DC Reflections

Honoring Vietnam Veteran John Young -- My Hero, and America's

[It is my honor to share here the remarks I gave at the funeral of my uncle, Sergeant John Young. May this small tribute honor him, the 9th Infantry Division, Charlie Company and everyone who served our country in Vietnam.]

Picayune, Mississippi -- I knew there was something special about my Uncle John Young from the time I was knee-high to an infantry rifle. My earliest memories of him came from the old Atlanta airport in the early 1970s. My mom and I would go to the airport and wait for him to come in. He was easy to pick out from the crowd because he was always wearing his Army uniform, not a wrinkle on it or him.

People would stare at him and all the colorful stuff on the chest and shoulders of his uniform. My mom would start sobbing. Uncle John appears, mom starts crying – that’s how it went. When he went back into the airport, more crying. I’m not completely sure I remember exactly the parting words he shared with me each time as leaned down to look in my eyes but I’m pretty sure it must have gone to the effect of, “Take care of your mom, Neph.”

From the time I was a little boy until the last time I saw him, he always called me that – Neph. I in turn also eliminated syllables and called him Unc.

As I grew a little older, I picked up little hints about what made my uncle special. I’d hear the grown-ups use words like “hero” and say that he had served his country in some place called Vietnam. I didn’t really know where or what that was or why everybody tensed up whenever the word was mentioned but, whatever Vietnam was, I knew it had to be important. I knew it had something to do with who my uncle was, what made him special.

I hit my teen years and began to recognize there was also something secretive about him. He was always deep in thought, as if he were in some place other than in a room with me. He didn’t talk a lot – very unlike my mom and Aunt Susan. I sensed a certain tension in him and even as I hit my 20s, it was not something I felt comfortable bringing up with him or my family.

I just put the bits and pieces gleaned from my family together as best I could. I had a rudimentary understanding of the Vietnam War by that point from what little my high school and college spent on the subject but mostly from watching TV, movies and reading about it. 

I very clearly learned other things about my Uncle John that made him special. It didn’t take me that long to figure out he was perhaps the smartest man I ever met. He didn’t read books: He consumed them. He had the intellect to read one book one time and then explain it to me in a depth and context that was more riveting than even my best history classes. He and I shared a great love for history.

I also began to recognize the writing gene I was born with may well have come straight from his DNA. The former journalism major didn’t share much of his writing with me but the little he did left me spell-bound. The “hero” image began to take shape, in fact, when I realized he did not go to Vietnam because he got drafted. He could have deferred his service because he was in college. Instead, inspired by President Kennedy, he voluntarily chose to enter the Army and go to Vietnam. I cannot imagine having the courage of convictions to make a similar choice when I was in college.

Throughout my uncle’s life, he was a patriot. He did not believe in letting someone else go do impossible jobs in his place. He believed it was his duty to fight for what his country asked of him.

Throughout my 20s and 30s, I so desperately wanted to ask him to tell me about his experiences in Vietnam but I didn’t have the courage to do that, either. I knew the place birthed in him demons that he would spend much of his adult life battling and I wanted to know about that, too, but I was just the little nephew. How do you ask someone to open up about Vietnam?

I’d get glimpses of it from time to time. Once, we were sitting out in front of my aunt’s house in Minnesota. The two us were probably debating the issues of the day when all of a sudden he disappeared again. Not physically, just mentally. He started staring at his hands and rubbing furiously them against each other as if he were trying to wash something off of them.

“Neph,” he said, “You don’t know what these hands have done.”

We sat there in silence for I don’t know how long. I desperately wanted to find words to make him feel better, as if I had any remote idea of what he was talking about – but he was my “Unc” and I couldn’t stand to see him in pain like that.  He certainly wasn’t much of a hugger so that option was absolutely not on the table.

Most of the moments we shared together were not that dark, though. He often used his intellect to help me crystallize my own thoughts. As a grown man sitting with him after dinner one day in Georgia, I was talking to him about my uncertainty about the next part of my career path. I was giving him pros and cons about different options and my anguish about having such a hard time figuring out what was next for me.

“Neph,” he said. “You don’t like to get jobs. You like to enlist!”

He was exactly right. I only liked working for causes, for employers with missions I believed in with my whole heart – and there was no sense in this old dog trying to learn new tricks.

In my 30s and 40s, we spent most of our time together in person, on the phone and with email debating the big issues of the day.  Man oh man could we debate some politics – him the gun-toting conservative, me the screaming liberal.

I’m not quite sure that “debating” is the right word as that sort of implies that there was a fair competition – as if I might have ever won one. Neph always came out on the short end of the stick with him.

He’d inevitably make a point that made me go quiet, one I could not defeat. After a lunch some years ago, he left me so stumped that I told him I’d have to come up with something. My poor girlfriend Won-ok over there didn’t see me for a week; It took me that long to come up with a response that I sent him by email.

The breakthrough I always longed for with him, though, finally came. It came because of Professor Andrew Wiest and his book, The Boys of '67. My uncle became a guest lecturer in Wiest's classes at the University of Southern Mississippi, lead summer sessions in Vietnam with him and served as the launching point for the book.

“To my favorite nephew,” Uncle John wrote in the beginning of his inscription. I’m reasonably certain I’m his only nephew but I’ll take it! “I’d write what I really feel,” he continued, “but then I’d be all weepy. Good luck in all that you do.”

I was the one who wept: I wept for 367 pages.

I’d read a few chapters and sob hysterically into Won-ok’s arms. I’d let a day or so pass, muster up the strength to read more, and then sob hysterically into Won-ok’s arms. I was starting to get the hang of my mom’s routine.

I now knew what my Uncle’s hands had done, what they had to do, and what all the Boys of 67 had to do to stay alive. I also learned for the first time the things he did to save the lives of other men.

I grieved for my uncle. I grieved for the men America lost and for the ones who made it home. I wanted to hop on the next plane down here to Picayune, break the John Young rules, and hug the stuffing out of him.

The book, of course, was such a hit that it got turned into a TV documentary on the National Geographic channel, which caused Uncle John to come up to Washington D.C. where I live twice within a relatively short time.

We spent our first visit sparring about politics and national events as we ate lunch. I remained dazzled by his intellect. I didn’t know why the restaurant closed so quickly after lunch, I told him – until we both realized they were now closing after DINNER. Time had just flown by. Turned out he did not think Hillary Clinton was a particularly nice lady.

The last time I saw him, Won-ok and I took him out to dinner. At the very end, Uncle John made a joke and laughed. I had to hide my face for a second, as a tear shot from my eyes. Won-ok knew it and asked me about it the moment we dropped him off at the hotel.

“I’m in my mid-40s,” I said. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him make a joke and laugh.”

That book and his relationship with the professor and all the reunions with his Army buddies had changed his life for the better and given me the chance to get to know a new Uncle John for the first time. The old sergeant had discharged his demons.

At the end of that dinner, I decided to break rank. I gave him a hug. How a man of his slight physical stature could have performed the feats I now knew about, I have no idea.

He survived the hug.

For the first time in my life, I thanked him both for his service to the United States and for being my uncle. Though such words made him squirm in his boots, I told him he was a hero – mine, and America’s.

 

Thank God I'm not on "Survivor" -- or any other reality TV show

Zeke Smith

I thank the heavens above on a regular basis that I have enough sense not to thrust myself on to a reality TV show like "Survivor: Game Changers." Survivor in particular always strikes me as the most physically, emotionally and psychologically bruising show of its genre. I have tremendous respect for people who compete and have no qualms with winners taking home $1 million dollars for being on a TV show. I have always suspected that a show with cameras and microphones trained on me 24 hours a day under highly stressful circumstances would not end well for me. Survivor in particular is a recipe for disaster. Survivor crawls inside the tiniest and darkest crevices of each contestant's psyche and looks for chances to split it apart. One bad moment can ruin lives.

I watched in slow-motion abject horror last night as two contestants' whole lives went off the rails when one chose to out another for being transgender. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears so I had to rewind the scene. Yes, Jeff Varner did reveal the secret that Zeke Smith alone was entitled to keep or share as he pleases. "Why haven't you told anyone here you're transgender?" Varner asked.

"Oh my God," I thought. "Jeff Varner just outed a man on national television. "This is horrible on so many levels."

My heart immediately went out to Smith, an exceptionally likable person who like everyone else on Game Changers is a repeat player. In as much as one can ever really get to know someone through the filtered and edited lenses of television, Smith has struck me as a genuine, introspective, intelligent person trying to prove to himself that he could step on to the national stage and compete in a brutal game with a whole bunch of people hungry for the prize and the prize money. Smith's face went white as a ghost when Varner threw the hand grenade at him. He sat mute for quite a while as the other members of the night's Tribal Council unleashed shock and awe on Varner. 

Varner didn't initially recognize the sadly life-altering mistake he had just made in front of millions of people. He at first tried to defend his decision, stating that he knew he was the one likely to be voted out that night and that he was fighting for his game life. He was trying to convince his competitors to vote for giant threat, Ozzy. He was also trying to show the group that Smith should also be the one to go because he was deceiving everyone without them even knowing it. Varner claimed Smith was secretly working with Ozzy, among other things.

On technical merit to that point, Varner was OK. Smith apparently didn't have conversations with Ozzy -- at least none shown on TV -- but sly 'ol Zeke was absolutely doing what you have to do to win the game. He was making chess moves several steps ahead of everyone else and was in fact working the vote. 

If only Varner had stopped there. 

Jeff Varner

Varner then lapsed into a moment that many people across the country are pronouncing as evil, hateful and unforgivable. He asked Smith the fateful question about why he had not revealed that he was transgender. Even the mild-mannered host Jeff Probst reacted sternly on the show and in interviews appearing immediately afterword. 

Smith emerged from his cocoon of shock and did so with a class and grace beyond what anyone could have expected of him in that moment. Smith chose his words carefully as he sat there next to a fire with his game still alive but his private life now snuffed out. Smith said that he did not intend to make public that part of his life. He didn't want to be seen as Zeke the first transgender Survivor player but just Zeke the Survivor player. He even had the wits about him to connect the moment to the immunity contest his tribe had just lost, failing to beat the other tribe in completing a word puzzle spelling out the word "metamorphosis". He said that he realized that if any good could come to another person out there watching on TV, he would embrace the opportunity. 

Ever so slowly, the reality of Varner's decision set in on him. He collapsed in tears, apologized profusely to Smith and admitted that he knew he was wrong to do what he did. He said he hoped people wouldn't paint him as something he's not, though I knew that a great many people would be quick to pull out their brushes without a second thought. I knew Varner was going to be made public enemy No. 1 within the hour. So that I make myself absolutely understood on this point, Varner's decision and his words absolutely deserve the condemnation they are receiving. The LGBT community is right to say that his remarks are unacceptable. The rest of us have the right to say Varner had no business interfering in Smith's, let alone on national television.

Before all of America condemns Varner for his motives and forces him to live under a rock the rest of his life, though, I think we should all take a breath. Attributing motive to statements made by a person we've never met can often be a murky enterprise. It's one thing with a public figure like Donald Trump. Our president is without question a vile and disgraceful human being with a lifetime of statements and actions proving exactly that. It's another with an unknown private citizen who until the fateful moment in question also seemed like a good guy. People across the country have been quick to portray Varner as a hate-monger, some sort of evil man with all kinds of nefarious beliefs.

I've obviously never met Varner and know nothing more about the man than what I've witnessed on his multiple seasons of Survivor and what I've read about him. That said, I would suggest we all try to follow Zeke Smith's lead. Smith returned Varner's hug as Varner again apologized and exited stage right. Smith said that he'll be OK and opened the door to forgiveness. He has also said in subsequent media reports that he has spent the last eight months or so trying to forgive Varner. I can't imagine Smith's pain. I can't imagine his feelings about what happened. I applaud him for responding to perceived hate with love and compassion. Love, compassion and encouragement are the only productive responses when you're genuinely trying to encourage someone to change their views. (I admit that I haven't yet found the ability to practice Smith's sterling manner with Trump supporters.)

That said, it's hard for me to imagine that Varner had hate in his heart when he revealed that Smith was transgender. Varner happens to be a middle-aged gay man from North Carolina. Having grown up in the Deep South myself, I know that Varner's life could not have been easy. He must have endured no shortage of hardship. That fact about his own life made it all the more bizarre that Varner would take it on himself to share something about Smith that he should have been able to empathize with.

What I saw on television last night was a man playing a game I could never play. I may sometimes dream about competing in "The Amazing Race" (I've won twice and lost once in my dreams) as that's more my style but I think that show would end poorly for me. I could never, ever go on Survivor because I KNOW that would end terribly for me. I don't think most of us can really imagine what it is like to have a camera and microphone trained on us 24 hours a day. I personally can't imagine what being on an island in that environment for even two weeks is like. With my high metabolism, I start turning into a bear if I eat lunch or dinner even an hour late. I turn into a migraine-headache-riddled monster if I don't have a Coca-Cola by exactly noon each day (I don't drink coffee in the morning.) I can barely sleep in the comfort of my own bed; I could not sleep with a bunch of stinky strangers on tree limbs and sand. There is no way I could survive Survivor's grueling physical demands and still be mentally sharp enough to play the social or cerebral game. 

As if the grueling physical demands wouldn't be hard enough on me, I am also aware that it would be a 50-50 proposition as to whether I went down as the most loved Survivor contestant ever or the most hated. There are other truths about me that spell trouble. I can on the one hand be the most charming person you'll ever meet -- lighting up a room and working a crowd with the best of them. I am also equally capable of unleashing flashes of temper and going off on verbal tirades with the worst of them. I try to keep those tirades to the pages of my private journals but they do come out in public every once in a while. Add to the mix the fact that I am a highly competitive person. On any sports field, in any work environment or even debating politics with friends, I play to win. I am intense.  Most of the time, that comes out in a healthy way -- most of the time.

I also happen to be brutally honest. As my mom once said to my current girlfriend, "Chris would rather hurt your feelings than tell you a lie." As a former girlfriend and still dear friend told me recently, "I've always loved how honest you are. Even when you were a dog, you owned it."

The last thing I would want is for the worst moment in my life to be captured on national television for eternity. To everyone slinging arrows at Jeff Varner, I would ask you to think of the 20 worst things that you have ever said, done or thought in a weak or stressful moment and ask whether you'd want to be publicly tried and sentenced based on even the ones that don't make the top ten. Now imagine No. 1 happening on national TV.

I am not excusing the words Jeff Varner said to Zeke Smith. We're right to bash those words. I think we should, however, all think about what we would really be like with hungry bellies, sun-burned skin, bugs crawling all over us, no sleep and a million dollars at stake -- money that could change our lives forever. I think we should also look at what we've seen of Varner as a whole. There is nothing about the man that we have seen on TV that would otherwise suggest he hates transgender people or any other group of people, that he would wish ill on anyone or that he understood in that split second how malicious he was being to Smith. He did obviously come to understand it moments later and his reaction seemed genuine. I think would should all look to Zeke Smith and follow his lead. Let's salute his compassion and his one-day-at-a-time-struggle to cope with what happened to him and to move forward in a positive way that makes us all better as human beings. Let's use this as a time to dig deeply into ourselves, a time for enlightenment and growth. "Metamorphosis" is a puzzle we could all benefit from solving in our own lives.

The remaining Survivor contestants, though, should blindside Smith immediately if they want to win the game the million dollars. They should do ALMOST anything they can to "Outwit, Outplay and Outlast" Smith. There's no one more dangerous in the game of Survivor than a sentimental favorite.

 

 

 

 

A footlong or a knuckle sandwich at Subway?

[From my journals this past February.] I almost punched a man in the face today. I’ve only come close to punching someone a few times in my life as I generally don’t find violence to be a solution to problems and I lack the resume for brawling. 

A guy complaining at the Subway sandwich shop at the Woodmoor Shopping Center in Silver Spring, Maryland, though, just would not shut up. I hate it when people violate my little happy zone that is meal time. Leave me alone and let me eat in peace before returning to the day's labor.

The guy got upset when his tray full of food came out to about $7.50. He thought that was way too expensive and that he should have only had to pay $5 like the commercials say … the commercials for $5 footlongs. One of the sweet ladies working behind the counter explained that the sub was $5. The chips and drink accounted for the rest. 

The man got louder and uglier and nastier in the moments ahead, clearly not understanding a simple commercial that said sandwiches were $5. A total of four employees including probably the owner of that store all took turns gently fending off the man’s hostility. They explained that they have no control over the prices as they’re set by the company. The man kept on bitching. The owner gently encouraged him to use the receipt information to contact the company and share his views about prices. 

The man kept on yelling, while backing up the line and irritating everyone in the place. He paid for his meal, sat down, then turned back to the staff and continued his tirade. 

I was done with him and the way he was treating the nice people who work there -- three petite women and an older man.

“Sir,” I began, as every polite Southerner would, though raising my voice way beyond my normal range. “Nobody is making you eat here. You’re ruining my day. Shut the hell up or get out of here. I don’t want to hear another word.” I only weigh about 160 pounds but I can get 320 worth of mad when someone disrupts my harmony and ham consumption.

He recoiled like most bullies do when someone stands up to them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I get your point.” 

I was quite shocked that he didn’t say another word while I went back to my footlong toasted ham and cheese with bacon, lettuce, tomato, green peppers, cucumbers and banana peppers. 

The man silently ate his lunch and departed. The moment he was out of sight, all the employees thanked me for silencing him. It felt like they were really thanking me for standing up for them in a way they could not. I was quite touched by their thanks. 

“The food here is the best deal in town,” I said. “You can’t beat what you get for the money. You are all always so nice every time I come here. I appreciate it and I hope you have a good afternoon.” 

I returned home and immediately wrote Subway HQ commending everyone on staff for how well they handled a belligerent customer.

Eat fresh, people, and go somewhere else if you don't want to pay for chips and a drink!

How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday

[Oct. 21, 2014] I hit the road on two wheels this morning, getting a late start at 10:30 but happy to be out for a ride. The weather guessers on TV had said a big storm would hit in the afternoon so I didn’t venture to the Mount Vernon trail as I had hoped.  

The question remained, though: Could I maintain my birthday tradition of “riding my age”? I hadn’t done a ride that long since I started Orion’s Attic. I decided that I’d be happy to get in my usual 20 to 30 miles.

My legs felt strong early on, giving me the confidence that 30 miles was within reach. I warmed my way into the ride on a sun-kissed autumn day and then took a defensive posture as I approached the terrorist squirrel bridge on the Northwest Branch trail. I had to be on the lookout for more suicide bomber squirrels and any other attacks they might launch. I saw that the bridge was devoid of all bushy-tailed rodents, increasing my suspicions. Had they planted some acorn-obscured Improvised Explosive Devices?

I exited the bridge safely but still not trusting the little traitors. I looked up and, holy smokes, is that Adam Jones?

I slowed to a crawl as I studied the man. He looked exactly like Jones in the face. He had sweats pulled up over his calves in the manner that the Baltimore Orioles’ center fielder wears his uniform pants. The man was warming up, stretching in a specific way, just like I’ve seen Jones do so many times. The motions were identical. That couldn’t be Jones. What would he be doing out here in the middle of nowhere a week after the season ended? The man’s face so spot-on mirrored Jones, though, that it almost brought me to a stop as I sneaked up behind him. 

Nah, it just can’t be, I thought. It makes no sense. Then again, Jones may be the most social guy in baseball. Maybe he has friends down here. He’s the epitome of “fan friendly” so maybe he’s doing some other gig with the fans. I chickened out and accelerated at the last second.

I pushed on but couldn’t stop thinking about him and whether I should turn back. I wouldn’t have asked for his autograph but there were all kinds of things I wanted to say to him. I would thank him for his work ethic and hustle, how hard he runs out every ball in every game. I’d thank him for giving so much of himself to his team and his town. I’d thank him for the way he interacts with the fans. I don’t mind dropping the dollars my girlfriend Won-ok and I do on the O’s, I’d tell him, because he and the rest of our guys don’t play like millionaire gold bricks. They work on the baseball field. 

I also wanted to thank him and the whole Orioles team for giving Won-ok and I so many memories and turning in such a great season. I wanted to compliment him and the boys for not throwing in the towel when Matt Wieters and Manny Machado went down or when Chris Davis shot all of Birdland in the foot by getting himself suspended for the playoffs. 

I approached another bridge, one of the highest-over-the-ground on the trail. Maybe I should go back for another look, I thought. I could be back there in a few minutes. No, wait, I don’t want to be the millionth idiot that asks him, “Are you Adam Jones?” Like what’s he going to say? “No, I’m J.J. Hardy?” 

My wheels hit I don’t even know what and time stopped as it always does for me in those moments in which I'm about to crash. I was skidding and sliding and all my crashing options looked grim.

I toppled left. I yanked myself right and went too far, toppling that way. Option one – crash into the railing of the bridge and possibly get ejected over it or through the gap at the start of it and fall 20 feet on to the rocks below. “No, Moron! That’s the worst option!” my inner voice screamed at me. Option 2 – eat the chain link fence on the left. Option 3 – crash into the center post with the family jewels. “No, Moron, that’s no good, either!” 

I came to a complete stop, still somehow perched atop my bike, without even consciously realizing what I had done to save myself. I looked down and saw that I had pulled an old mountain biking trick – pushing myself back toward the tail of the bike while hanging onto the brakes with the very tips of my fingers. 

Whew! Another split second of delay and what was behind curtain Numbers 1, 2 or 3 would have spilled some blood – or worse.

I caught my breath and felt my body trembling in some post-almost-wreck shakes. “Damn, Adam Jones,” I thought. “Why do you want to do me like that?” 

I realized at that moment that the guy sttretching by the side of the trail could not have been Jones. The pro athlete whose shirt I so often wear when I'm not sporting my Buck Showalter stands a good 6'3' and weighs something like 225 pounds. The guy I saw could not have been more than 5'10'' and 180 pounds. I laughed and pedaled away, a grin crossing my face that was equal parts happy-to-be-unscathed and joy in the knowledge that I knew what my next blog post was going to be: “How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday.” My birthday nearly brought a trip to the emergency room but hey, at least I was going to get a good story out of it!

Perhaps the save was my first birthday gift of the day. My second came just ahead. My egret friend was waiting for me in his usual spot in the Anacostia River tributary. He was so entranced by his hunting efforts that he didn’t pay me much attention – until he stayed true-to-form by taking flight the moment I got my iPhone out to take his picture. I don’t know why the heron clan is so camera shy. 

I made my way to Lake Artemesia at about the 13-mile mark. To even reach 30 miles without any side trips, I was going to have to put in four miles there. If I seriously wanted to do 46 miles, I was going to have to find some alternate riding options, or do 20 miles around the lake – about 15 laps. 

I wasn’t in the mood for creating 20 new miles. I didn’t want to have to think about it. I just wanted to churn my legs, take in the natural and human scenery and enjoy turning 46. 

I ate a very light lunch with a gaggle of geese, hunk of ham, a Coke and a smile -- then knocked out 20 miles around the lake.

I didn’t do a whole lot of reflecting on the ride, the way I usually do on my birthday. I have done so much big thinking about my life lately that I was all thought out. I just existed as one with my bike and the beauty all around me.

I neared the 46-mile mark as I crossed Piney Branch Road on the Sligo Creek Parkway trail. My eyes focused mostly on my odometer. I hit 46 and started singing Happy Birthday to myself in my head. I was celebrating my birthday and successfully riding my age. I looked up the moment I began singing and spotted and old, black and white Siberian husky leading his people along the trail. I pulled even with him. He looked up and into my blue eyes with his bluer eyes.  

I burst into tears, a quick downpour that was so hard I nearly had to stop the bike because I couldn’t see: I knew that was my long departed friend Orion’s way of joining me to celebrate my birthday. A thousand things had to happen today for me to pass that dog at the exact moment my odometer hit 46.0. 

I pulled myself together and rolled on to the house, noticing I was at something like 46.9 miles. No way I was stopping there. I heaved myself around the neighborhood until my odometer reached 50 miles. That birthday is now just a scant four years away. I need to be ready! 

Marriage fairness: We all deserve to feel gushy inside

I ran into a high school sweetheart nearly two decades ago back in our hometown of Atlanta. She told me that her life had changed a lot since we dated: She realized she was gay. “Rebecca” (not her real name) shared the painful journey that ultimately led to her happily embracing her sexuality.

We lost touch not long after that but recently found each other again here in the D.C. area, where we had met so many years ago as puppy-faced kids on a multi-school trip to the nation’s capital. I found that we weren’t all that different in our middle age: Rebecca and I had both moved here to make a difference and were thriving in our District careers. I was in a committed relationship with a woman; she was, too. If she is ever able to marry, I will attend her wedding. On Nov. 6, I will also vote yes on Maryland’s Question 6 to express my support of Maryland’s recently passed Civil Marriage Protection Act legalizing same-sex marriages.

Any two people who love each other should be allowed to celebrate that relationship through the act of marriage and no government has any business deciding who can and can’t be together. Opponents of marriage equality refuse to recognize the inherent issue of fairness and equal rights this country has fought for more than two centuries to preserve. It is beyond me how one human being can look into the eyes of another and declare the latter to be a second-class citizen.

I find it particularly odd that many African-Americans would deny gay people the right to marry each other. I mentioned this to my stepmother, who happens to be black, and reminded her that it wasn’t that long ago that the government banned blacks from marrying whites. She later told me that my points resonated with her and that she has since changed her view on the subject. Civil rights champion Julian Bond, meanwhile, appears in TV commercials every day encouraging people to vote yes on Question Six.

How would other Americans react today if the government forbade people from marrying someone who speaks a different language, practices a different religion, or has a different skin tone? What if the government told heterosexuals that it would deny the right to marry only to that group? There would be revolution in the streets, that’s what.

Opponents of marriage fairness are also misguided on the subjects of choice and religion.

I’ve heard many condemnations that homosexuals shouldn’t “choose” to be gay. No one chooses who they’re attracted to or who they fall in love with. I don’t remember ever sitting down with my parents and saying, “Mom, Dad, I’ve given this matter a great deal of deliberation and I have decided I shall date … girls!” All I remember is a zillion moments in which I spotted a young woman like Rebecca in a Smithsonian cafeteria and got all gushy on my insides. I was in love with her by the time I put my arm around her at the Jefferson Memorial later that evening and I nearly fainted when she agreed to go out with me when we got back home.

I don’t buy religious arguments that homosexuality is a sin, either. While people can use any document including a bible to justify their views, the god I believe in is not one who condemns a group of people he himself played a role in creating. Many churches in Maryland are supporting marriage fairness. 

Life can be difficult enough when people aren’t being treated to bigotry and discrimination. We don’t need to make it harder on anyone because he or she is different.

Rebecca may be off the list of women I can marry but that doesn’t mean my feelings about her are any different. She had big beautiful brown eyes and wanted to make the world a better place when we met. She still has big beautiful brown eyes now and she is fulfilling her dream. America is a better place because if it. I remain incredibly grateful for the romance we once shared. She helped me gain a sense of self-confidence and blessed my life in many ways.

No law should deny Rebecca the opportunity to make a woman as gushy on the inside as she once made me.

A sugar rush for America!

Strolling around Dupont Circle today, a nice young man and nice young woman asked me if I had a moment to talk to them about an issue they were working to support. My mind was rabidly focused on the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop that stood mere feet away so I couldn't remember whether their organization was the one I strongly agreed or disagreed with.

"Forgive me -- it's Sunday," I said. "My mind is a little hazy. Are you on the pro side or the anti side? I know you're organization but am drawing a blank on which side of the fence you're on."

He gently said his group was on the former and again asked if I could spare a moment. I paused, staring at my date with glazed greatness and then back at him and his co-worker. I know exactly how hard that job is: Canvassing for a nonprofit or political cause on the streets of any city, let alone one as intensely partisan as Washington D.C., is tough, tough work. Most respondents just ignore you on a good day. They insult you on a bad one. If you stay positive and forget every rejection, though, you just might be able to enlist some passersby to subscribe to your email list, sign a petition or make a donation.

It is truly a thankless job done by hard core believers generally working for next to nothing or volunteering.

But I was craving a taste of the South this morning and just didn't feel like getting political; I told the couple that I wasn't up for it on a very rare day off from work. I inhaled the sweet scent of heaven a second later but immediately felt my sympathies for the youngsters kick in -- not to mention my actual support of their cause.

There was only one thing left to do.

I ordered an extra half dozen doughnuts to go and brought the box to the sidewalk pounders I had just brushed off.

"Here's a little something to give the two of you a boost," I said, presenting the green and white box. "Maybe this will hold you over if you get a little hungry. Keep up the good fight. I'm there with you."

The young man and woman were surprised by the simple good will gesture. The man told me no one has ever done anything like that for them while they were working or expressed support in that way. He choked up, actually. His colleague did, too.

I gave him a smack on the shoulder, win one for the Gipper style, and told him I wished him the very best of luck. I turned and walked away, delighted that I had managed to put smiles on the faces of a pair of people working hard on a Sunday morning to make a difference. I hoped it might give them just enough willpower to press on and pull a few yeses out of No Town.

I used to do stuff like that all the time because performing random acts of kindness is actually a lot of fun. I need to get back in the habit. I should use my Krispy Kreme strategy more often, too -- helping to build a better America one glazed doughnut at a time!

The next Ron Howard film? Story about local pet sanctuary could be a blockbuster

A few of DC Reflections' loyal readers know that Won-ok Kim and I have started a little side business selling antiques, art, home decor, collectibles and other things -- but you may not be aware of our real mission ... helping great causes we care about. The first charity we're supporting is House With A Heart Senior Pet Sanctuary in Gaithersburg, Maryland.

Far from being a dreary place, we found it to be something akin to the Ron Howard film "Cocoon" except with dogs instead of people getting younger.

We would be honored if you checked out a blog post I wrote about it on our new Orion's Attic blog. House With A Heart does some amazing work and deserves all the support it can get. Give it a read and help us pass it far and wide if you'd be so kind. We would be further honored if you're inspired to lend your personal support to House With A Heart.

 

"What do you do?" not the right question in D.C.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all about networking and personal marketing. I can flip the charm switch and work a room so well that Bill Clinton would give me a pat on the back. No one thinks twice in Washington D.C. about taking all of six seconds to ask strangers what they do for a living. We crave that instant knowledge to determine whether someone can be helpful to us in advancing our careers or accomplishing other goals.

I wasn't up for popping that question at a recent networking event with the DC PR Flacks meetup.com group. (I love meetup.com and highly recommend the site to everyone. And do join PR Flacks if you're in my trade -- they're good people.) I decided to make the effort to get to know just a few people well instead of a room full at surface level. 

That's when it hit me: Sometimes, you just have to take a break from "What do you do?" and ask something more pertinent, more real. I promptly made a new friend and brought the issue up with her after several people walked up and asked us our names -- following it up with the vocation question before we could even get our names out. New friend and I spent some time debating the right question we should ask people and the kind of answer we should pivot to when the next person asked us about our jobs. 

"The next time someone asks us what we do," I suggested, "let's not respond in a way that includes our jobs. And then let's put a different question back to them."

All kinds of possibilities entered my mind for potential answers to the jobs query. 

"I do as many things as possible that I'm passionate about like mentoring young people, teaching people how to write better, and learning about American history." Other potential answers? "I play tennis as much as possible and as hard as possible to achieve a zen-like state of tranquility," I might say. Or "I travel to minor league baseball games to watch the drama of young players trying to make it to the next level." I could even reach back to two-decade mantra from Thoreau: "I suck the marrow out of life so that I don't look back when I'm older and realize I had not lived."

Despite my preparation, no one else came up to me or my friend that evening. Probably a good thing, too, as we couldn't quite find the exact words for the question we wanted to ask people. 

Naturally, it hit me the next morning when I wasn't trying to think about it. Keep it simple. Ask "So, what are you about as a human being?" or "What are your passions in life?"

I can't wait to see the expression on strangers' faces when I drop that question. Regardless of the answers, I bet it leads to more meaningful conversation and opens the doors to friendship ... something that could be a lot more beneficial than a business card.

For $37, it's worth the chance

A middle-aged man I had only met once approached me tonight and asked if he could borrow some money. The story was the same as the one we all usually hear from people begging for money: Kevin had just learned his mom had fallen ill and he needed to catch a Greyhound bus to North Carolina. He was $37 short.

He apologized profusely for the request and told me he'd like to work it off by cutting my grass when he comes back. I had hired him to do the same just a few days earlier because I was tired, and for the first time in my life, I paid an adult to knock out that chore. It was worth the $40 I paid him to plop down in my TV chair and watch the Orioles. Between innings, I stepped outside and handed Kevin a Gatorade. We spoke for a minute. I thanked him for the thorough job he did -- one that gave me a night of relaxation.

When he paid me a visit this evening, I stalled before I gave him an answer -- making up an excuse to disappear for a moment while I thought it through. I don't often give money to random strangers, figuring they're just going to spend it on booze or drugs the moment I turn my back. I usually utter a quick "I'm sorry but I can't help you," and move on. At least I acknowledge them, I tell myself. Most people just walk right on by. The last time I spoke those words, near Ford's Theatre, the man began screaming obscenities at me. I thought about turning around and giving him a bit of an etiquette lesson -- to borrow a line from Fraser Crane -- but quickly remembered no good could come from that.

All of those thoughts went through my mind as I considered Kevin's request. I looked deeply into his eyes for clues about his character and I tried to discern whether he was telling the truth.

I considered how hard he had worked on my yard earlier in the week. A number of other snapshots flashed across my mind: I had repeatedly spotted him in the neighborhood pushing his lawn mower and carrying his milk jug of gas. I also took note of my fellow Southerner's diction and formality.

He did not flinch in holding my gaze and the answer I sought became clear to me.

I realized I wanted to believe Kevin, that I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe that some people genuinely need the kindness of strangers when they're in a tough spot. I wanted to believe he would return and cut my grass again. I wanted to believe in humanity. I also wanted to exercise my Christianity. I knew $37 wasn't going to make me miss a meal and if Kevin proved to be a liar, well, that's between him and his conscience. Mine would be clear.

I handed Kevin $45 and suggested he grab a slice of pizza before his late-night bus departed. He thanked me profusely and promised he would return to work it off after he takes care of his mom. 

The relative stranger struck me as a man of his word. I closed the door knowing it's possible I had just thrown away $45. I didn't care, though. If I'm not willing to risk an occasional $45 on my convictions, I'm not much of a man myself. 

[Post Script from a week later: Kevin returned and cut my grass. He said his mother is at rest now and he was glad he was able to go home.]

Saying goodbye to a suit lined with great memories

It's probably pretty silly for me to get choked up about saying goodbye to a suit but I'm feeling pangs of loss as I prepare to bid farewell to a navy blue jacket and pants I've worn for years. It's heading out the door tomorrow.

Although my waist now exceeds the bounds of the suit a decade after I bought it, I've grown in ways that go well beyond my 34-inch belt line. The suit first helped me land a great new job when I chose to change careers -- exiting journalism to serve the Georgia office of the Trust for Public Land as its new public affairs manager. That job gave me the opportunity to help save beautiful places across the state ... from the Chattahoochee River that runs through Atlanta to swamplands in south Georgia teeming with wildlife.

I was wearing the same suit a few years later when I got lucky enough to be hired by Jackson Spalding, a PR firm in Atlanta that taught me more about my new profession in six months than I've learned in any stretch of my second career. It's a good thing I got that call, too. Wearing the navy blues a few weeks earlier, I had abruptly ended an interview for a job with a huge international firm because I realized I really wanted an offer from the local firm across the street. That time in my life gave me the chance to work on the most important thing I've ever done in my professional career -- play a role in a huge team effort to help free a wrongly convicted young man from prison. I wore the suit inside the Georgia Supreme Court the day it heard the case and I happened to be in a meeting wearing the same clothes when word came that the court ruled in the man's favor. 

The suit wasn't all work and no play, though. I left work and went out dates and sparked relationships with some great women wearing that suit. I remember them fondly and am grateful for the times we shared.

The tie I usually wear with my lucky blues goes back even further. It was the first grown man's tie I bought when I finished globe trotting after college and became managing editor of Mundo Hispanico, a bilingual newspaper in Atlanta that made such an impact on the community that the Atlanta History Center recently hosted an exhibit about its role in the community. My articles and photographs were featured in several places and I nearly cried as I connected with the Chris Lancette of 15 years ago.

I also chose that suit when I made a trip to Washington, D.C., to interview for my current job with The Wilderness Society. I was sick as a dog at the time and sweating profusely. I closed my eyes before walking over to the office and asked my lungs to give me a break and my suit to cover up the perspiration. Both cooperated, I made it through the afternoon, and got out the door before the non-stop coughing returned and the suit crumpled into a heap of wrinkles.

The Wilderness Society gave me the chance to achieve my dream of living in D.C. Nearly three years have passed since I arrived and the decision to move here remains one of the best I've ever made. I even have a new girlfriend. I wore that suit at the Baltimore ceremony where she became an American citizen. We snapped a few photos and then jumped in to summer clothes so we could take in an Orioles games.

I have other dress clothes, of course, but that navy blue suit always brought me luck. It's too small now, though, and the "buy one, get two free" sale at Jos. A Bank was too good to pass up.

The suit will not disappear, however. 

I've recently become aware of the great work performed by Saint Elizabeths Hospital in the District. Taking a tour of the brand new facility last weekend, I saw that it had a thrift store that helps patients obtain additional clothes. The psychiatric patients there are working hard to get their lives on track, and many have gone on to great success over the years. I suspect someone there could use a break. 

I pray that the man who wears the suit next finds the same great fortune it brought to me.