. Allowing bets on every play, not to mention on every players’ individual performance, creates too much incentive to break the rules. And this applies across all sports at all levels.

For the better part of a century, Shoeless Joe Jackson and Pete Rose were among the exceptions — players who couldn’t resist the allure of easy money. Today’s sports betting rules and the resulting ubiquity of gambling, make the temptation too great. There are bound to be a lot more scandals going forward.

Have a great week. I bet you will . . . .

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Tuesday Musings: Our Most Sacred Amendment

I have avoided posting for some time now. Not because things have been going badly — they haven’t. I feel that I am doing well, that our family is doing well. But it’s hard to post about things like travel (we spent a couple of weeks in Maine at the end of August) or the stuff we’ve been streaming and I’ve been reading (Poker Face, Wednesday — season two; the new Guy Gavriel Kay novel and Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel) when around us our nation continues its descent into hatred and chaos.

I don’t want to write about the Cheese-Doodle-In-Chief. I don’t want to write about a hopelessly compromised Supreme Court enabling our drift into authoritarianism. I don’t want to write about the hypocrisy of the right, who mocked the assassination of two political leaders in Minnesota earlier this summer but now profess outrage at all who point out that Charlie Kirk, while not deserving of his violent fate, spewed hate speech throughout his political career. I don’t want to think about, much less write about, the imperiling of American children by RFK, Jr., and his fellow quacks.

I also don’t want to write yet again about my grief. It is what it is. It will never go away. But I can live with it. I WILL write about Alex next month, on the anniversary of her passing, but for now I am not willing to go there.

So, what does that leave?

Constitution
(c) 2006 Bonnie Jacobs

Well, how about freedom of speech?

The recent cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, and the subsequent (and apparently short-lived) suspension of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, have demonstrated the fragility and the resilience of our most sacred and basic Constitutional right. Colbert and Kimmel ran afoul of the current Administration by having the gall (/sarcasm) to speak critically of the aforementioned Cheese-Doodle-In-Chief. Colbert went after him relentlessly for months, highlighting every contradiction, every ridiculous boast, every gaffe, and doing so with his characteristic wit, aplomb, and intelligence. Kimmel did much the same thing, but apparently went too far when he pointed out that Charlie Kirk’s killer, whom the MAGA right had prematurely characterized as a far-left, transgender, un-American hater of all things wholesome and patriotic, turned out to be the Mormon, gun-toting, scion of a White, Republican family.

The Cheese-Doodle wanted these men (Colbert and Kimmel) off the air, and he was willing to pressure their networks to make this happen by using the full weight of the Federal Communication Commission’s regulatory power. Think about that. The President of the United States used the power of the government to force off the air comedians who dared to criticize him. This is something one might expect to happen in Cuba or Russia, China or North Korea, Iran or Venezuela, Saudi Arabia or Myanmar. But here?

As it turns out, people in this country don’t like government censorship of the airways. Less than a week after the announcement of Kimmel’s suspension, he is set to return to late night television this week. ABC/Disney faced a growing boycott on multiple levels, including subscription cancellations and celebrities withdrawing from previously scheduled appearances. They quickly caved. CBS’s firing of Colbert seems more likely to stick, but in the wake of that firing, Colbert’s ratings, already the highest in the late-night category, surged. And last week, his show won its first Emmy Award.

It seems that when at least some of our core rights as Americans are threatened, we get our collective back up.

This, of course, has done nothing to curb the Chief Doodle’s appetite for speech suppression. In just the past few days he has called for the censorship of all network news programs that don’t pander to him. “It’s no longer free speech,” he said, speaking of networks that he perceives as too critical of his Presidency. He called such criticism “illegal.” He recently sued the New York Times for $15 billion (yes, billion, with a “b”) citing the paper’s negative coverage of his 2024 campaign. The suit was dismissed within days, but he and his lawyers are bound to try again. Late last week, the Pentagon announced new and unprecedented restrictions on press access to the military, suggesting that only Pentagon-approved access will be tolerated.

Make no mistake, First Amendment rights are under attack from this Administration on multiple fronts. We the people can fight these assaults, but as the Cheese Doodle broadens his siege against our system of government, continued resistance becomes harder and harder to maintain. That is his hope, of course. He has four years. He is waging a war of attrition, hoping and expecting to wear us down.

But why? What does he hope to gain? Why does he hate our Constitution so much? I can’t answer. I can’t imagine. Few in this country have benefited more from all society has to offer than this undeserving, talentless, incompetent, incurious, unintelligent boor of a man. Despite his many shortcomings, he is rich, famous, powerful. Why would he seek to destroy the country that has given him so much?

If you can answer, you’re smarter than I am.

And look: I wrote about him after all.

Damn.

Have a good week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Tuesday Musings: Ruminations After Our Latest Travels

This past week, Nancy and I spent a few days in Philadelphia. I hadn’t been there since the World Science Fiction Convention of 2001 (known, I kid you not, as Millennium PhilCon — think of the name of Han Solo’s ship…). Nancy had never been.

We ate well, did a lot of walking and exploring, and had a wonderful visit, despite triple-digit heat for our first two days there. We visited the Barnes Foundation — a fabulous art museum. We went to Philadelphia’s Magic Garden, which, for those unfamiliar with fully immersive art environments, is really worth a visit. It is an art installation, indoors and out, that makes use of broken plates and bottles and glass, parts of old bicycles and household items, folk art from around the world, and original work by the founding artist, Isaiah Zagar, to create a cityscape that is stunning, whimsical, thought-provoking, and truly awe-inspiring. We went to a Phillies game Friday night, which was really fun and ended in a thrilling, come-from-behind win for the home team.

Philadelphia's Magic Garden
A corner of Philadelphia’s Magic Garden. Photo by David B. Coe

And, of course, we went to Independence Park in the old city, not far from where we stayed. There, we saw the Liberty Bell, the Museum of the American Revolution, and Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, and the U.S. Constitution were signed in 1776, 1777, and 1787 respectively.

It is easy to glorify the founders. We do it every day in this country. We focus on their brilliance, and many of them were brilliant. We celebrate their courage, and as a group they were quite brave. We marvel, with cause, at their creativity and their understanding of history and political thought. Their achievements — the eloquence of the Declaration, and the elegance of the representative republic envisioned in our Constitution — deserve to be celebrated.

But it is also necessary, especially in this historical moment, as our system of government staggers through the authoritarian nightmare of this current Administration, to remember that the Continental and Constitutional Congresses were riven by sectional conflict, competing interests, cross-cutting rivalries that bred suspicions and hostilities. We cannot ignore the fact that too often the Founders chose to follow their basest instincts: their racism, their classism and snobbery, their dismissal of women’s concerns and opinions. For all their brilliance and courage and creativity, they were deeply human. They were stubborn, prideful, set in their ways and defined by their times. They were bigots, many of them. They were driven by their hunger for power and influence. And, understandably, they could not foresee many of the problems that arose as the nation they created moved from infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood and beyond.

They saddled us with the Second Amendment, counted slaves literally as less than human, and ignored women altogether. They laid the groundwork for the Civil War, and ultimately built a system that is completely dependent on the pure motives and good will of their political heirs. Their naïveté, it turns out, may prove to be too much for today’s leaders to overcome. They never imagined that a man driven solely by self-interest and ego, someone who cares not a whit for the democratic principles they honored, could ever find his way to the highest office in the land. Had they managed to imagine a man like our current President, they would have created a very different government.

Assembly Room of Independence Hall, Philadelphia
The Assembly Room of Independence Hall, Philadelphia. Photo by David B. Coe

But here is the point, the thought that buoyed me as we stood before the Liberty Bell, and gazed upon the desks where Madison and Franklin, Hamilton and Washington, Dickinson and Morris and Sherman and so many others did their work: For all their faults, and despite all that divided those congresses more than two centuries ago, they managed to build the country of which they dreamed. Yes, it is flawed as they were themselves. Yes, the mistakes they made in writing the Constitution have precipitated catastrophes that have threatened to tear the nation to pieces. And yes, we have seen villains before, men who have sought to exploit the weaknesses of what the Founders built — the Palmers (Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer — look him up) and McCarthys, the Hardings and Nixons. Is Trump worse than these others? Maybe. He’s greedier, less of a patriot, more corrupt. He’s also far less intelligent than any of the others, which gives me hope.

As a nation, we have careened from crisis to crisis. And yet, here we are still. Most other nations have been through every bit as much as we have over the past 250 years, if not more. Our system is messy and inefficient. At times it is anti-democratic. It fosters the same bigotries that ailed the Constitutional Congress two and a half centuries ago. And today it faces threats that are terrifying and unprecedented. As I stood in Independence Hall, though, I found myself believing — truly believing — that we as a nation would survive this newest crisis, that the country created all those years ago by men of imperfect genius would not be undone by a two-bit, tin-pot dictator and his feckless lackeys.

Here’s hoping that my optimism proves well-founded.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, teaching, Writing

Monday Musings: Some Recent Epiphanies

The title speaks for itself. These are recent epiphanies I’ve had. Some are profound others less so. Enjoy.

Polaris Award, David B. Coe 2025Last weekend, at ConCarolinas, I was honored with the Polaris Award, which is given each year by the folks at Falstaff Books to a professional who has served the community and industry by mentoring young writers (young career-wise, not necessarily age-wise). I was humbled and deeply grateful. And later, it occurred to me that early in my career, I would probably have preferred a “more prestigious” award that somehow, subjectively, declared my latest novel or story “the best.” Not now. Not with this. I was, essentially, being recognized for being a good person, someone who takes time to help others. What could possibly be better than that?

Nancy and I recently went back to our old home in Tennessee for the wedding of the son of dear, dear friends. Ahead of the weekend, I was feeling a bit uneasy about returning there. By the time we left last fall, we had come to feel a bit alienated from the place, and we were constantly confronting memories of Alex — everywhere we turned, we found reminders of her. But upon arriving there this spring, I recognized that I had control over who and what I saw and did and even recalled. I avoided places that were too steeped in hard memories. I never went near our old house — I didn’t want to see it if it looked exactly the same, and I really didn’t want to see it if the new owners made a ton of changes! But most of all, I took care of myself and thus prevented the anxieties I’d harbored ahead of time from ruining what turned out to be a fun visit. I may suffer from anxiety, but I am not necessarily subject to it. I am, finally, at an advanced age, learning to take care of myself.

Even if I do not make it to “genius” on the Spelling Bee AND solve the Mini AND the Crossword AND Wordle AND Connections AND Strands each day, the world will still continue to turn. Yep. It’s true.

I do not know when or if I will ever write another word of fiction. But when and if I do, it will be because I want to, because I have a story I need to tell, something that I am certain I will love. Which is as it should be.

The lyric is, “She’s got electric boots/A mohair suit/You know I read it in a magazine.” Honest to God.

I am never going to play center field for the Yankees. I am never going to appear on a concert stage with any of my rock ‘n roll heroes. I am never going to be six feet tall. Or anywhere near it. All of this may seem laughably obvious. Honestly, it IS laughably obvious. But the dreams of our childhood and adolescence die hard. And the truth is, even as we age, we never stop feeling like the “ourself” we met when we were young.

Grief is an alloy forged of loss and memory and love. The stronger the love, and the greater the loss, and the more poignant the memories, the more powerful the grief. Loss sucks, but grief is as precious as the rarest metals — as precious as love and memory.

As a student of U.S. History — a holder of a doctorate in the field — I always assumed that our system of government, for all its obvious flaws and blind spots, was durable and strong. I believed that if it could survive the War of 1812 and the natural growing pains of an early republic, if it could emerge alive, despite its wounds, from Civil War and Reconstruction, if it could weather the stains of McCarthyism and Vietnam and Watergate, it could survive anything. I was terribly wrong. As it turns out, our Constitutional Republic is only as secure as the good intentions of its principle actors. Checks and balances, separation of powers, the norms of civil governance — they are completely dependent on the willingness of those engaged in governing to follow historical norms. Elect people who are driven not by patriotism but by greed and vengeance, bigotry and arrogance, unbridled ego and an insatiable hunger for power, and our republic turns out to be as brittle as centuries-old paper, as ephemeral as false promises, as fragile as life itself.

I think the legalization of weed is a good thing. Legal penalties for use and possession were (and, in some states, still are) grossly disproportionate to the crime, and they usually fell/fall most heavily on people of color and those without the financial resources necessary to defend themselves. So, it’s really a very, very good thing. But let’s be honest: Part of the fun of getting high used to be the knowledge that we were doing something forbidden, something that put us on the wrong side of the law. It allowed otherwise well-behaved kids to feel like they (we) were edgy and daring. There’s a small part of me that misses that. Though it’s not enough to make me move back to Tennessee….

I’ll stop there for today. Perhaps I’ll revisit this idea in future posts.

In the meantime, have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: American Truth-Tellers

Last weekend, we went into Albany, with my brother and sister-in-law, to have dinner with friends of theirs, and to attend an exhibit at the lovely Albany Institute of History and Art. The exhibit is called “Americans Who Tell The Truth,” and it features portraits by Robert Shetterly, along with quotes from his truth-telling subjects.

Shetterly’s art is unusual. His portraits are simple, even primitive in some respects. The bodies of his subjects, and the backgrounds of his paintings, are flat, lacking in detail, unremarkable. But the faces are nuanced, instantly recognizable, filled with life and spirit and personality. And the names of the subjects, as well as their quotations, are scratched into the paintings themselves (while the paint is still wet, as my brother, the painter, pointed out). Shetterly has painted more than two-hundred truth-tellers, including forty-two that have been selected for the Institute’s exhibit. Some of those included are obvious selections. Others are less well-known, and still others have somewhat checkered histories, which makes for an interesting blend of portraits.

On the one hand, featured subjects include Rosa Parks and Bayard Rustin, Pete Seeger and Ella Baker, Cecile Richards, the late president of Planned Parenthood, and Sister Helen Prejean, the anti-death-penalty crusader portrayed in the movie Dead Man Walking. But among the other truth-tellers whose portraits are on display, are John Brown, the anti-slavery activist whose violent raid on Harper’s Ferry in 1859 resulted in several deaths and helped to spark the Civil War; Mother Jones, the late-Nineteenth/early-Twentieth century labor organizer and activist; Frank Serpico, the New York city cop who resisted and later exposed corruption within the police department, at risk of his own life, and whose harrowing story was brought to life in Serpico, a 1973 movie starring Al Pacino and directed by Sidney Lumet.

"Leah Penniman" by Robert ShetterlyYet, the figures who fascinated me most during our afternoon at the museum were those of whom I’d known nothing — not even their names — before seeing the exhibit. One of them was Leah Penniman, a food justice advocate and activist whose portrait exudes warmth and joy. Her quote is wonderful and worth repeating in full:

Our ancestral grandmothers braided seeds and promise into their hair before being forced into the bowels of transatlantic ships. As they plaited their okra, cowpea, millet and black rice into tight cornrows, they affirmed their hope in a future on soil. They whispered to us, their descendants:
“The road may be rough, but we will never give up on you.”

"Grace Lee Boggs" by Robert ShetterlyAnother was Grace Lee Boggs, an author and community organizer, who gazes out from her portrait appearing tough, frank, unwilling to put up with any BS. Her quote:

People are aware that they cannot continue in the same old way but are immobilized because they cannot imagine an alternative… We need a vision that recognizes that we are at one of the great turning points in human history when the survival of our planet and the restoration of our humanity requires a great sea change in our ecological, economic, political, and spiritual values.

Few moments in our nation’s history have demanded more of American truth-tellers than the one we find ourselves in right now. We are governed by liars, bombarded by falsehoods every time we go online or turn on certain news channels, confronted by people — some of them friends, some of them family, most of them well-meaning — who have armed themselves with misinformation in order to parrot talking points they have heard on TV or from someone else who might be equally well-meaning and equally misinformed. Just the other day, I encountered online a post from someone I like and respect, who was repeating the jumble of untruths and recklessly manipulated data used by this Administration to justify their disastrous tariffs. I didn’t bother to comment. I didn’t wish to alienate a friend, nor did I have the energy or inclination to engage in a flame war. Instead, I allowed the disinformation to go unchallenged. I’m not proud of this.

Fallacy, disingenuousness, quackery, distortion. They pummel us. They insinuate themselves into every discourse. They are disheartening, infuriating, exhausting.

Which makes Robert Shetterly’s bold honoring of those who have stood up for truth again and again, all the more admirable, all the more important. We as a people have been challenged before by those who traffic in lies, and ultimately honesty has prevailed. Truth broke Joseph McCarthy’s fear-driven hold on the U.S. Congress, just as it ended the corrupt presidency of Richard Nixon. I choose to believe that it will wash away the bullshit that currently coats our most sacred institutions. But I have to be willing to stand up for honestly when next I am presented the opportunity. All of us do. We need to be inspired by those who inspired this exhibition.

"Bill Moyers" by Robert ShetterlyOne of my favorite portraits was of a media hero of mine, PBS’s Bill Moyers. I will leave it to him to have the last word:

The framers of our nation never imagined what could happen if big government, big publishing, and big broadcasters ever saw eye to eye in putting the public’s need for news second to their own interests – and to the ideology of market economics.

The greatest moments in the history of the press came not when journalists made common cause with the state but when they stood fearlessly independent of it.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: Thoughts After Visiting My Kid

Last week, I flew out to Colorado to visit, Erin. Now, it goes without saying that I will leap at any chance to have time with my Peanut. I don’t need excuses to visit. But in this case, we had a bit of an agenda. Erin was in need of a car, and I went out to help her with the purchase.

Yes, she is 25 years old and could have done all of it on her own. But here’s the thing. Statistics show that women, on average, pay more for cars — new and used — than do men. In fact, White men pay the least of all. Women and all people of color will, on average, pay more for the same car, in the same regions, and even at the same dealerships. This is not an imagined form of discrimination. This is real and documented and supported by data.

So, out to Denver I went. We found her a car at a decent price. She’s happy, and I had time with my darling girl.

Erin in her new car!
Erin in her new car!

But . . .

The other night, I finally saw On The Basis of Sex, the Ruth Bader Ginsberg biopic that came out in 2018. The movie is, of course, a Hollywood take on an extraordinary historical figure, and so is bound to suffer from some flaws. But it offers an unstinting look at the barriers placed before RBG, who was always the smartest person in whatever room she entered, and always the best lawyer in any courtroom she graced. In this way, it reminded me of 42, the Jackie Robinson biopic starring the late Chadwick Boseman, and Hidden Figures, which told the stories of Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughn, and Mary Jackson, Black NASA mathematicians whose revolutionary work helped make possible the American space program.

In all of these movies (and countless other similar films that I have failed to mention) we are reminded of the irrefutable truth that sexism and racism (as well as homophobia, religious bigotry, and discrimination against people with disabilities) create nearly insurmountable barriers to success for too many.

And this is the insidiousness of the current Administration’s hysterical and irrational assault on DEI programs across the country. The assumption underlying this “policy” is that white, cis, straight males are the standard that define what it means to be qualified and competent. This is, of course, utterly ridiculous, and to see how foolish it is, take a moment to read any online biography of General Charles Q. Brown, the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff fired by the present occupant of the White House for no other reason than because he happens to be Black. For that matter, take a moment to read a biography of Admiral Linda Fagan, the first female commandant of the Coast Guard, or Admiral Lisa Franchetti, the first woman to serve as Chief of Naval Operations and thus the first female member of the Joint Chiefs. Both were fired, apparently, because they’re woman and, like Brown, were seen by the Administration as “DEI hires.”

As if the Administration itself isn’t filled with (and led by) hires that are based entirely on race and gender! Does anyone honestly think that Pete Hegseth would be Secretary of ANYTHING if he weren’t a straight White guy? Does anyone think that Donald Trump would be anything more than a two-bit grifter if he hadn’t been born White, male, and rich-as-fuck?

When I was in graduate school, my (white male) advisor told me the story of how he came to be hired as a history professor at Stanford. He happened to be in the office of his (white male) advisor when the (white male) chair of the history department at Stanford phoned the aforementioned advisor, who was an old pal from Yale. The history department chairman said, “We have an opening here for an American history professor. Do you have any grad students who are on the verge of finishing their dissertations?”

“Actually, I have one sitting right here, and he’d be perfect.” At that point, my advisor’s advisor turned the conversation over to my future advisor who was “interviewed” and hired on the spot.

They call it an Old Boys Network for a reason, and such advancement has long been available to White men across academia, as well as throughout the business world, the legal and medical professions, politics, and in pretty much every other professional realm imaginable. Was my advisor qualified for the job? Absolutely. Was he more qualified than anyone else — of any race, gender, or group — who might have sought the job at Stanford had it been advertised and thrown open to all properly credentialed applicants? Who knows?

DEI is not intended to give an unfair advantage to underrepresented groups. Rather it is intended as a corrective for a culture, society, and economic system that have been tilted in favor of White men literally for centuries.

And yes, I count myself among those who have benefited from that uneven playing field. Absolutely I do! I was born White, male, upper-middle class. I’m straight. I was given every opportunity to succeed — I grew up in a nice house, in a good school system, raised by parents who fed me well, kept me safe, and took an active role in my education. I was taught from an early age that being smart, and being perceived as smart, are good things. I never faced any social pressure to hide my intelligence in order to be deemed “more attractive,” as so many girls my age were. I never feared the police. I never was called by the “N” word, as my best friend was, in my presence, when we were twelve. When the time came, I was in an economic position that allowed me to attend an Ivy League university. What an advantage all of that was! My privilege set me up for success. I know this. And I deal with it the only way I know how: by being an ally to those who didn’t have my privilege, and by fighting (and voting) for social justice and economic equality at every opportunity. Yes, I’m Woke. You’re damn right I am.

The current Administration is attempting to reverse more than half a century of progress on women’s rights, Civil Rights, LGBTQ+ rights, and antipoverty efforts. Why? Because they see anything that further levels the playing field as being to their personal disadvantage. Many of their supporters feel the same way. They would rather perpetuate a system filled with bias, one that rewards mediocrity by limiting competition from qualified women, qualified people of color, qualified people with disabilities, qualified people who identify as queer. They are terrified by the surety that if forced to compete with a wider group of skilled, talented people, they are likely to lose out. And they’re probably right. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are pursuing an ideological agenda that is immoral, cruel, and bad for our country.

Wishing you a good week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Happy Wednesday: More On Africa, With LOTS Of Photos!!

As I mentioned in my Monday post, Nancy and I spent the last week of September and the first two weeks of October exploring South Africa. I will admit up front that a part of me balked at the idea of going in the first place. I came of age during the anti-Apartheid campaigns of the early 1980s. I protested Brown’s investment policies and even attended an (overly polite and non-confrontational) “sit-in” of the university registrar’s office.

The transfer of power negotiated by Nelson Mandela and F.W. De Klerk in 1993 (for which the two men shared that year’s Nobel Peace Prize) dismantled the Apartheid regime and led to majority governance in the country, ending decades of brutality and autocratic rule by the nation’s White minority. But to this day, vast economic inequalities persist throughout the country. Houses in White neighborhoods are almost universally fronted by electrified fences and curls of razor wire. Black townships remain overcrowded, rundown, filled with tiny houses fashioned from wood scraps and sheets of corrugated steel. Many townships still struggle to provide electricity and plumbing. Crime in South Africa is rampant; it has the fifth highest crime index in the world, and has seen epidemics of murders and gang activity in recent years.

And as White tourists in the country, traveling from the States, Nancy and I knew that we would be safely ensconced in the White economy, guarded by those electric fences and rolls of razor wire. Nearly all the service workers we encountered were people of color, just as nearly every person we met on the various tours we took were White tourists from Europe, Australia, the United States, and even South Africa itself. The entire dynamic made us uncomfortable.

Yet, throughout our stay, our interactions with the South African people were almost uniformly positive and friendly. Our tour guides during the day we spent in Johannesburg seeing the Mandela House, the Apartheid Museum, and Soweto, were fantastic. And the two drivers and two trackers who showed us around the Greater Kruger area, were remarkably knowledgeable and clearly loved their jobs. They took palpable joy in finding animals and birds and sharing with us their understanding of the land. (All four grew up in surrounding villages.)

The two lodges we stayed at while in the bush were, I will admit, pretty darn luxurious. We slept on comfortable beds, ate very good food, had some lovely wines, and were able to spend the midday hours relaxing. But every morning we got up around 4:45, had a quick bite to eat or cup of coffee, and headed out in the trucks to look for animals and birds. We’d remain out until about 9:30. And every afternoon at about 4:00, we’d go out again, remaining in the bush until after dark (about 7:00). At our first lodge, where we stayed for three days, we were the only two people in the truck aside from our driver and tracker. At the second place (also three days), we were with one other couple, also from the States, who were great.

The trucks themselves were large and built like, well, trucks. They had no roofs and no doors, but the cabs were a couple of feet off the ground and the vehicles were tough enough to go off road any time it seemed necessary. The tracker’s seat was set basically above the front bumper and equipped with two low metal handles for the tracker to grip when things got bumpy. But the tracker was essentially OUTSIDE the truck. Keep that in mind . . . .

Most of the animals we encountered were not at all afraid of the trucks. They see them all the time, pretty much every day, and no harm ever comes to them or their offspring. They seem to look upon the trucks as some sort of strange species that make certain noises and smell a certain way. That said, though, there are strict rules for those of us riding. We are not allowed to stand up or put our heads or any of our limbs outside of the truck. And while we can speak, we were told to keep our voices low and level. In other words, we’re not to do anything that breaks the shape or appearance of the truck. Essentially, as long as the truck remains a “truck” to the animals, all is well. As soon as those of us on the truck set ourselves apart and appear to be something separate from the vehicle, the truck kind of becomes a food cart. No one wants that . . . .

Nancy and me with Dimingo (tracker) and Wise (driver). And, of course, the truck.
Nancy and me with Dimingo (tracker) and Wise (driver). And, of course, the truck.

We, of course, followed all the rules.

And so we were able to get incredibly close to the animals we saw. I mean REALLY close. At one point, a mother lion and her cubs walked RIGHT by the truck we were in. The animals were maybe two feet — TWO FEET — from the side of the vehicle. I had a good lens with me — a Canon “L” 70-200mm F/4 with image stabilization — and it paired with a 1.4X teleconverter, which made it about 50% more powerful. But that lens combination is less powerful than a basic pair of binoculars. And while I do some cropping of my photos, none of the images that follow are cropped drastically to make things appear closer. We were just really close. And yes, our tracker was also about two feet from the mama lion and her cubs, sitting on that unprotected seat above the bumper. Never for a minute did he appear to afraid.

And boy did we see animals. Lions, leopards, a cheetah, a wild cat (about the size of a domestic cat, but a fearsome hunter), hyenas, wild dogs, elephants, giraffes, zebras, water buffalo, wildebeests, kudus, springboks, hippos, crocodiles, white rhinoceroses, ostriches, over one hundred and sixty species of bird, almost all of which I had never seen before, vervets, baboons, and more. And we reveled in the remarkable beauty of the South African landscape. All the animals were wild. During the rainy months, when there is too much mud to navigate, the trucks are not used and tours take place on foot. Had we been walking, our driver told us, we wouldn’t have gotten within 50 yards of the big cats. As it was, we kept our distance from solitary bull elephants and rhinos, which were starting to come into rut. But the “magic” of the truck allowed us to get close.

With all of that in mind, enjoy these photos.

Yellow-billed Hornbill.
Yellow-billed Hornbill.
Bateleur Eagle circling a recent wild dog kill.
Bateleur Eagle circling a recent wild dog kill.
Wild dogs.
Wild dogs.
Two male Waterbucks.
Two male Waterbucks.
Mama and baby White Rhinos.
Mama and baby White Rhinos.
Lion cub in early morning light.
Lion cub in early morning light.
Young male lion.
Young male lion.
Young male leopard, not yet acclimated to the truck.
Young male leopard, not yet acclimated to the truck.
Mama lion. Those eyes!!
Mama lion. Those eyes!!
Sunrise in Timbavati Game Reserve.
Sunrise in Timbavati Game Reserve.
Zebras at a water hole. Love the reflections.
Zebras at a water hole. Love the reflections.
Giraffe. Such beautiful animals.
Such beautiful animals.
Ostrich. This is as close as we could get. A little skittish and very fast.
This is as close as we could get. A little skittish and very fast.
Cheetah!! I was SO excited to see her!
Cheetah!! I was SO excited to see her!
Elephant This guy hung out on his own a lot.
This guy hung out on his own a lot.
Elephant butts, large and extra-small.
Elephant butts, large and extra-small.
Male Lion. Yes, he was this close.
Yes, he was this close.
Hyena pups outside their den.
Hyena pups outside their den.
Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: Beauty and Hope at the Olympics

There is an image from an Olympic event I watched that has been captured in a photo. It is beautiful and it gives me hope on so many levels. The men’s Moroccan soccer team had just pounded team U.S.A. 4-0. It was a humiliating and comprehensive loss for the American team, which had surprised many by making it out of group play and into the second stage of the Olympic soccer tournament. For a moment, it seemed that U.S. men’s soccer had finally exceeded expectations and come together in exciting and promising ways. Then reality hit.

Olympic soccer moment
(Photo by Marc Atkins/Getty Images)

But in the wake of the match, as American forward Kevin Paredes sat on the grass, despondent and exhausted, a Moroccan player, Achraf Hakimi, came over, squatted in front of him, and put his forehead on Paredes’s forehead to speak quietly to him and offer a few words. Consolation, praise, understanding? It really doesn’t matter what he said. What matters is that he said it, in the manner captured in that remarkable photo.

I am not naïve. Athletics can’t bridge all of the world’s geopolitical chasms. A singular act of sportsmanship, no matter how moving, can’t overcome stubbornly persistent cultural divisions. I don’t look this photo, or recall the moment when I saw this on the broadcast, and think, “That player is so kind; world peace is here!”

But we live in a world that is mired in dark times. War, prejudice, government sanctioned acts of wanton cruelty, authoritarian threats to democracy and republican government all across the globe, including here at home. Everywhere we look, we see what appears to be a breakdown in basic human kindness and compassion. And I’m simply saying that this image offers a counterpoint to the steady drumbeat of bad news and mind-numbing inhumanity. Here are two men, opponents on the pitch, products of vastly different cultures, who, in the captured moment, are nothing more or less than comrades and human beings bound by empathy and love of the game they play. It’s simple and understated. It’s miraculous and worthy of celebration.

I noticed other similar moments during this year’s games. Swimmers from different countries crossing lane markers after a tight race to congratulate one another. Simone Biles and Jordan Chiles (when she still had her bronze) honoring floor exercise gold medalist Rebeca Andrade of Brazil during the medals ceremony. Competitors in the X sports events marveling at the accomplishments of their rivals. One of the original purposes of the modern Olympics, which began in 1896, was to foster understanding among nations through friendly competition. And while it’s easy to laugh off such idealistic intentions, this is one of the reasons I love watching the games every two years (now that the Winter and Summer Olympics are staggered).

I should take a moment to acknowledge that the Olympics can also bring out the worst in humanity — Adolphe Hitler’s failed attempt to use the 1936 games as a display of Aryan superiority; the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics in Munich; the 1996 Atlanta Olympics bombing by a right-wing domestic terrorist; the shameful, transphobic, and unsubstantiated attacks during this year’s games on Algerian boxer Imane Khelif. More often than not, when geopolitics intrudes upon the games, they do so with terrible results.

But moments of that sort are the exceptions, not the rule. Acts like those of Morocco’s soccer star truly are the norm.

The games are over now. Other sporting events will take center stage, with varying amounts of sportsmanship on display. The world’s problems will continue. Perhaps more countries, including ours, will reject authoritarianism as France did earlier this summer. But war and violence and oppression will continue.

And I will remember that image. I’ll cling to the memory as a talisman. Because there is kindness and understanding in the world, even in places where we might not think to look for it.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: The Cost of Political Violence

We are officially through the looking glass.

In the wake of the apparent attempt to assassinate Donald Trump over the weekend, the RIGHT is now accusing the LEFT of instigating stochastic terrorism against the MAGA movement. For those of you not familiar with the term, stochastic terrorism is essentially political violence that has been sparked by inflamed rhetoric directed at a movement, a segment of the population, or even an individual.

And you know what? In a sense, the right is correct. Yes, Donald Trump and the far right represent an existential threat to the founding principles of our republic. There can really be no denying this. Read about “Project 2025,” the right’s blueprint for what the next Republican Administration ought to look like, and one is driven to that single conclusion. The right’s plans for the country would destroy our nation’s unique experiment in representative democracy.

That may seem like just the sort of dangerous rhetoric Republicans are currently complaining about. I get that. But it is also true.

The problem is, political rhetoric in the United States has been so extreme for so long that we seem incapable of dialing it back. I want to say that it doesn’t matter who started it or which side has committed more atrocities in their pursuit of political dominance, but I find it hard to type the words. Even as I try to craft a plea for moderation, for tolerance, for sanity, I also want to scream from the rooftops that the other side is responsible, is more guilty, has more blood on their proverbial hands. The wounds to our society run deep, and every election cycle we pick at the scabs, drawing fresh blood and renewed pain.

We hear about new acts of violence, and our reactions are tribal. One side claims, without foundation, that the perpetrator was a member of a political group on the other side. The other side claims something similar, or tries to argue that the whole event was “a false flag.” (Yes, both sides have done these things.) We await confirmation of our biases, eager for another opportunity to score points off of someone else’s misfortune. I am as guilty of this as anyone. I hate what I see in myself in those moments.

When it comes down to it, there is blame aplenty to go around. Is it really necessary to weigh the violence of January 6, 2021 against that of July 13, 2024? Isn’t it enough to say that both were unacceptable, that both were assaults on all the values we hold dear? Every new violation breeds more hatred, more recrimination, more hostility. And the circle of violence spirals further and further beyond our control.

I wish I believed that Donald Trump was man enough to say, in the wake of the apparent attempt on his life, “Enough! From this day forward, for the good of the nation, I will abandon my extreme rhetoric. I disagree with Joe Biden and the Democrats on a host of issues, but we are all Americans, and we owe it to our country and children to discuss those differences rationally, peaceably, without threats of violence, whether implicit or explicit.”

I’m sad to say that I don’t believe he is capable of saying such a thing. Rather, I fully expect him to turn the screw again, to ratchet up tensions even more.

We are playing a perilous game of rhetorical chicken. People died as a result of January 6th. People died on Saturday. How many more need to be killed before we come to our senses? Do we really have to take our country to the brink of (another) civil conflict before we come to our senses? That would be a tragedy. Another in a long line.

Enough.

Stay safe. Have a good week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: Forlorn On The Fourth Of July

We have a fun July 4th celebration in our little town. It’s a university town, and a somewhat affluent one at that, especially when compared with the surrounding communities. And so we attract a lot of visitors. There are games for kids, a fun, somewhat tongue-in-cheek dog show, a parade, lots of food stands, a crafts fair, and, in the evening, a surprisingly good fireworks display over one of the local lakes.

Erin face paintAlex face paintOur girls LOVED Sewanee Fourth of July when they were young. We would give them a bit of cash, help them meet up with friends, and then pretty much say goodbye to them for the day. It’s a small, safe, friendly town, and we never worried about them. They always found us eventually, sunburned and sweaty, their faces covered in face-paint, their pockets stuffed with candy that was thrown to kids by the parade participants. We’d go home, have a nap and some dinner, not that any of us was very hungry, and then, after covering ourselves with bug spray, would make our way to the fireworks venue.

Fond memories.

Nancy and I have been doing July 4th on our own for many years now, since we became empty-nesters. It’s easier in a way, though a bit less fun. The magic of the day has dissipated with the years. We still enjoy seeing people, and we can usually find something good to eat. These days, we tend to stop by a couple of the parties that take place along the parade route, and, once the parade is done, we head home. Some years we go to see the fireworks, some years we don’t.

I will admit that this year my heart isn’t in it. Not the way it used to be. Part of that is personal — those fond memories have thorns these days.

But more than that, I feel less inclined to celebrate America than I used to. I have long found the equating of conservatism with patriotism offensive. I was brought up by liberals, and I raised my kids as a committed progressive. The terminology changed, but the love of country has never wavered. I have a Ph.D. in U.S. history, and while it is impossible to dive into the depths of our nation’s past without seeing its many flaws, it is also impossible to do so without gaining a healthy appreciation for qualities in our national story that are worthy of admiration. Resolve and resilience, boundless ambition and a commitment to human dignity that is often myopic and even hypocritical but also naïvely sincere. Ours is an imperfect but charmingly idealistic vision of government, an experiment in democratic republicanism that has yet to fulfill the dreams of its Founders, but which continues to strive for realization.

All of which makes our current state of political affairs so terrifying. The aforementioned experiment is at risk. If the Presidential election were held today, we would likely elect a man who has shown no compunction at all about placing his personal hunger for power above the national good, a man who has shown utter disregard for the centuries-old norms of our governing system, a man who has been convicted of 34 felonies and accused of dozens more, a man who literally lies about everything, who has made grievance and greed and graft synonymous with his personal brand, and who has declared without shame that he intends to begin his next term in the White House — a sequel to his disastrous, chaotic, hate-filled first term — with a one-day dictatorship. As if this paragon of gluttony will be able to stop after a single day.

Is our incumbent old? Yes. Do his communications skills leave much to be desired? Absolutely. This is why your Democratic friends and neighbors haven’t slept or eaten in days and have the look of caffeine addicts whose coffee machine is on the fritz. But Joseph Biden has been a remarkably effective President when it comes to passing bipartisan legislation. He has overseen an economic recovery that includes the creation of fifteen million new jobs. To be sure, inflation went up on his watch, spurred by supply-chain disruptions that began during the Covid recession of 2020 and worldwide economic dislocations caused by the ongoing war between Russia and Ukraine. But it has come down steadily since its 2022 peak and is now below 3% annually.

Most of all, though, the President is a decent, honest man, who honors and upholds our nation’s political ideals. He poses no threat to our republic. On the contrary, he is committed to saving our heating planet, improving the lives of those who face discrimination and economic injustice, and restoring a national right to women’s health care access. He has spent his life fighting for social equality. Is he a step slower now? A bit more muddled in his speech? A bit more frail and forgetful? Yes, yes, and yes. But on his worst day, he is better than the lying felon running against him.

I hope desperately that the American people will realize this before it’s too late. I fear they won’t.

I hope your July Fourth is fun and fulfilling.