True Ancestor

Someday, I'll be sorry

Someday, I'll be sorry I ever started this blog.

Somebody will dredge something up that will come back to haunt me. I'll have written a book, or an article, or I'll be teaching a class somewhere, and somebody will Google me, and they'll come up with this blog, and they'll go searching it for contradictory statements, outrageous beliefs, distorted facts, or phrases or ideas they can claim were plagiarized.

They'll look at all the photos of people and they'll sift all the personal information; they'll document all the "humor" and they'll use it to question my judgment, my sanity, my fitness for the position of _________.

Maybe I'll be in a car accident. Maybe I'll tap somebody's fender, and they'll stagger out of their car clutching their back. They'll take my name and insurance information, and they'll go home, get on their computer, and maybe somewhere in the almost 700 posts I've done to date, there rests some kind of info that's damning about my driving, or my judgment, or my eyesight, or God knows what.

I'm trying to figure out if I care. That is -- is it worth it to me to stop saying what I think in order to protect myself from such people?

I'm never going to run for public office, so what am I afraid of?

I'm afraid that there's no such thing as privacy anymore, that's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid there's no such thing as humor, opinion, a casual remark, or context. It's all out there, framed in a monitor, made visible through pixels, unchanging and seemingly neutral, so that it can in fact be distorted any which way.

Right now, I'm not sorry. But someday, if this blog vanishes, you'll know: I've declared myself a candidate for something, and in so doing, I'll have to erase any hint of sponteneity, irreverence or editorial slant.

If I want to be a somebody, I'll have to become a nobody.

--T.A.

Trends that trouble me, trends that don't

Perhaps if I lived in New York, or if I'd lived there on September 11, 2001, I'd feel differently.

But a public school that uses Arabic as one of its principal languages doesn't trouble me any more than a public school that uses Spanish, Chinese, Korean or the dozens of other languages that are spoken every day in this country. To suppose that any education in Arabic will wind up having a Madrassa-style influence on its students (which in itself probably is a misrepresentation of what most Madrassas do), when other English-only schools in the same town are overrun with gangs and drugs, is an understandable but unreasoned and unreasonable response. It overlooks more immediate and intractable challenges. Like: how do you keep kids in school? Keep girls from getting pregnant? Stop the spread of STDs? Keep young men from killing each other?

Perhaps there's more going on underneath, as opponents of the Khalil Gibran academy claim. But that claim seems attached to everything that uses Arabic as its principal language these days. I don't fear a Madrassa in New York as much as I fear some punk high on crack, with a semiautomatic weapon tucked somewhere in his baggy jeans.

I'm not sure if the troubles of African American athletes constitute a trend, but the media are treating the troubles as a trend -- and that's a trend in itself. A friend of mine, an African American, says that all his African American friends are simultaneously disappointed in Michael Vick and disturbed that Vick would get so much more attention than, say, Darfur, or the looming credit crisis. Perhaps the coverage is particularly intense here in Chicago, where we love football a little too much, and where African American players have had their share of trouble, and then some (of course, some coverage just loves any athlete in trouble). But it seems that Michael Vick has gotten a lot more attention than, say, Brett Favre would if he'd been hunting without a license. Am I wrong?

Then there's the trend of public figures of or allied with the religious right getting busted for inappropriate sexual conduct. Like the rest of us,these guys (and they do all seem to be guys) are innocent until proven guilty. However, also like the rest of us, they have appetites. If they're in denial about those appetites -- if they champion legislation like the Defense of Marriage Act while seeking dalliances outside of their own marriages -- then they have a problem, and the rest of us do, too.

Their problem is obvious. Our problem is tied to theirs. In attempting to legislate morality while being unable to control their own conduct, are they just trying to inhibit their own private desires through public declamation?  Or are they just being hypocrites?

My fear is that the public failures of public citizens will actually serve to increase calls for legislating private sexual behavior. What's more, media scrutiny of all public figures will become even less substantive and more voyeuristic, chasing away the last few good people who might have been willing to subject themselves to a run for public office.

Meanwhile, the Khalil Gibran Academy -- named after a Lebanese Christian -- soldiers on with an Orthodox Jewish interim principal.

--T.A.

The Millers

In another chapter of Life Meets Blogging, or Bloggers Meet in Life, a large group of us -- all five of my family, the Danny Miller family (complete with Kendall and Leah), and the Sue Miller family, minus her husband, who was on the road -- met at a great kosher restaurant just off Devon Avenue in Chicago and had a smashing time.

As Middle Daughter remarked, with some pride, "Only a kosher restaurant this small could be this loud." We all knew what she meant. There were 11 of us; Gabe got reacquainted with Spencer, but also met the love of his life -- a Ferrari parked across the street from the restaurant.

It's the third time I've met Danny, the second time I've met Kendall, and Leah, and Sue, and Spencer. We may not be related, but then again ...

If blogging offers nothing else, it offers new and improbable friendships.

(L to R: Sue Miller, Danny Miller, Spencer Tweedy, Leah Miller)

--T.A.

Methuselah Lives, or: a Date with Destiny

This not a new story, but it is a news story. Apparently, it's true, and its possibilities and its symbolism are stunning.

Rabbi Zvi Miller, who used the term "a Date with Destiny" as the headline of his daily e-mail on Mussar, explained it this way:

Amongst the ruins atop Masada, a mountain fortress overlooking the Dead Sea, archeologists have unearthed a two-thousand year old date pit.  The pit was found in an ancient jar during excavations in the 1970's. A few years ago, it was given over  to the expert care of Dr. Elaine Soloway, a specialist in the area of ancient plants, to see if it would germinate. She was highly skeptical that any life was left in the parched, marble- white seed.

In spite of her doubt, in 2005 she made an attempt at revival by soaking the date stone in a bath of warm water and fertilizers. She then planted it on Tu'B'Shavat, the new year for trees. "After six weeks the bed cracked and then two weeks later the first leaves sprouted. "It was like a miracle!" said Dr. Soloway. 

The tree is growing today at the Arava Institute, where Dr. Soloway vigilantly watches over her charge, which she has named "Methuselah." Now that the seedling has grown into a sapling with extraordinary long palm tree leaves, Dr. Soloway professes that "I think it has a future."

Methuselah underwent chronological testing, using the radioactive isotope Carbon-14, which confirmed that the tree grew from a seed that lived when Judea was a flourishing Jewish community, some 2000 years ago. That species of dates, which was known to be uniquely succulent and sweet, is extinct. However, hopefully in a few years, as Methuselah continues to grow, the Judean date will reemerge like a phoenix from the ashes.

The story's symbolism is obvious -- especially at this time of year, the Jewish soul's ancient essence germinating anew, promising a sweetness untasted for two thousand years, is wonderful to contemplate.

Especially if you like dates. With destiny.

Have a good week.

--T.A.

Lunch with the Ancient Mariner

Two days ago I had lunch with my old man.

He's pushing 90 now, but so with it, still. How does he do that? I think it's all that bridge and word puzzles; bourbon, good genes and dumb luck.

We had lunch at this private downtown club, overlooking Lake Michigan; a club I'd been coming to with him for 35 years -- as long as we (my brother, parents and I), and then just my folks, had lived in the apartment that they've now packed up. Next week, the folks will move out, spending a couple of weeks in a hotel before heading to Florida again.

I've had more than a few lunches with my old man at this club. When he first joined, the club -- once the hangout of artists and writers sprinkled in with businessmen -- didn't admit women. My dad voted for the change; my mom, I would say, lobbied hard for that vote. Women started to join the club, and all the old guys were shocked (and secretly pleased) when the place became a little more lively.

But the old guys have mostly passed on, and the women haven't joined in great numbers. The place is usually deserted now; the deep-dish pies are made with canned fruit, the entrees are kind of thrown together, and the old gentleman who's been the manager ever since I can remember is now so hunched over he could hardly look up to see that the mangy teenager he remembered accompanying my old man was now a balding suburbanite with a salt-and-pepper goatee.

As we sat looking out at the lake, my old man told me about his first summer on Martha's Vineyard, as a teenager, babysitting for two young cousins, and how astonished he is that they're both dead and he's still here. We talked about all the people who are gone. The room seemed to be filled with them.

My old man has a little more trouble walking now, but he still has a confident, almost stentorian voice. He told me of a few things I might have to take care of, in case of an emergency, and then he wanted to talk about me.

This has always been my dad. He has always been a watcher, an observer, a listener. He's good with a wry comment or a terse verdict, but he will not carry on at great length. He won't say much, but he won't miss much, either. There is both an authority and a reticence about him -- a talent with people leavened by a guilt, I've always supposed, at the chance he got at living a full life, while his beloved brother was deprived of that chance.

We only sat for an hour, but it passed quickly. We talked about me (imagine that). It all felt like it was over too soon. We walked out of the building together, into the bright, humid sun hammering down on Michigan Avenue. I went one way, to drive back to the suburbs, and my old man went the other, to take the train back to the South Side. I thought I should walk with him; then I thought he'd probably get a little irritated that I'd think he needed an escort; then, as he walked slowly toward the train station, I realized it was probably one of the last times he'd make that particular trip.

I have always felt, with my old man, like I needed more time. I still feel that way, and I probably always will.

--T.A.

'We all build our own places of worship, whether we know it or not.'

There's an interesting post over at Jewish Atheist: apparently, a year after posting about intermarriage and interdating, he's still getting comments about it.

I just posted mine:

In my experience -- my first marriage was to a non-Jewish woman, my wife of 14 years is Jewish -- a marriage is more than just love, a commitment to an individual involves more than just that individual, and there are modes of communication, philosophy and spirituality where you may (or may not) find, over time, that you are profoundly different in basic ways from a spouse who comes from an entirely different faith tradition and cultural background.

This doesn't doom the relationship to failure. It just means that love, which supposedly conquers all, really has its job cut out for it.

We are blinded by the popular notion of romantic love. We are told, and tend to believe, that it's this elixir you drink with another person, that gives you both superhuman strength to withstand all trials and tribulations. That's a load of crap. A love relationship usually can't thrive in isolation. It's supported by a web of friendships, associations, support networks, and, yes, even beliefs.

My brother is married to a woman who's an Episcopal priest. They've had a fine married life, but that's partly because her beliefs were central to her, and he had none. He let her beliefs be the guiding principles of the home and of their parenting of their only child. [NOTE TO BROTHER: IS THAT A FAIR CHARACTERIZATION?]

All of which is to say: we all build our own places of worship, whether we know it or not.

What do you think?

--T.A.

Why (and when) I love The Onion

What passes for news these days is wearying: salacious, shallow, just plain wrong.

And there's way too much of it.

It's in troubled times like these -- when the glut of information is nothing more than a deluge of empty calories for the conscience -- that I turn to The Onion.

They know it's therapeutic to make time for yourself, to hate the Yankees, to make fun of motivational speakers and skewer Washington and all who abide there.

Even the Messiah is handcuffed in the Onion's warped world.

Only when nothing is sacred can you start adding important things back, one at a time.

Enjoy the process, and the weekend.

--T.A.

'Religion and tragedy are adjacent in the human psyche'

Read this phenomenal (yet accessible) essay by Roger Scruton (a scary/brilliant conservative thinker and polymath) in the British magazine Prospect (h/t: The Misfit).

It captures what strident atheism misses about the human need for myth, for ritual -- and for violence, to which religion is "not the cause ... but the solution," a kind of drawing off of the poison of resentment that infects every human attempt to live in society.

Scruton points out that the likes of Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris have said nothing that Enlightenment thinkers weren't saying 200 years ago. But whereas contemporary atheists blame religion for a host of society's ills, thinkers like Hume, Voltaire, Diderot and Kant peeked behind the curtain to try to understand why the human psyche needs and creates religions. Scruton says their conclusion, on the whole, was that religion didn't create these ills, it's an attempt to address them.

Scruton quotes Hegel on the story of Adam and Eve: the Fall from Grace is "not just a contingent history but the eternal and necessary history of humanity." We are in equal measure freed and made to suffer by our grasping for knowledge. From the moment of birth, we begin to learn, and we begin to resent what we cannot know or have. Suffering, and the attempts to both understand and vanquish suffering through myth-making, begin here.

In other words, Scruton says, "a myth does not describe what happened in some obscure period before human reckoning, but what happens always and repeatedly. It does not explain the causal origins of our world, but explains its permanent spiritual significance."

Religion is an attempt to see from the edge of existence, to celebrate its mysteries and to vanquish its agonies. Too often religion's attempts to draw off poison have only succeeded in poisoning (Crusades, the Inquisition, Islamic fundamentalism), but Scruton notes that "the violence comes from another source, and there is no society without it since it comes from the very attempt of human beings to live together. The same can be said of the religious obsession with sexuality: religion is not its cause, but an attempt to resolve it."

Scruton's piercing conclusion:

"The rational person is not the one who scoffs at all religions, but the one who tries to discover which of them, if any, can make sense of those things, and, while doing so, draw [off] the poison of resentment."

Go read.

--T.A.

"Our universe might be somebody else's hobby."

Movie franchises like The Matrix, Terminator and Back to the Future indicate our collective suspicion that time is a loop, not a line, and that somehow technology and String Theory will help us explode, not merely explore, our primitive theologies.

(For fans with long memories, perhaps the most touching example of this cinematic theorizing was the short 1993 made-for-TV movie The Whole Shebang, starring Mark Linn-Baker as a flustered graduate student whose doctoral thesis is -- the creation of the Universe.)

A philosopher at Oxford University has developed a compelling hypothesis which suggests not that we might someday be able to simulate ourselves, but that we ourselves are simulations.

Read this Times piece and let its message sink in: although we may, by mid-century, have a computer that simulates all of us, we may already be just one phylum in a genus of simulations stretching backwards and forwards throughout all of Time -- which may itself be a simulation.

Thanks to Colorado Charlie for destroying my workday. Of course, it only resembles a workday...

--T.A.

Married for a Lifetime

It has begun to stop bothering me that the One True Wife does not finish her sentences --

"Could you get the ...?"

"I'm hoping you'll ..."

-- because I have begun to finish them in my head.

All the ways that we're different have become bridges to aspects of our respective selves that have gone unexplored.

All the duties we share and shoulder are parceled out according to respective strengths, and time schedules, and predilections, and jobs, with only periodic verbal communication (this ritual is called "doing calendars").

The One True Wife and I have been traveling this summer: to Israel, to Montana, to Denver -- and although we haven't been married that long (14 years), this summer it came to feel as though the epoch of youthful marriage had ended -- one last layer of sentimental sediment had been deposited, in the form of trips taken and memories made -- and now another epoch, form and content, geology and meteorology unknown, has begun.

In little more than a month, Middle Daughter will fly the coop. I will have (mostly) raised and turned loose two stepdaughters, despite the divisiveness engendered by the divorce of their biological parents. We have made a family, despite everything, and that family is growing up.

Gabe faces the experience he dreads -- that of being the only child living at home.

And the One True Wife and I will enter a new age, because we started our marriage with two small children on board, and now we'll have one on the edge of adolescence -- one whose orbit will begin to circle outward toward other constellations we can't detect or fathom. And the Wife and I will have the luxury of mutual exploration and deeper introspection that til now we haven't known.

There will be a lot of changes to talk about here (or not). As the summer ends, and a time of great wonder draws closer, the Wife and I rediscover dormant talents and neglected ambitions, and we discover, for the first time, what it's like to have (or feel like we have) all the time in the world.

--T.A.