DC Reflections

What Michael Jackson said

A co-worker and I hopped in a taxi heading down Rhode Island Avenue en route to a meeting with a reporter at the Watergate building.       

"I've got some questions for you gentlemen," the long-time D.C. driver said, pausing only for a second. "What did Michael Jackson say to the priest?"

We knew we were in for a good ride. "What did he say?," I asked.

"I saw him first."

In rapid fire mode, the driver continued. "What do Michael Jackson and J.C. Penny stores have in common?"

"No idea," I said.

"They both have boys pants half off."

Ouch.

"What did Michael Jackson say about why he loves this country?"

"Tell us."

"He said it's the only country in the world where a poor black boy can grow up to be a rich white woman."

He rattled off a few more then switched targets. "Did you hear the story about the man who told his wife they should make love like animals that night?"

"I don't think we did."

"His wife said, 'OK, I'm going to be a possum and play dead.'"

Hospitals caught his attention next. "Did you hear about that dumb nurse?"

"Nope."

"She was carrying a pot of boiling water and chasing a patient around telling him to take his pants off. A supervisor finally stopped her before she caught the man. 'What are you doing?', she screamed. 'I told you to prick his boil.'"

The punchline hit just as we reached the curb of the Watergate. We owed him $12 for the ride but left a larger than usual tip.

How badly do we want it?

Taking a lunch break while at long last finishing the unpacking process, I caught a conversation on C-SPAN 2 taking place at the Harlem Book Fair today (visit www.cspan.org to learn more) -- a dialog that raised a question is often on my mind: how badly do we Americans really want to make changes in our country?

The discussion featured liberal black historian Walter Mosley speaking to liberal white historian Howard Zinn. While I don't often find that I learn much listening to people who agree with each other, the meeting of the minds they conducted today took civic discourse to its highest level. The far-ranging conversation covered everything from the war in Iraq to free health care. (I was tempted to turn the channel when they began making their case for the latter: The last thing I want is for the same government that's responsible for the IRS to also stick me with a needle.)

Most of their stage time, though, was spent looking at the bigger picture. They both called for the formation of a new national movement that would cause change -- a movement starting in back yards and neighborhoods all across the country ... small bands of individuals joining together to make a difference.

They didn't articulate exactly what they hoped the movement would accomplish but they repeatedly drove home the point that the initially small, grass-roots efforts are what have most affected history. It was a small minority of colonists who sacrificed time from their own personal lives to spark the Revolution. Mosley and Zinn pointed to the same lessons from the women's suffrage and civil rights movements.

The gentlemen alluded to the pioneers of such drives using all the tools in their disposal -- small individual actions, boycotts, civil disobedience and more. In the case of the Revolution, they mentioned the great Committees of Correspondence, groups of people who gathered in towns up and down the eastern seaboard to organize and to communicate. Zinn hoped that we the people in 2007 are at the same point the colonists were on the eve of their rebellion. 

Though I may disagree with some of the changes the gentlemen would like to see, I am an all-day sucker for hoping that we the people get more involved in the nation we've been blessed to inherit. I bet you are, too.

The cynic I try to keep at bay counters that we are too complacent to organize and stick with a movement the way Bostonians did in the early 1770s and the way Southerners did in the 1960s. Compared to those eras, we have it pretty good. Everyone can vote, though too few take the time. We have an exceptionally low unemployment rate. The streets in most cities are relatively safe. We go to our jobs, work hard, then head on to our family or social lives. We sit on the couch helping ourselves to seconds from the dinner table while watching TV and thinking it's too bad about the people on the news who got some bad breaks. When the weekend rolls around, we mow our lawns and make our runs to the grocery store. We get in some exercise and hang out with our friends.

Yet this same apparently quite content group complains about the Bush-Cheney administration or the horror of a potential Clinton presidency, yet we don't attend county political meetings, find candidates in even local races that we would want to run, bolster third parties, or do much of anything else before a second Tuesday in November. We go tisk-tisk debating whether the federal government should beef up its role in education or get out of way, yet few of us get our employers involved with the school in our back yard or head a committee at the PTA. We buy children Nike shoes endorsed by morally reprehensible athletes rather than give them the chance to see New Balance shoes are even better. We think what a bummer about global warming as we drive two blocks to pick up a gallon of milk.

We say we wish we could do more, but we're quick to point out we just don't have the time.

The picture isn't all bleak. To the contrary, I pump my fist and admit that on most days I am an unapologetic idealist. I see people on my block, in my state and in our country taking time out of their days to make a difference. I want to believe that we the people will do our part to improve our own lives and those of our neighbors -- that we will make this nation even better.

Still, I can't help but sometimes wonder ... how badly do we want it?

 

 

"Uninhabitable for human beings"

A neighbor asked me yesterday if I saw the condemnation sign on a house up the street.

I hadn't noticed.

"The sign said the house was 'uninhabitable for human beings' -- and everything in it was gone," Thomas said. "Did you have a chance to meet the old man who lived there?"

I hadn't.

"I didn't really know him," he continued. "I'd see him out walking around sometimes wearing just his bathrobe. He was always smiling and he seemed happy but I guess he died in the house and a long time went by before anybody knew it."

Thomas and I stared at each other in silence, the same questions likely entering each of our minds simultaneously. How is it possible any human being can be dead for an extended length of time without a single person caring? Did he not have one friend or relative in the world who missed him? Can you imagine what the authorities must have found to declare a house uninhabitable for human beings?

The cloud of sadness lingered in the air between us. We both got spooked and forgot for a moment that we are blessed by an abundance of friends and family who would most certainly notice if they had not heard from us. We both pictured what we might look like 50 years from now walking around in bathrobes and talking to no one in particular. And what if we didn't have friends and family? We could be that man.

What a crappy way to die.

Breaking the ice

Though I'm rarely at a loss for words, a woman asked me a question at an event last night that tripped my tongue for a moment.

"What's your favorite childhood memory?," she asked at a meet-and-greet at Lounge 201 -- a cozy little bar near Capitol Hill.

My gaze went completely blank, first because I found the question an unexpected way to move a conversation along. The other reason, and the one I began my response with, was that I'm very fortunate to have a treasure chest so full of such memories that it was difficult to single one out ... even if one had been on my mind a lot the last several weeks. Probably right up until the moment she popped the question.

Looking around the room and collecting my thoughts, I told her about my very first trip to Washington. My dad took me here the summer after my fifth grade year. Seems like a long time ago -- 1907 I believe it was. I had seen films in school about the Smithsonian and wanted to see it in person.

I vividly remember looking out the Amtrak window and seeing this enormous white building. That's the capitol of the United States, dad pointed out. My first view of the city took my breath away. Even before I fully understood what Washington was, I knew this town was for me.

That first trip was filled with a host of other vivid experiences. Lost in my own reminiscing, I told her about my first visit to the Lincoln, about how reading two of the greatest speeches in human history with my dad made an enormous impact on me. I also remember buying a postcard of Lincoln with his son Thad -- an image of father and son flipping through a book together. I don't think dad saw me buy that card.

On one of his other trips to DC (he taught high school at the time and brought Close Up students here), he sent me a poster of that same image along with a letter telling me how much it reminded him of his love for me.

I thanked the woman for asking me the question and for allowing me to linger in the memory. She in kind told me one of hers, about hanging out with her friends and pretending they were with Teddy Roosevelt riding up San Juan Hill in 1898. It was nice to learn I wasn't the only history geek in the room.

Opening my front door a train and bus ride later, I was greeted by the poster and the letter that had survived for a few decades before I finally had them framed. They now hang in my living room as a constant reminder of my dad and of the very first day I began dreaming of life in the city I now call home.

 

The tears she was holding back

Standing in line to pay my veterinary bill after finding out my half-husky Alexis may have more serious problems than an upset stomach, the environment was bringing back painful memories of the last time I was in a vet's office ... back home, saying goodbye to my first dog, Orion, just six months ago.

Despite my fidgeting and discomfort, I noticed someone who was in worse shape -- a young black woman sitting all alone in an office surrounded by white people. She dabbed a tissue to the corners of her eyes trying to fight back the flood I knew was there. No one else paid her any attention as the people whose pets were doing the worst had come in pairs.

I fought the urge to flee my memories the second I signed Alexis out; I knew I had to reach out to her. No one else was going to.

I've only been here a few weeks and I worried the woman might think I was crazy for approaching her. But that's what we do back in the South.

I thought just maybe I had something to say that could put her pain in perspective.

"Ma'am," I said, not sure exactly what words were to follow. "I think I might know what you're going through and I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a dog or a cat?"

She took several gulps of air before she could get a word out. I told her to take her time.

Thank you, she said. He's a dog. A puppy. He's just a few weeks old.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He isn't eating. He can't lift his head up. I don't think he's going to make it. He's been back there a long time. I'm a nurse. I help sick people every day. But I've never understood the human-animal bond before. I never had a pet. I've never been responsible for the entire care of another living being. Now I've got this puppy and he might not make it."

I put my hand on her shoulder and asked if I could share with her what I had been through lately, in case it might provide something she can later find comfort in.

"Yes," she uttered. "Please."

"I know this is hard to hear right now," I began, cautiously. "But I lost my dog this year. We were together for 10 years."

"What kind was he?"

"A pure-breed husky with blue eyes like mine," I explained, breathing slowly and trying to keep myself composed, strong and positive for this woman I had known for two minutes. He was about 13 and had just gotten a clean bill of health on his checkup. But a few weeks later, he had either a heart attack or a stroke. I still miss him terribly."

She peeled her eyes wide open hoping there was something more to the story.

"I still talk to him every day," I continued. "He's still in my heart. He always will be. But I've learned something from all of this. First, though, this vet has a great reputation. If there is anything that can be done, this place will make your dog stronger. I just moved here and I have heard great things about this hospital. So you need to stay strong while they do their work. But know this: one way or another, your dog won't be in pain. He's either going to make it and you're going to have a great life together, or he's going to go on to heaven and grow big and strong up there. Just like my Orion, he's going to keep an eye on you for the rest of your life. He's going to look out for you. And you know what's even better?"

"What?"

"One day, you'll see him again. I believe that now. I do."

"Yes," she affirmed. "All God's creatures go to heaven."

"I know this is hard, but it's harder on us than it is on our dogs. One way or another, they're going to be happy. We're not going to let them suffer. We're not going to let them be in pain. And I am absolutely certain the dogs we care for are grateful for the time we spend with them ... that each dog we have in our lives, for however much time, is a dog that we can take care of better than anybody else. So hang in there. Stay strong for your puppy. But know either way, he's not going to be in pain. He's going to be happy."

I reached out to hug the stranger just as my friends held me as I grieved for Orion. She sobbed onto my shoulder for a minute, finally opening the dam.

She caught her breath, looked me in the eyes, and thanked me again for sharing the story.

I headed out the door and gave Alexis a hug as I told her I couldn't stand it if I lost both of my dogs in the same year.

She looked at me with those Tootsie Roll brown eyes of hers and conveyed a very clear message.

"You stay strong," she said. "But hit the gas already. I'm hungry and it's time for a walk."