Year: 2019

The plane left in a steep climb to 10,000 feet. Two hours to Dallas and the Easterner still wasn’t sure he should be going. He’d gotten an email a few days earlier from the widow of a fraternity brother. “Sad News”, it said. Another friend had called her “to say that Tek had passed early that morning”.

What? Wait! Tek … Kimbell? 

He remembered a tall, lanky guy with a Texas drawl, a big Adams Apple and an open-mouth laugh. Tek and Kyle and Hamilton and Redle and Gifford and others had helped ease the intimidation of one of the country’s top universities, not to mention California in the 60’s, for this life-long Easterner.

He had seen Tek once in 55 years, at their 50th reunion. A few grey hairs and a few more pounds were the only differences. Well, and a wife. He remembered the party at Betsy Gifford’s house, hearing how they had met. Tek had almost lost a leg in an accident while in the Navy after college and Nancy was one of the military team who nursed him back to health. The two had slow-danced like teenagers that night, almost 50 years after they met. Some love never ages. 

Still, once in 55 years? Why was he attending this funeral when he had skipped so many others over the years? Maybe because of that: because it had been so many years? Nah! He was pretty sure he was invading someone else’s grief. 

He thought back to the last time he’d been in Dallas. It was 1963 and he’d stayed at another friend’s house. The friend’s father had talked about “N—-’s” and how he’d shoot any who came onto his lawn and it was perfectly legal in Texas. “And I’d shoot Kennedy too”, the father said. The Easterner never forgot that moment.

He and Tek and Redle and Gifford had shared an off-campus apartment that year. Tek had come back that fall to finish some courses so he could graduate, but he had no tuition money because his father had cut him off for not graduating on time. The three paid his share of the apartment so he could work to pay for those last few courses. Such was the bonding of these fraternity brothers.

On the morning of November 22nd, he and Redle and Gifford listened to the radio’s initial reports of Kennedy’s assassination. He remembered the Dallas father’s threat and wasn’t surprised. The others were stunned, but dry-eyed when Tek walked into the apartment, tears flowing. The Easterner said something, like “Only in Dallas!” and Tek just stood there, absorbing the anger. Later, when the Easterner apologized, Tek said he’d been crying, not just for Kennedy, but also out of shame for Dallas. The Easterner never forgot that, either.

He met up with his friends from Oregon, Montana, and California at the hotel. They fell into conversation as though there had been no gap. He remembered the lack of measuring, the lack of judgment of those college years. Some things don’t change. 

As the funeral started, he again wondered why he had come. He knew none of the 150 to 200 people there: the wife, kids, all those people who knew and loved Tek from elementary school forward. 

He was wondering what he was even doing there when one of the eulogists, a lifelong friend of Tek, mentioned Tek’s returning to campus after graduation to take some extra courses. The Easterner leaned over to Kyle and asked how they could have that wrong. “Probably Tek never told anyone he didn’t graduate on time” was the whispered answer.

At the gathering after the funeral, he watched her greeting people with soft hugs and an occasional small smile. His fraternity friends introduced him to Nancy. 

“Tell her” said Kyle. So he did. He told her about three fraternity brothers helping another at a time when he really needed brotherly love. And he told her of his shame at watching Tek cry in shame for his beloved Dallas.

She brightened, visibly. She called her son and daughter and he told them, too. They smiled, too.

He took those smiles with him, the next day in the plane as it soared above a Dallas sparkling in the morning sun, and all the way home.

He wouldn’t forget that moment either.

My kids, all of whom are brighter than the average lightbulb, were no exception to the “Kids are curious” rule. As a good father I learned early on to answer all their questions truthfully and thoroughly. 

Take Santa Claus, for example. 

One day one of my kids found out from a friend that his mother had been a little more wistful than truthful in explaining the bearded giver. And I had been way too busy re-reading the back of the cereal box to contribute. 

The power of giving?  I can explain that any day of the week. The notion of being thankful? In a second. But Santa? Uh….

The news from his friend devastated him. And us. Until the dog started barking in empathy and then chased the cat straight into the Christmas tree, which shed ornaments like snowflakes (except with more noise), which led to a few well-expressed sentiments from his mother, which made my son laugh. 

Which happily ended the discussion about Santa.

His mother and I were so devastated by his sadness that no more children were produced for what felt like years. And then we had two at once, which, I explained to him, was a result of waiting so long.

Having lots of kids has taught me the art of explaining things I knew nothing about. 

Electricity, for example. “Dad?” he asked one day at around four years old, as I tucked him into bed, “how does a lamp know when to turn on and when to turn off?”  

“Easy”, I said. “The magic in your back.” I walked over to the wall switch and leaned against it. “Let me show you.” I rub my back up and down against the switch and Presto! – the lamp turned off and then on.

“Oh.” He nodded thoughtfully. Then, “Dad? The switch is too high for a little kid. How do I turn it on and off?”

“You call me or your Mom.” I gave him a kiss good-night and turned off the light with my magic back on the way out. 

Or take toilets. By four, he knew how to use one, but hadn’t really considered how they worked until one day when I was changing his new sister’s and brother’ diapers. 

“Ew!” he said. “That smells, Dad!”

“Yes, it does”. I said. “It’s worse than smelly fish. That’s why we teach kids about the toilet as early as possible.”

“Boy, I’m glad you taught me about toilets!” Then, “ but how do they work, Dad? And where does it all go?”

My first thought was to run and get his mother, but I controlled my fear. “Well”, I said, “that’s hard to explain”.

“And what about the pee-pee. Does it go to a different place than the poo-poo?”

“Uh… no. It all goes to the same place”. I took him into the bathroom. I raised the lid of the toilet. “See down there?” I said, pointing to the water.

“That’s where it goes” – closing the lid – “and then, we turn this handle” – turning the handle – “And…” a great whishing sound filled the room. 

“…That’s the ThroneMan taking it all away!”

“What’s a ThroneMan, Dad?”

“He’s the invisible King of the bathroom. He keeps the toilet clean.”

“But…where does he put all the —?”

“—That’s one of the mysteries of life, Korwin.” I say sagely. “Like where flies go in the winter or why ice cream tastes so good.”

I thought that ended the discussion until early last week, when I was in the Children’s Section of a book store and discovered two in a series of new children’s books called The Invention Hunters. One explains electricity, the other machines, including toilets. Both are aimed at kids 4 and up. 

It was very upsetting.

You see, the kids in the books are the smart ones. The grownups, The Invention Hunters, are doofuses. They tumble down from a rocket-ship house in search of new inventions for their Museum of Inventionology. Everyday objects trigger intense curiosity – and childlike guesses – from them.  A little girl and boy (looking suspiciously like a 4 year old I once knew) patiently explain how these things work.     

My favorite part is the picture of a fish going down the toilet.

(The Invention Hunters was written and illustrated by a constantly curious ex-four year old, Korwin Briggs, and published by Little Brown and Company.) 

When the Women’s Team won the World Cup on Sunday there were cheers of “USA!, USA!” from players wrapped in US flags and fans sporting red, white and blue.  

But then came a second cheer, a full-throated chant from the crowd: “EQUAL PAY!, EQUAL PAY!”

This team did more than win a World Cup. They increased awareness of the pay disparity between men and women.

They are paid 60% less than the men’s team, the one that didn’t even qualify for the 2018 Men’s World Cup. So, in March, they filed suit against the US Soccer Federation for gender discrimination, a move that reverberated well beyond the world of soccer.

Today, even well paid women make only 81% of what men make, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. In 1979, it was 62%.

Let me introduce you to the three, economicly middle class women, who were in their prime in 1979, at 30 years old. The names are changed for obvious reasons – dignity being the biggest – but these are real women.

In 1979, “Suzy” was 30. She worked as a secretary throughout two marriages and did most of the work of raising a daughter. Two divorces later she has a small nest egg. She makes around $9 an hour at a women’s clothing store and gets discounts.  The store limits her hours to 29 a week to avoid giving her benefits, even sick days. In slow times, they drop her hours down to 20 a week or less. The most she can make, at 29 hours, is $1044 a month. So she works a second job cleaning houses at $80 to $125 a day. That, and a net of $860 in social security a month, has to cover food, car, rent, taxes, utilities, etc. When she is too old to work, she will have only the $860 a month.  She is 70 years old.

“Alice” started an accounting firm with her husband. They paid him more than her to save on social security payments. They were divorced 30 years ago when the kids were in high school. Her social security, after deductions, is around $800 a month, so she works three jobs: bookkeeping, care-taking old people (“a Granny Nanny”), and delivering meals at night. Those three jobs average about $12/hour or $1920 a month. With social security that’s $2720 a month before taxes. She will have only the $800 when she can’t work. She is 73.

“Anne” immigrated to the US in her 20’s with one suitcase and a degree in nursing. But she wasn’t licensed in the US so she worked for an American nursing degree, which got her a nursing job paying  $4/hour. She married and worked on a horse farm. After divorcing, she worked and paid for a Master’s degree in education. She now teaches at a private school. She has three sources of income: teaching, tutoring after school, and renting out two rooms of a small condo she bought. She has one more year to retirement and, with the sale of her condo, can afford a small house in Florida. Relative to the other two, she did well. But the school gives no pension. Her long career and master’s degree paid off with social security income of around $2000 a month. But that’s all she’ll have when she can’t work. She is 74.

While women like these were being paid less than men, they were also paid nothing for home-making and raising children after they got home from work. 

The impact of paying women less than they’re worth, less than men with similar jobs, isn’t simply a matter of conscience; it’s also a matter economics.

Being paid 62% of a man’s salary in 1979 has compounded over 40 years, even as the disparity went down. Today the cost of an “old folks” home, is between $4,000 and $9,000 a month. These three women do not have that kind of money and never will, even as costs rise. 

Today there are five 85 year old women for every two 85 year old men. By 2050, in 30 years, the elderly population will double to 80 million. Sure 81% of men’s pay will help, but the disparity will still compound. And women will still suffer in their helpless years.

Those soccer players will no doubt get equal pay and get it this year. But what about their mothers, aunts, teachers, grandmothers and other loved ones?  And what about your mother, your aunt, your children’s teacher, your grandmother, and other loved ones?

That’s the difference between dignity and fear.

There was a lot of yelling at the debates last week. Bernie (“I-have-to-yell-to-hear-myself”) Sanders and Elizabeth (“Fight! Fight! Fight!!) Warren led the pack, but there were others, I think. It’s hard to remember what ex- Colorado Governor John Hickenlooper said while Senator Kirsten Gillibrand and Bill de Blasio shouted for attention.

But there was substance, too. 19 of the 20 candidates were highly qualified and smart enough to be President. (Really? Marianne Williamson, an author?).

“But remember who they’re trying to replace…” you might say into your sleeve. 

Snicker if you will, but look what happened to a pretty good line-up of Republican candidates in 2016. Trump destroyed them, methodically, charismatically, and ruthlessly – even as Republican pros laughed. When he took on Hillary, Democrats laughed all the way to the losers’ circle.

Today, Democrats’ fear and anger at Trump permeated their recent debates.

Which is exactly what Trump wants. It’s part of his trap, folks, the same trap he’s set for years, first in business, now in politics.

Here’s how it works:

Step 1 – “The Big Splash”: Start with a big splash. Then rally allies by convincing them they’ll make a big splash, too – and tons of money. 

Business example: getting Atlantic City to back his casinos, manipulating New York to allow Trump Tower, getting banks to give him risky loans. 

Political example: the splashy escalator ride in Trump Tower; Christy, Romney, and others thinking they’d be in the Cabinet.

Step 2 – “The Put Downs”: demean and ridicule the opposition at every turn. Make schoolyard insults a fearsome weapon. Attack ruthlessly, without letup, until the opposition’s initial fear evolves into matching anger.  

Business example: Attacking the banks in Atlantic City, attacking regulators in New York City. 

Political example: the destruction of Bush, Rubio, and Cruz in 2016; insulting NATO, Trudeau, Kim Jong Un, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, etc.

Step 3 – “The Outrage”: When the opposition finally explodes and chaos reigns, look around in shock. Be Claude Rains in Casa Blanca, “I’m shocked, shocked to find my opponents so childish and angry!” 

Business Example: When his casino went down, he blamed Atlantic City. 

Political example: His shock, shock at Europe, Mexico, and Canada for standing up to him.

Step 4, “The Conciliator”: As anger and chaos rain down and everybody just wants it all to stop, suddenly become the grown-up in the room. Offer conciliation – and less than you would have in the first place. The adversary is so exhausted, he accepts it, gratefully.  

Business Example: The banks funding his Atlantic City fiasco accepted 10 cents or so on the dollar, because it was better than losing everything if Trump declared bankruptcy; New York let him replace the Commodore Hotel with the Grand Hyatt, because the Commodore had fallen into disrepair, effecting the area all around Grand Central station.

Political example: Stopping the attack on Iran, the tariffs on Mexico, pausing other tariffs. 

That’s how the Trump Trap works. And he’s about to apply it to the 2020 election.

Democrats are susceptible because of our primary system. Primary voters are the extremists of their party. They know the issues long before moderates are even aware of them. They’re usually angry at the status quo.

In 2016, Republican primary voters had many qualified candidates, but they chose a complete novice instead, a man who won by tapping into his base’s anger at urban elites. He used his base’s kind of insults and their kind of language to kindle their kind of outrage, then rode it all the way to the White House. 

Democrats had only two candidates, and one controlled it all.

This year, roles are reversed. The Democrats have 25 candidates. Most are fearful and angry at Trump, and about to fall into his trap again. Trump is the sole opponent (sorry, Gov. Weld).

Step 1 – “The Big Splash”: He turns the July Fourth holiday into a Trump day by making the Lincoln Memorial celebration his celebration.

Step 2 – “The Put Downs”: Shouts of “Fake News” and “Socialism!” fuel his base’s anger at the Democrats, and fires up Democrat’s anger at him.  

Step 3 – “The Outrage”:  During most of the general election, he further weakens EPA rules, locks up more immigrant children, threatens more tariffs, military action, etc.,  ramping up anger and chaos.

Step 4 – “The Conciliator”:  Toward the end of the election he softens his rhetoric, expresses sadness at a divided country, and talks about healing the nation’s division.  The Democrats sputter like Bernie Sanders at a Koch Brothers convention. Swing voters, fearing socialism, the press, angry Democrats, and general chaos, swing back to Trump.

The trap closes.

That is what Democrats need to think about, and now.

The last two nights of television were mesmerizing, not because they included dramatic shoot-em-ups or humorous “reality”, but because each night 10 real presidential candidates supplied real answers to real questions. 

Granted, a lot of the spontaneous remarks were planned, but they were still well stated.

For example, on Thursday night, several candidates tried talking over each other and words flew around like fireworks. That’s when Kamala Harris “spontaneously” came out with  “Hey, guys, you know what? America does not want to witness a food fight. They want to know how we’re going to put food on their table.”

That shut down the fireworks… for a several whole seconds.

Elizabeth Warren took part in the wrong debate night… Well, maybe. Her moral outrage at Trump, Big Business, and Republicans stood out on Wednesday. It would have been drowned out by Bernie’s high volume self-righteousness on Thursday.

Also on Wednesday, Beto O’Rourke was about as compelling as a boy scout at a drinking party. Tulsi Gabbard (rep from Hawaii) was credible. Jay Inslee (Washington Governor) very impressive with real governing experience. John Delaney (rep from Maryland) was pragmatic and smart (he described calling hospitals in Maryland to ask about Medicare-for-all; they all told him they’d go broke if that was their only source of income).

Bill de Blasio was… New York obnoxious, I guess. it would have been interesting to see Bernie and Bill on the same night, two shouters going at it. 

(Wow! how about a sequel to these debates? How about a Bill- Donald-Bernie WWE takedown!).

Overall, Wednesday was kind of boring, though. Without Warren, I might have read a newspaper.

The Thursday team learned from the Wednesday team. They came out swinging – primarily at Trump – but also at Biden.  

Kamala Harris sucker-punched Biden, by first saying she knew he wasn’t a racist, then, by accusing him of racism by bringing up 1) his somewhat admiring remarks about Eastland and Talmadge – two racist senators from the 60’s and 70’s – and 2) his attempt to throttle school busing. While he had explanations for both, they were more detailed than he had time for, not to mention a little weak. So, the audience was left wondering if he is a racist. Kamala packs a powerful punch.

She kept the Anita Hill hearings in her quiver, possibly for another debate. But be warned, candidates, this is a take-no-prisoners competitor. 

Buttigieg is refreshing as a candidate. He’s very smart, forthright, and well spoken, with unexpected humility. He didn’t dodge the police controversy in city of South Bend: when asked why he didn’t have a more racially diverse police force he said “Because I couldn’t get it done”.

(Just for one delicious moment, imagine Trump answering a question like that).

Michael Bennet, Senator from Colorado, was reasoned, sensible, and highly experienced, as was John Hickenlooper, former Colorado governor (must be the mountain air). 

Who the heck was Marianne Williamson? Her chyron said “author”. Are we now so desperate, we’re running authors for President? If so, I’d rather hear from John Grisham or Tom Clancy. They’re way cool.

Harris won the night, narowly, in my view. Biden’s gaffe last week will have lasting impact. Had he simply apologized for opposing busing, he would have won. But hubris can complicate a 46 year career. He represents a more hopeful time, a prouder time. His age didn’t show as a flaw; it showed as wisdom, patience, steadiness – qualities that have been sorely missed. He may not be up to the political fighting of 2019. But, particularly in view of the swipes from some of the younger candidates, he reminds us of what we miss in a leader.

But the coolest part of either night, for me, was the audio mess-up on Wednesday. When Lester Holt, Savannah Guthrie and Jose Diaz-Balart took a break and were replaced by Rachel Maddow and Chuck Todd, their mics weren’t cut, so their back-stage chit-chat competed with Maddows and Todds’ on-air questions. Confusion reigned everywhere. To fix the audio, NBC took one of the longest commercial breaks on record. Now that’s drama.

In an earlier life, I worked in TV, including remote (out of studio) production. In all that time, including remote productions for NBC, I never saw anything like that.

So… a computerized audio board hiccup? FOX hacked the production truck? Trump sabotage? A Putin spy? Hmmm.

The debates were cool. But, hey NBC – what happened to the mics?