Friday, December 26, 2025

Cammies

Age 9: decide to wear "army clothes" whenever possible.

Age 13: join cadet group: wear suckass fatigues. Plot to improve situation.

Age 16: continue to wear various suckass green fatigues b/c cargo pants uniforms unavailable. Become familiar with genuine tigerstripe cammies my friend Brian has somehow acquired.

Age 18: spend entire life savings on crummy post-Vietname War commercial tigerstripe fatigues: 40 bucks.

Age 20: get groovy German cammies, arcane Desert Night cammies, wear all over Europe. Tell GF that I have decided to try to acquire every camouflage pattern in the world. She replies that I would then have exactly 2 patterns. 

Age 24 or so: decide to finally get serious about camo. Cover office/guest room with camo jackets on cardboard to display their pattern, make camo director’s chair seats. Mix camo jacets with jeans.

Age 30 or so: transition from camo jackets to camo pants, mix with plaid shirts [Pendletons!] Focus on few, cool patterns.

Age 40 or so: get multiple patterns in order to ease wear on few patterns, extend usefulness.

Age 50 or so: discover that exotic patterned fabric is much easier to find than exotic patterned pants that fit. Begin making pants. Start a Facebook page called Bad Camo, chronicling camo that is silly, stupid, and fascinating.

Age 55 or so: reach point that I can go an entire summer off from the school year wearing a different pattern each day.

Age 60 or so: realize that by any objective metric, I have far too many pairs of camo pants.

Age 62: realize that I have be a much more stylish fucker wearing non-camouflage pants. The too much camo remains.


 

The Blue and the Grey

 

Family Memory of the Civil War

When I grew up, we used to sing "Two Brothers" ("One Wore Blue and One Wore Grey") in the living room on music nights. It was actually discussed that if we wanted to have a kepi in the costume box, it could be blue, but grey was right out. We had this graphically excellent beach towel with a Union Jack (yes, I know, 6 counties, Bengal Famine, Mau-Mau suppression), but the towel from the same company with the equally impressive Stars and Bars was not something we ever would own. 
 
I had ancestors on both sides of the American Civil War: a maternal great-great-grandfather in the New Jersey infantry, probably drafted right off the boat from Hamburg, and someone or other a unit from Mississippi. We still remember which ancestor called which other ancestor a "danged ol' Reb" on the school yard. 
 At any rate, blue was OK, grey was not.
 
Thing is, whenever I hear the name of a state in the Midwest-- Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, Indiana-- I think of the blunt chauvinism with which men from these states prosecuted the War Between the States. I think of Sherman’s March to the Sea. Whatever you call the Civil War, whatever you think its cause (freedom for the slaves or Federal supremacy?) or its effect (national unity, or the obliteration of a heritage somehow thought to be deserving of existence?) was, it’s pretty difficult to find the happy in the whole affair.
 Now, when I hear those same states named, I remember my feelings about the civil war. The news I hear is about their role as the places left out of the flowering of civil liberties led by the urban elites of the coastal Northeast and the West Coast in the decades following McCarthyism. I hear about how desperate, ignorant people with far too many weapons for even their own good fear a USA increasingly friendly to people of various skintones, various identities, various languages, various spiritual outlooks, various genders and various preferences of what to do with their minds and their bodies.
 I don’t know who will achieve their goal-- those who seek freedom of existence, or those who wish to return to social oppression. As we move along, though, I keep remembering the link between the states of the Union Army and their sad, perverted descendants.

Marriage

 

You must marry ___ so your father can become more powerful.
You are not allowed to marry ___ because your parents say no.
You made the mistake of marrying ___ without permission, so the king shall punish you.
You made the mistake of marrying someone not for rational motivations, but for the absurdity of love, so we shall think ill of you.
You must marry ___ so they can acquire half your lands.
You married someone with a different imaginary friend, so your imaginary friend shall no longer allow you to imagine that you are playing with them.
You married someone who talks to their imaginary friend differently than you, so same consequence.
You married someone whose imaginary friend we take exception to, so we shall not allow your corpse to be buried over here, but only over there.
You married someone who looks funny, so we shall hang you, or them, from a nearby tree.
You married someone who used to be married to someone else, so kitty bar the fuckin' door!
You didn't travel to this place here just to marry someone did you? No, of course not. That would be naughty. 
You don't want to get married to someone just so we will let you stay over here rather than over there, would you? That would be the height of cynicism!
You're getting married? Well, of course, their mother gets to choose the silverware and the menu. I thought you knew that!!
You got married? Good. We shall now title you so that everyone else immediately knows your status. Unless you're a man.
You got married? Good. We shall now call you Missus John Smith.
You got married? Simply everybody wears a silly little ring, so we expect you shall as well. Weren't you told that?
How lovely that you got married? Now, dutifully go 'round to every bureaucratic office you can and deface your surname.
Thank you for getting married. You shall now peep out from every genealogical survey 2 centuries now as merely "Peggy", with no other data assigned to you except who you gave birth to.
You got married? Lovely! We would like to know all about it. Here, pee in this cup. Give us some blood. Let us swab your cheek.
You will, naturally, need to be licensed to get married, just as you would to drive a car. Yes, of course, there is a fee! Congratulations!
No, you can't possibly have got married. You have an innie/outie, and they've got an innie/outie, too!
You're getting married? That's disgusting! To hell with your cake!

Highly Advanced Motorcycle Hipster

 

I’m trying to figure out who this guy is. He's on a knucklehead (or panhead?) Harley, a flatly unpretentious, stripped down machine that looks at home in about 1970, but whose engine hails from 2 or 3 decades earlier. Its breathy exhaust note appears to stem from the fact that its exhaust pipe- not muffler- is simply pinched shut in a linear gap. It is not terribly loud, not ridden to be loud. It idles great.
 
Rider is about 35, maybe Latino. There is little to set him apart from any given crowd. Worn, dusty gear, ball cap under half helmet, rolled up jeans, boots for work, not for appearances.
 
So who is this guy? A dedicated motorcyclist who keeps this grimy treasure in running, "live" condition for Sunday rides around town? Hipster scum living out the biker dream of my-not his- generation? Actual biker? Mechanical whiz with a love for the old stuff?
 
He pulls away ahead of traffic, the engine no more than loping. Pulls in the clutch, engine at idle, reaches down to the left below his seat and JERKS THE SHIFTER INTO THE NEXT GEAR. This, then, is the infamous "suicide clutch", foot actuated, meaning you can't put that foot down at a stoplight without dropping into gear. A number of you may remember Fat Freddie of Fantastic Furry Freak Brothers comics having a misadventure with this, falling right over on the unsupported clutch foot side, saying, as I recall, "Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!" on his way down, the choices being between falling over and suddenly thrusting out into traffic.
 
One more detail. That rolled-up pant-leg? Selvedge denim. That's one pretty danged advanced hipster.

On the Black Block, February, 2017

 

I have a limited familiarity with the black block phenomenon. Many lack even this basic familiarity. Here is what I saw on Wednesday before the demonstration against the fascist provocateur and paedophile who tried to speak on the UC Berkeley campus:
 
As I stopped on Southside for a tasty vegan snack, there was a small group doing the same. They were a nondescript group-- 2 young white men, one young brown woman, one skateboard. It was notable that they were wearing all black, with black caps and zipped up black jackets. Their shoes were interesting: 2 of 3 wore nylon/leather black boots, same as many law enforcement people. I did not look at them too intently, preferring to leave them some privacy. One, though, wore a body camera on his backpack strap, so they wore backpacks. I assume they also were black.
 
What they did not have is any sort of law enforcement or skinhead vibe or iconography. They also lacked any other sort of vibe.
 
On their own, they might have been just another knot of hipsters, but as i walked north on telegraph, I noticed more small knots of 3, similarly attired. There was a mix of genders. There was nothing at all flashy about them. There were some nonwhites, but no Black folks. They may have had any sort of philosophy at all in their minds, but no right wing ideation was apparent. They rapidly coalesced, pulled bandanas over their faces and threw up barricades completely blocking Bancroft with about 30 people working together. 
 
I saw no apparent right-wing action. I saw apparent anarchist coalescence, work and action. I did not see the people at the center of the crowd at Pauley Ballroom. There were fireworks including large firecrackers. These may have been different folks, though it seems a safe bet that they were the same folks.

The Four Sights

Prince Gautama Siddharta lived a sheltered life. His courtesans contrived to keep him away from the harsh reality of real life outside the palace walls.

One day, the prince managed to evade his handlers and began to wander around the city.
He came upon an old smoker with grey pallor and rheumy eyes. The man coughed  and wheezed. This saddened Siddharta, and he recognized that the life of a smoker was smelly, filthy and uncomfortable.

Next, the prince came upon a drunkard. The man was crawling in a gutter in a pool of his own vomit.  The further saddened Siddharta, and he saw that the life of a drinker made one bleary-eyed, incapable of walking, and nauseous.

After that, the prince saw a heroin junkie. There was nothing more to do for the man, as he was already dead. Siddharta saw that there were old smokers, old drinkers, but no old junkies. It saddened the prince to learn that heroin brought only delirium, sloth, and, all too easily, overdose and death.

Finally, the young prince came upon a hasheesh eater. The man sat, smiling, hands folded on a plump belly. From this, he learned that hasheesh was part of a full, satisfied life.

Siddharta resolved to be more like the stoner and to avoid the suffering of the smoker, the drinker, and the junkie.

Memory and Memories

     A patient killer stalked my mother’s mind. 

    Dementia appears to me, watching it happen, to be a process of at least 10 years. Often, I wonder if something my mother, Cerini,  did or said was because of her person or because of her pathology. 

     She enjoyed learning of little tidbits, amusements to her curiosity. One I remember appears to be a product of her person. I suppose my memory is from about 15 years before her death. She had a National Geographic article about comparing beach sands under a microscope. “They’re little THINGS!,” she said, a usage of the word meaning “creatures”, referring to the recognizable shapes of the tiny animal shells composing beach sand under our feet. I remember the phrase because it is a linguistic sample*, but the reason I bring it up here is the wonderment it brought to Cerini’s face.

    An example that appears more like a product of her pathology is when she told, several times, of a TV news story relating to climate change. It showed the earth tilted. She seemed to think that the tilt affected climate change, whereas any 5th grader should know that is merely the basis for the seasons. What really aroused my mother’s suspicions was the fact that she never saw the picture displayed again.  The subtext of her story appeared to be that pernicious forces of social control had suppressed the depiction.
I can understand how an isolated person like Cerini could be fearful in their ignorance of the workings of the world, especially sipping information through the soda straw of television.
 
    Television increasingly was her window on the world, even as she drew the blinds on the literal windows of her house, anticipating the long, windowless sleep of death that she approached. On 2 occasions, the TV let her down. Once, she pressed the wrong button on the set, and a repairman had to come out. Until then, she sat in her living room and stared at the street with the 1 or 2 degrees of view that her front door afforded her. Another time, the electricity went out, and she was powerless in more than 1 way.
 
    In at least one instance, her TV reality bled over into her real one. Once, from a bluff in Avila Beach, we watched from the seats of the car as whales, orcas, I believe, surfaced to breathe a mere 500 yards away. Often, we would walk on the pier nearby, looking down at the water 10 yards below. An advertisement, which appeared regularly in this time, featured a giant fish, emerging with open jaws toward a fisherman. She conflated this into a story of an orca emerging toward us on the pier, a worrisome breakdown of her grasp on what was real and what was not.

On Treatment

 

It was good to be overweight beforehand. I lost 50#. That's 25% of my previous weight.
I practiced breathing exclusively through the nose, like by biking uphill, both inhaling and exhaling since about 8 years previously. The mask worn for radiation treatment is bad. Your mouth is totally blocked. You use whatever tools you can to remain calm: count your breaths (about 55), retreat into your mind, practice meditation/mindfulness.
Contact with friends is crucial.
Taking long walks is part of it.
It is a long process, and there are loads of details in the depths of that time. It’s been a year since my treatment started. I still have tiny little symptoms. I kind of forget how it was in the darker days.
Constipation because of anti nausea meds is awful. I had a fecal blockage 3 times and used home enemas. Next stop would’ve been ER where “they will dig it outa you”, as my friend Josh says.
I was at ER twice. Once to get IV nausea meds because Ii couldn’ keep the pills down and once because I passed out after a bath and cut my forehead open.
The kind of Zofran anti-nausea pill that dissolves under your tongue is amaaaazing! It takes immediate effect and can stop a nausea incident.
“Nausea” is a Greek term meaning “repaint  the walls with vomit”.
Relinquish any thoughts of drinking. I am thankful to have been able to get stoned. (I recommend small amounts of THC in gummis for exact dosing.)
The battle against depression is important. Stay stoked as much as possible. Avoid speaking to folx who need “stoked” explained to them.
You will take damage— teeth, salivary glands, hearing.
Main thing is change: this will change you.
And don’ sweat the whole death thing. It’s pretty much outa your hands. You know how to die just as well as you know how to grow your hair. It’s perfectly safe. Just focus on doing your job— getting to appointments on time, complying with medical advice, doing your swallowing exercises, eating and/or using the (fucking) gastrotube to get food in you. 
Put “death” in a different box. 

A Man

 Was a boy just last week or so,

Rude, pale flesh, hairy dong,
Perfect, but for torn flag of leg, or throat, or gut,
Interrupted by fire engine red of gore, a flower of exit wound,
All else about the man is sheathed in dun,
Dedicated dust, engineered earthtones,
Mimicry of soil,
And the man’s frantic attendants.

New Terms in German

From my 2024 trip there. I began noting these on my phone, and it became quite a list.

Talahon- quasi gang member, immigrant background, rap fan, often Muslim (learned of this before the Germany trip)

      Visiting Gabriela
bodenständig- down to earth
Adipositas- obesity
Legasteniker- dyslexic person

     Visiting Coffey
Hyrox— indoor track-and-field-type sport
Pfortader- portal vein. ??? Something to do w the organs on the right lower abdomen
Wasen- Kerwe
Kutteln- beef stomach
Herrgottsbscheißerle-Maultaschen: uh… a bakery item?
Kloster Maulbronn ??

     At Eva and Martin’s
Kirrle- durcheinander: mixed up, disorderly
Untergewand— undershirt
den Bach runter— bergab
Fibel- secondary meaning: brooch: learned  at karlsruher Schlossmuseum?
Rampensau- glory hog? Attention seeker, said of a performer
Spinalkananalstenose- pinched spinal nerve
Jostabeeren- Kreuzung zw Stachelbeeren und schwarze Johannesbeeren: cross between gooseberry and (red or black?) currants, I think
Hexenspiel— ein Kinderspiel: something easy to do?
Hausbrauerei- brewpub
Fimmel— a soft spot for something
verstaatlicht- nationalized
Hausnummer: starting price/ real estate
Wasserstandsmeldung: same thing

     At Malaika and Torsten’s
Maulbeere— mulberry
Jacke wie  Hose— same thing either way.
Bio-Bike— not an E-bike
Forellenpuff— recreational trout farm for fishing
Schlehen— urpflaume: blackthorn
Klöntsche— platt: kandiszucker
lauschig— gemütlich
Insektenhotel: log with bore holes which provides habitat
Engerling- larva of large insect: june bug, potato bug. Lives underground.
Römertopf - ceramic casserole
pedativ— said of an after school-program, not nec. v good??
linke Bazile— mean person
falscher Fuffziger— ??
langhorriger Bombeleger— left wing extremist
Schäpperle— latch
Rindspimmel— insult: bull’s penis, right?
Förderklasse— special ed
bildungsnah/ bzw. -fern— proper teem for uneducated/ better educated

     Visiting Walter, Peggy and Alex
Befindlichkeiten— facts?
Havarie-shipwreck
Henkelmann— WWII German mess  kit
Affe: German mil backpack used in pre-NS time, still used by some Boy Scouts. Note: marching song still used by German troops because it is not an NSDAP song.
des Teufelsküche— devil’s kitchen: locus of chaos, disorder, error, I think
Kontrollsucht— OCD
Befehlsnotstand— when you are forced by circumstances to follow illegal orders?
unleidlich— unausstehlich? Impossible to get along with?
Speckgürtel: suburbs of a city that benefit from it by extraction of wages and taxes

      With Claudia, DW, and Ulli. New terms most likely all from Ulli
Persianer— some kind of rug?
Geysir— geyser
Pantau— Cz Kinderserie
Hast du Hummeln im Arsch?— are you in a hurry, nervous, etc.
Bedarfshalt—??
Schotter: Geld

     Back visiting Gabriela
Mahonia— a kind of berry
befegen—??
linker [linke?] Socke— left winger
Bisamratte— nutria?




 

Kitty Update

 "You can't just let your cat dominate your life" -a friend, watching as our cat dominates aspects of our life

     There was some response when I shared a very long description of our odd cat's very odd behavior 2 summers ago. She started spending inordinate amounts of time outdoors. Then, summer before last, my son and his most excellent partner stayed in our house while we were away for a month, and she acted out again in some way that I can no longer describe well., but was well short of, say, pooping in our shoes. She did go back to her usual oddness, to wit, insistence on one indoor spot and one spot only to curl up in. Cooler weather will apparently bring her back in to us again, but she has not set foot in our house of her own accord since about March.
     If we leave town these days with a neighbor, something of a cat whisperer, looking in on Zou-Zou, then we can't really justify if for more than 1 night. When she was indoors and we left for 2 nights or so, she sometimes had very _minor_ potty problems, an anomaly for such a Good Kitty. We interpret this as a manifestation of her emotional state. We have no intention of making our kitty sad. Poor kitty!
     I'm having a hard time hitting my stride, narrative-wise, so I'll give a brief description of where she's at and leave it at that.
     Canned food please. We are a kitty of a Certain Age [17 or so] and we have certain tastes. No, not that can. Wait- that's yesterday's food fluffed up. No thank you.
     She will come to within 10 feet of the door to eat. No closer.
     No laps unless she chooses to jump up after significant amounts of foreplay, making it a commitment by the human of half an hour at least. For about 10 minutes of serious lap-sitting.
     Kitty was not blessed with a particularly dulcet-toned meow. I wonder if the neighbors flinch when she goes into her act at 5 and 5. That's morning and evening. It's OK. That's when I wake up.
     Litter box is right out. Now, she prefers to dig a hole in the soil of the garden, poop next to it, and leave it unburied. 
    Kitty Safe Places, a feature of kitty's peculiarity all her life, have included a comfy chair, one part of a carpet, a window overwatch, one spot on the couch-- NOT another, thank you very much. Oh, you wanted to watch TV? Claudia's work desk has been a favorite for all concerned parties. Now, she has moved on from the outdoors spot on the dirt where she can watch for intruding quadripeds to a place on the concrete, the wrought iron chair [there is not enough wreaking of iron these days], more dirt spots, and a cozy bit of rocks and sod. Don't ask me why.
      Claudia says kitty suffered a stroke at some point, making parallels with her late mother's troubles in her dotage. That might explain kitty's departure from the warm and cozy domestic life she had settled on. In all of this, she has stayed a handsome feline, but under her fairly luxuriant fur she is just a little bag o' bones. 
     We really hope that she is still here when Claudia returns from her vacation, but we just never know. 
     Yes, that's right. Claudia takes her vacation, and I take mine. We wouldn' wanna leave kitty All By Herself, now. Poooor kitty!!

This is not a Genealogy Story

    Nigel has begun to ask genealogical questions, starting with, "You say the girl in the painting is buried in Oakland. Let's go see the grave." The girl is a curly haired boy in the early 1800s, age 8 maybe, curly hair, Francesco Cerini. We go. I walk straight to the pillar in Oakland's old Catholic cemetery. We stop off at the office for a xerox of the names of the other 8 or 9 folks there interred.
     Oakland has 3 cemeteries close together at the end of Piedmont Ave. Catholic, Jewish, and one for Normal People [I intend this with irony: default/ protestant, not marked religious sets.] 
     The latter is mmmmassive and wondrous. 
     I've been to the grave of my Oaktown anchor before. He is Robert Holmes of the Holmes Book Store, which closed in 1995. He died in 1931, and was born in Lincolnshire. I knew the orientation and location of the grave, but there is just no way to find an ordinary gravestone at Mountain View Cemetery on your own, so I used Find A Grave online and then Google maps in a game of warmer/colder/red hot.
     When we located the stone, I saw it was angled backward about 25 degrees. Thinking it might be on a bent pin between gravestone and base, I went to right it and it fell flat.
     Great. Vandalizing graves in broad daylight. No one was around, but still.
     Turns out an 8" thick slab o' stone is right heavy. Nigel used some creative lift-with-your-back geometry and gained purchase. I got in under the stone and was able to help him actually raise it.
    I'll tell you the ending now: we placed it upright on its pins, and even wiped it off, leaving it in much better shape than when we arrived.
     Thing is, between raising it and placing it, there was quite a lot of hunching and grunting and positioning. There we were, 2 grown men humping a gravestone right there in front of gOD and ever'body.
     And laughing.

Riffing on a Name

                  Curtis-Wright Corporation

Hawk: Curtis fighter planes P-1 and P-3, 1923
Superhawk: P-5: same but, well, super.
Japan Hawk: P-6S exported to you guessed it.
Cuban Hawk: same.
Turkey Hawk: unable to find references. Not sure if a model exported to Turkey, or named for a raptor that ostensibly preys on turkeys.
Seahawk: naval fighter plane S7C. Term refers to an osprey.
Sparrowhawk: absolutely fascinating US Navy dirigible-based fighter that landed by matching speed with a hook below the mother ship and being hoisted within. Refers to an actual bird.
Goshawk: naval F11C fighter. Name is coterminous with “sparrowhawk”.
Hawk: fighter plane P-36, 1935
Mohawk: export version of the P-36. Not a name of a raptor, rather to an indigenous people, a recurring theme here.
Tomahawk: P-40, 1935: an improvement on the P-36 using a different engine. Name is more indigenous tomfoolery: not raptor-related, but a type of indigenous battle hatchet.
Warhawk:  P-40 in USAAF service. Marketing term, I suppose. 
Kittyhawk: same plane, cutesy name given by the UK: does not refer to any kind of hawk.
                       
Sikorsky Aircraft
 
Black Hawk: Sikorsky utility helicopter UH-60, 1974: named for an indigenous military leader. At least the US mil didn’t name this particular chopper for a vanquished indigenous people, as had been their convention before this.
Seahawk: Navy version: all one word.
Jayhawk: Coast Guard version: all one word. What precisely coastal search and rescue has to do with Kansas Jayhawk[er]s, anti-slavery guerrillas in the 1800s, I do not know.
Pave Hawk: USAF search and rescue version. “Pave” seems to be a USAF code-word applied to many suffixes, some  nonsensical, some topical such as “Hawk” in this case.
Night Hawk: UH-60 for executive transport: 2 words, as opposed to the real bird nighthawk. 
White Hawk: same: It’s painted fancy-- white on top.
Gold Hawk: same.
Battle Hawk: export gunship model. Pretty obvious.
Desert Hawk: export version for Saudi Arabia. Which is a desert.
Naval Hawk: export naval version. Seahawk wasn’t good enough?
Firehawk: firefighter version: my personal favorite, and the inspiration for this list. May refer to a comic book character or to an Australian indigenous term for birds which purposefully propagate fires, rather than fight them, in order to flush out game.

Saturday, October 25, 2025

Revenge Tour Chat

 I biked around Germany in summer 2025 to avenge my 2024 summer lost to cancer treatment. I had given up Facebook, so I made a WhatsApp chat to chronicle my travels. It was not easy to preserve the chat in its original format, so I laboriously edited what I was able to download, inserting photos in, hopefully, the relevant place in the comment thread. Then I discovered that I could not upload the edited chat with photos here, so here is a link to the Google doc. Hope it works.

 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ePsO0VGu4UlgV1rGogjb1vno_lCC_5Ib2GR9_0kMijs/edit?usp=sharing

The Blue and the Grey

When I grew up, we used to sing "Two Brothers" ("One Wore Blue and One Wore Grey") in the living room on music nights. It was actually discussed that if we wanted to have a kepi in the costume box, it could be blue, but grey was right out. We had this graphically excellent beach towel with a Union Jack (yes, I know, 6 counties, Bengal Famine, Mau-Mau suppression), but the towel from the same company with the equally impressive Stars and Bars was not something we ever would own. 
 
I had ancestors on both sides of the American Civil War: a maternal great-great-grandfather in the New Jersey infantry, probably drafted right off the boat from Hamburg, and someone or other a unit from Mississippi. We still remember which ancestor called which other ancestor a "danged ol' Reb" on the school yard. 
 
At any rate, blue was OK, grey was not.
 
Thing is, whenever I hear the name of a state in the Midwest-- Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, Indiana-- I think of the blunt chauvinism with which men from these states prosecuted the War Between the States. I think of Sherman’s March to the Sea. Whatever you call the Civil War, whatever you think its cause (freedom for the slaves or Federal supremacy?) or its effect (national unity, or the obliteration of a heritage somehow thought to be deserving of existence?) was, it’s pretty difficult to find the happy in the whole affair.
 
Now, when I hear those same states named, I remember my feelings about the civil war. The news I hear is about their role as the places left out of the flowering of civil liberties led by the urban elites of the coastal Northeast and the West Coast in the decades following McCarthyism. I hear about how desperate, ignorant people with far too many weapons for even their own good fear a USA increasingly friendly to people of various skintones, various identities, various languages, various spiritual outlooks, various genders and various preferences of what to do with their minds and their bodies.
 
I don’t know who will achieve their goal-- those who seek freedom of existence, or those who wish to return to social oppression. As we move along, though, I keep remembering the link between the states of the Union Army and their sad, perverted descendants. 
 
Note: I wrote this in October 2020. 

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Ethnic Catholicism

 

 

Conservative commentator Ross Douthat, who writes opinion pieces for the New York Times largely about Catholicism, once saw fit to tell us in print, in an op-ed I have not succeeded in finding, that his loyalty lies firstly with the Church. Loyalty to the United States comes second. I am mystified as to a) why he seems to think Catholic issues are somehow important to the news-reading public and b) how a person whose confessed loyalty is only secondarily to our polity should have any role at all in the opinion forming media, but I am willing to let those concerns go for now. Here's the thing: such talk hurts Catholics.

I carry no torch for the Church. I can candidly state my views towards it in pithy, Anglo-Saxon terms that you, the reader, really don't need to hear. Fact is, I am the descendant of Italian and Irish immigrants for whom the Catholic faith was a part of their ethnos. Anyone who knew me in the rash days of college would be amazed to hear it, but I am an ethnic Christian, descended from one quarter Catholic “stock”. At any rate, biblical stories about weird-beard folks in djellabas with names like Absalom and Uriah are not something I can identify with. I don't follow any of their fairy tales: it is a matter of identity.

It is this identity that Mr. Douthat puts in jeopardy when placing his Catholicism anywhere near the level of his patriotism. Catholics, like Jews, have been subject to a spectrum of discrimination ranging from insults to violence based on the perception of their split loyalty. In the case of Catholicism, this appears in part based on the very state-like structure of the Church-- a church that does in fact originate in its very own micro-state, the Vatican.

In the basic Know-Nothing scheme of 19th century American xenophobia, Romanism-- an epithet for Catholicism-- was used similarly to how Communism is used today by the American extreme right. As Republicans today sometimes identify basic capital-D Democratic ideas as Communist if ever so slightly left of center, so too did old-time American nativists tar more liberal politicians as “Romanist” if their views did not sufficiently serve to oppress American Catholics.

The Ku Klux Klan also grouped Catholics with Jews. I'll choose this moment to mention that the United States' only Catholic president before Joe Biden was shot to death in a Southern city.

My Catholic ancestors are not hard to find. They rest in the (self-?)segregated Catholic cemetery of Oakland, California, a burial ground dwarfed by the nearby Mountain View Cemetery. A ten-foot tall obelisk announces the surname of one of the first people buried there, Cerini, a name recycled as my mother's given name.

As they lie separated from the "general population" in death, their grave mirrors another kind of social disadvantage they would have experienced in life. There are eleven bodies buried there, just as poor Catholics lived in overcrowded residential conditions, bearing at least 3 different surnames, both Italian and Irish, 2 of them are misspelled in cemetery records, reflecting a kind of bureaucratic apathy.

They are all dead. My connection with them is not. This connects me, in turn, to living Catholics-- to living Catholicism. Whatever discrimination they might have suffered in life cannot be justified as applying to the millions of Catholics I share the United States with.

I have no social connection to any more than a handful of modern, live Catholics. I have only an inkling of who among my friends “actually believes this stuff”, to quote my friends' most effective line against the Jehovah's Witnesses who plagued their porch for a time. My suspected Catholic friends probably just understand that no advocacy of any kind is asked for. Conversely, perhaps my aforementioned strong anticlerical views that I was not polite enough to keep under wraps as a hotheaded adolescent keep them silent.

The few I know-- and the many I don't-- share the ethnic identity of my grandfather's entire family. I have no desire to see them suffer socially for the expression of an opinion writer's divisive claims.

Sunday, March 16, 2025

 

 

 Call me by my Name

 A Guide for Adults in Schools

Piet Bess


School is big and scary. Adults will ask kids to do strange things, and sometimes they will tell them what their name is, even to the point of calling them names they have never heard before. We, as adults, owe it to our students to use their given name, to pronounce it as well as we can with English sounds, and to help the child find their way to using it in writing, and, in very few years, adding their family name to it to make their full name.

 

Notice I did not use the phrases “first name” and “last name”. These common terms lead to confusion for all-- for students, for adults, and for institutions. Here’s what I have found.


Not everywhere do first names come first. The convention in Asian countries including Japan, Korea, and China put family names (so-called last names) first, the way English language conventions list names for easy alphabetization. They do not use a comma as we do. They don’t write Smith, John, but rather just Smith John. I do hear a pause in the Korean dramas I watch: Smith… John, but that may just be me. A failure to heed this convention led the director of the CIA, Mike Pompeo, to address Kim Jong Un as “Mr. Un” a few years back. (If you have something clever to say about military intelligence at this point,  I’ll let you say it to yourself. I know I did.) Mr. Mike might have taken heed of the fact that North Korea had been led by 2 previous Kims, Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. We have students from Korean families at our school. I assume that all of them, along with our students from Chinese language families, use the Jong Un Kim form dictated by our conventions. Except when entered on forms as Kim, Jong Un.


Asia may seem far away linguistically, though close in immigration terms and neighboring our country across the water. There are at least 2 countries from central or Eastern Europe that might seem closer to us culturally as huge numbers of immigrants came to the USA from that area in the 1800s. I confess they are the linguistically most distant European languages from English: Hungary and Finland. Both these societies use the Smith John form. So we would be talking about Orban Viktor. (I apologize for the use of dictators as examples.) At any rate, here we are with 2 regions where the first name and last name nomenclature breaks down: Eastern Europe and East Asia.


Now, given the fact that German immigrants constituted an immense plurality of immigrants to the USA in the 1800s, their naming conventions should be like ours. Still and all, I have experienced firsthand culture clash between my name and Germans still in Germany. My full name is Piet Culpeper Bess. At the German border, I was asked if Culpeper was Vornamen or Nachnamen-- first name or surname. “Es ist ein Mittlelnamen,” I scoffed. My direct translation of “middle name” into German may not have answered his question. It might have been easier if each of us had used a phrase like “given name”. A miscommunication between us arose, even though we could be said to be coming from very closely connected cultures, with my being a fluent German-speaking descendant of German immigrants long ago.


Let’s come closer to home. Spanish naming conventions should be familiar to us because of the presence of so many Spanish speaking members of our society, but often we struggle with this as an English-dominant  culture. Let me first state that I do not share the opinion of many that there is an English version of a person’s name. I do not think that Dah-VEED should be known as DAY-vəd. I may be less strict on this if it appears that the student does not viably speak Spanish. I try to use the name the student gives me, but in the case of David, he told me his family name was Rouis. I draw the line there. Ruíz is not ROO-iss, but Roo-EECE (This is an oversimplification. It would be more linguistically correct to say RWEECE, but Roo-EECE is good enough for an English speaker’s approximation.)


But back to family names. The basic naming convention in Spanish is personal name, family name of father, family name of mother. (This is such as I understand: I think there is about as much to know about family name conventions in Spanish language conventions as they would have you know about stressed syllable conventions!) So, Eduardo García Hernández’s main family name is the patronym García. This can cause problems. When I asked his subsequent teacher about him they said they had an Eduardo Hernández. (It would be really nice if we would all say Air-NON-dess instead of Her-NAN-dezz!) This reliance on the name-that-comes-last is a source of confusion. If there are 2 family names, you may use only the first one if you wish, without, as far as I understand, any negative connotation, unless there is emotional baggage about the father and the child does not want to use their name. (This is a true story in the case of 2 students I will not name, who appear to be disinterested in their fathers.) Students can also be unclear on the nature of their 2 family names. I had to disabuse one young Miss Gutiérrez Gómez  of the misconception that  Gutiérrez was her  "middle name".


Families may wish to hold on to that second family name. Perhaps that is the reason they hyphenate the 2 family names: Eduardo García-Hernández. With this, they use northern European convention to force both names to be recognized on forms and in use as one name. This is great! As far as I know, both Eduardo García-Hernández and Roxanne Lundin-Crittenden, a friend and former garden teacher in my school district,  can be addressed as Eduardo García and Roxanne Crittenden respectively without insult. In fact, Roxanne, a wonderfully incisive thinker, referred to her moniker as “one of those… annoying hyphenated names”. Roxanne may have been referring to the logistics of a long name, or perhaps to the use of such names among the upper middle class.


Incidentally, 2 online resources used by our students at my school display this kind of error. They list students by the name that comes last, rather than by their main family name, their patronym. This is annoying because, a) it puts them in a different order than our roll sheet, and b) it displays cultural insensitivity or ignorance. The hyphen removes the error! Both names occupy one field. This is an issue with coding as well as with culture.


Here is what usually happens when I ask students what their family name (singular) is. Instead of García, or similar, they write Aurora and Juan, or sometimes “mommy, daddy, Cecilia. They have not heard the phrase “family name” before and instead write all the names (plural) of the people in their family. If more of us would use the phrase, it might be easier for students to understand it.


Some cultures have members who only use one name. This includes, to my limited knowledge, Indonesia, smaller island states in the Pacific from which my school has students, and, Afghanistan. Incidentally, Burmese uses 3 names, usually, but all of them are unique: there is no one of their names that is shared among all or most family members. Our bureaucratic system, including the State Department states, “The visa will be issued as follows: Given Name: FNU; Surname: [John]”. FNU is an abbreviation used by the Federal government and our school system to mean “first name unknown”. Note that they use “given name” and the slightly more accepting “surname”, which, though it does mean the name that comes afterwards, is not so barefaced as “last name”. 

IF YOU HAVE A STUDENT IN YOUR CLASS LISTED AS FNU, PLEASE DO NOT CALL THEM “FNU”.


Here is an example of how alienating it can be. I asked a student what their name was and they said “Bnu”. They were listed as FNU on the roll sheet. I looked up the student’s language and found that their language does not contain an F sound. Here the student thinks that the school has the privilege of naming them--  we do not!!-- and is attempting to say the word the school says is their name. This is sadder than Dayvid Rouis’s case. FNU is not a name. It is a misnomer. In fact the family name is missing: we should say LNU. The child’s name is the other name besides FNU. Please use the student’s name in every case. After all, we would hardly deadname a trans student. That would be just as rude. To “deadname” someone means to use and/or insist on using their often heavily gendered birth-name despite their demonstrated desire to express their self-perceived gender. Henry would hardly want to be addressed as Anabelle. If you doubt this, put on the typical clothing of the opposite gender and go shopping for groceries. You will probably not be comfortable. Neither is Henry comfortable with their deadname.


I noted a method Spanish-speaking families can use to retain their student’s matronym: using an English-convention hyphen. There are 2 other things students can do to hold on to the features of their names. Sadly, bureaucratic systems will continue to obliterate the accented vowels and the Ñ. I ask that students with characters in their names not recognized on computerized forms use them every time in writing. Often, I need to use Wikipedia (wikipedia.es for Spanish-language content about people from Hispanic culture)  to look for famous people. Yanez is just not the same as Yáñez: one would say yon-ESS, the other, correctly, YON-yess. (Again, I am using approximate pronunciation to cater to English speakers, on the model of BBC radio’s effort to say all the sounds of a word in such a way as to approximate its sounds using English sounds.)


The Ñ case is fairly clear. The student may tell you that it is Yáñez, or you may ask their family, or you may use Wikipedia.es. The case of accent marks is a little more complicated. First of all, I have a real example from my friend David Cooper. On the first day of a Spanish 1 class at Shasta College in Redding, he called roll. When he came to a student whose family name was Pérez, she loudly and angrily corrected him: “It’s Per-REZZ”. It would stand to reason that her family had been in the English-dominant culture for long enough not only to assimilate, but also to forget their name’s pronunciation, PED-ess. They are not alone: I was taken aback when Kamala Harris announced that her running mate would be Tim Walls. His name, Walz, clearly should be pronounced Valtz, being as it is spelled in German. Here is what Spanish-speaking students can do to hold on to their accent marks.


First of all there is a matter of nomenclature. In García, the “accent” is on the Í, but in David the accented syllable is the the I. David does not need an accent mark because syllables ending in -D, -L, -Z, or -R do not need one. So, rather than saying the accent is on the I in David, we would have to say that -VEED is the “stressed syllable”.


While García has an accent on the Í, it has both an accent and an accent mark, I find it best to use the phrase “accent mark”. Oddly, this can also confuse students. When I asked a young Ms. García, a second grader, to put an accent mark on the I, she dutifully crossed it out. She heard that I wanted her to “put an X on” the letter. Along with “Bnu”, and Dayvid Rouis, she found it acceptable to comply with the bizarre requests teachers make of students. Her reaction shows that she was not accustomed to writing the Spanish language characters of her name. 


So, to recap: first name and last name are confusing, and should, in my reasoned opinion, be replaced by given name or personal name, and family name. Students should understand that the reason they have a family name is that other members of their families have the same name. Students can retain the orthography of their names by enforcing the orthography of accent marks and the Ñ. And teachers must respect their students’ names as their parents named them.