“Are you more comfortable if I wear a mask? Because this is a situation where your company is more valuable than my preferences.”
Maybe we can grow as communicators.
Each individual has to find that time to speak or listen in his or her heart. The latest bully tactic on social media is to push people to post on a certain topic, claiming they are bad if they do not. That’s intimidating if you want to do more than cut and paste the approved message. If you use the “wrong” word or aren’t “strong” enough against whatever or for whatever, you could have a shit pile come down on you.
A lot of people are under the stress of the lockdowns, just trying to keep themselves and their families together, to keep their businesses open, to navigate the labyrinth of restrictions on our daily lives.
Compelling speech or action does not empower the individual.
God bless, thank you, I appreciate you,
Jason
F The Police?
I’ve been to left-wing protests and right-wing protests. I’ve been in a riot. I’ve looted. I’ve been to fever-pitched religious services and concerts that might as well have been welcoming the Messiah. I’ve been in the mob and of the mob.
I’ve been treated fairly, unfairly, and downright lied to by the police. I’ve run and I’ve been arrested. After smashing my car in a drunk driving incident and almost killing someone, I was treated so well by the officer that I got second chances I didn’t deserve.
I’m friends with police officers, I know they’re human beings like me. I know the same line between good and evil that runs through my heart runs through theirs.
There’s a legal monopoly of violence held by the State and its enforcement arm. That’s what makes the police a problem. When violence is a viable and effective tool, it will be used. Just as screaming at a child will cease unwanted behaviour, for a time, so will beating individuals who will not comply with governmental orders.
For the present legal system to work, there must be cooperation between police, judges, and lawmakers. A law is passed with an understanding that the lawmaker doesn’t need to justify its existence, so long as the police officer enforces the threat of violence. The judge understands that it is difficult to compel people to do what they don’t want to do, so is sympathetic to the police. These branches of government protect each other as they know that the system and their livelihoods depend on it.
It is a natural human instinct to recognize allies and favor them.
Solutions to a system sustained by violence are difficult. They must be radical to change our perspective on how law is enforced. They must be specific so we can have honest discussions and real steps we can take.
I’m educating myself with a variety of sources, but Tom Woods has offered a tidy list of episodes that he’s done on this subject. They run around 30 minutes and deal with theoretical and practical concerns. I hope to be able to write more clearly on what to do about the police in the coming days and weeks.
Ep. 1664 On Looting and Police Brutality, With Eric July
Ep. 1429 Scott Horton on the Police, the Military, and Other State Institutions People Make Excuses For
Ep. 1255 The Problem With Government Police
Ep. 1172 The Problem With Government Police
Ep. 901 Police Officer Discovers Libertarianism, Quits
Ep. 426 The Shocking Kill Rate of American Police
Ep. 388 Is America a Police State? Here’s the Evidence
Ep. 88 The Economics of the Police State
Ep. 51 The Paramilitary Police
God bless, thank you, I appreciate you,
Jason
On Individuality, Love, and Race
I grew up in the Jehovah’s Witnesses until I was eight, it was a significantly black congregation in an almost exclusively white town. After worship, we would often go to a black family’s house for a giant meal and fellowship. This was my normal. We segregated ourselves as Witnesses. We called each other Brother and Sister. My best friend was the only black kid in the class, we were the only Witnesses I knew of in elementary school.
We were rising poor, living in the farmland outside town, my dad was doing well as a guitar teacher and performer when my grandfather died and saddled us with debt and a house we had to move in to. That area was more wealthy and had better schools. He continued to work his butt off and provide a safe and loving home for us, with my mom home, loving on us full time. My friend, Brandon, lived in, to my country eyes, an impossibly crowded apartment building with his grandmother. We never talked about his parents. We were outsiders in school, we knew that: Witnesses whose caretakers dressed them as close to Middle Class standards as they could manage. He had a video game system and I had the luxury of open spaces around me, I figured we each had our little pieces of the good life.
Then we left the congregation. For years I had been pelting my dad with theological questions. He’s a smart rebel, he answered and encouraged my questions. Nothing was off limits, each question deserved thoughtful consideration, no matter how deeply it may undercut doctrine. And undercut they did. Once the dust settled, he would credit my questions for speeding our exit from that insular tribe.
I think I knew the next gut punch was coming, “Brandon won’t be your friend anymore. He won’t be allowed to talk to you. It’s not his fault. His grandmother and the Brothers and Sisters will insist on it. Don’t be angry with him. This will hurt him too. This is part of the reason we’re leaving, this is wrong.” It wasn’t really a surprise, I knew the rules. I don’t think I cried then, but right now, in the midst of this tribal bullshit, it breaks my heart anew. I’m crying over that loss for the first time. Worse than that, I feel a wellspring of hate that I have buried over years of trying to do right and live in love. You can’t bury a spring. The water will saturate the ground, seep into your life.
Hate can only last for as long as you don’t look at it. I hated the Witnesses for taking away someone I loved. I hated organized religion in general for the divides it built between people. Since becoming a father, I’ve had more love in my life each day. It has held back these old hates at times, but eventually they must be faced. Since becoming a widower, I’ve seen the transformational power of love and focused my life on understanding my anger, forgiving myself for it, and moving forward in love.
I no longer hate the Witnesses or organized religion. I have discovered God’s love in all Creation, including the horrors and tragedies. Jesus said to love your enemies, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. moved my heart when he specified to love the oppressor.
My bias remains against tribal institutions. I value the individual above any group. That is not to say that groups do not have value, but experience has taught me that evil has an easier time rising in groups than good.
I talked to my son about “mob mentality” and how I’ve witnessed it and participated in it. I explained, in fewer words than here, how I protect myself from it. The nervous system is not controlled in whole by one’s brain, each nerve ending can react through reflexes and muscle memory. In this way, our entire body is our brain. At different times we focus thinking power in one or more places. Much of the body functions independent of concious thought. This is not simply a matter of voluntary and involuntary systems as we were taught in health class. We can take control over every function of the body to varying degrees. We can also cede control to automatic responses or an external “brain.” This is what happens in a mob. It can seem as harmless as dress, everyone in black t-shirts at a metal concert. It can manifest in a chant, “U! S! A!” or “I can’t breathe!” These are steps toward surrendering control of one’s mind to a group. Once we all look and sound alike, we can move alike. Fists in the air, stomping to a beat, or marching…we’ve relinquished yet more of our mind, our soul, our individuality. The tipping point is a mystery to me, where does this become dangerous? I choose to activate my individuality at as many stages as possible. I am highly social, I love being around people, so I am often in situations that encourage hive mind over individual thought.
It may seem contradictory, but I learned this as a child raised with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. We were not to worship anything but God and the Pledge of Allegiance was against that principle. I was taught to respectfully stand while the class recited the words of the Pledge, but to not participate further. The Witnesses were promoters of group think; however, they taught me how to exist within a group, yet stay separate from the group.
It was decades before I read the same message from Jesus. In Jesus I found a way to love that individualistic part of myself and express it as love toward others.
Yesterday I put on an absurd outfit, almost without thinking (I wish I had taken a picture). There are so many demands to “Say this,” “Don’t say that,” “Go to this rally,” “Don’t go to this rally,” “Wear this,” “Don’t wear that.” I put on blue soccer shorts for a small group training later in the day, a torn and orange Hawaiian shirt because it was beautiful out and we were visiting a world class garden, and a red What Would Joan Jett Do? t-shirt because, well, I need headbanging in my life. An eclectic outfit for an eclectic life. No fear that I would end up with my mind lost to a crowd, a first defense of sorts.
Mob mentality, hive mind, and group think are the easy ways we slide into tribalism. It’s how we move from the higher level thinking of the muscle in our heads to the rote mimickery of our bodies.
I keep trying to push into the specific tribalism of race, but I don’t know how to get there. My own bias against all tribalism is significant in my rejection of the idea of race. My upbringing in a tribe that was based on doctrine was infused with the concept that a human’s soul was everything and his skin color nothing. I experienced otherism before racism. Racism struck me as a crude and ignorant subset of otherism. It still doesn’t make sense to me. Race is a social construction. If we accept it as more than that, we are at the whim of popular norms. I need a better framework than that.
Love God = Love yourself = Love your family = Love your neighbor = Love your enemies
That is a tall fucking order. I fail. Oh boy do I fail. I prioritize that list. I don’t know if that’s wrong, but it’s what I’m capable of. I see God’s love as pure and infinite. I see myself as having access to that infinite love. If I can focus on that, then I can love my children and family to the best of my ability. If I have this circle of loving humans around me, with God in my heart, then I can pour that energy into my neighbors and those who would be my enemies.
This sermon from Dr. Martin Luther King. Jr., delivered in 1957 says a lot of what I’m trying to find in my soul:
Love Your Enemies
Transcript
Before hate comes fear. Fear of rejection drives us to dress alike and sound alike. That fear, and fear of discord, grips me hard as I try to communicate in love. I have been insulted by those I love, for things that I do not see as wrong. Dr. King reminds me that people will dislike me for all types of reasons. That’s not my lack of love, but theirs.
Please receive this in love. I welcome disagreement, I am on this planet to learn and grow. In these hot times, I hope we can cool the discourse and discover what troubles us deep down.
God bless, thank you, I appreciate you,
Jason
Digging for Courage: Dirt Therapy
The garden was Mary’s domain. I’ve been intimidated to enter it. I’ve been put on notice about treating *her* plants improperly. I let go of some of that today. It’s not easy to take ownership and risk losing blooms that remind us of her. But like everything else, life is for the living. And I know Mary would want nothing more than a vegetable garden tended to by her sons.
We have the opportunity to do so through Winterthur’s Kids Grow program. The boys are veterans of the program, but I’m new to the hard parts. In the past I’ve mostly harvested and eaten their delicious produce.
Due to governmental restrictions, the program must be done from home. This program gets children out into the sun, with their hands in the dirt, strengthening their immune systems. The irrationality of limiting activities like this and all the wonderful summer camps makes me very sad.
But nothing can stop me from doing what is right for myself and my sons. We spent much of the day tackling a half-tended-to flower bed, preparing it for our new vegetable seeds.
The last picture is of sunflowers that are coming up from seeds that were dropped two years ago. Along with some hostas and purple bean plants, they are the only green to survive the prep.
Sunflowers were a favorite of Mary’s, as were the purple bean plants and hostas.
We planted the tomato plants that Winterthur provided and look forward to learning about the wealth of seeds that were sent home with us.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Still Blooming
Artifact: a usually simple object (such as a tool or ornament) showing human workmanship or modification as distinguished from a natural object. *especially*: an object remaining from a particular period.
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We shouldn’t take too much credit for Mary’s Magnolia. I recognize God first in its visual beauty and calming aroma.
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This tree has become more than a miracle of God because of humans. Someone brought it to this alien climate and decided to decorate their home decades ago. Half a decade ago, Mary spotted it and something moved in her soul. The tree chose us as much as we chose it.
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Our sons went to work climbing and testing their bravery, going higher with each effort. Jungle gym, tree house, crow’s nest, lookout tower, public announcement platform, or sniper’s perch, their imagination has brought it to life through play.
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Whenever it bloomed, Mary would bring one in the house to enjoy the fragrance. Elaborate and precarious rigs allowed blooms to travel with us on camping trips. It became a source of solace inside our home and when we were away.
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The tree still provides all of these comforts of home. The boys still test themselves and each other among the branches and the blooms still bless our living spaces, wherever they may be.
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It’s more. It’s a memorial to Mary. The May and June blooms always appear first outside our bathroom window, my first view of the day. They remind me that something can be beautiful outside its natural habitat, somewhere it doesn’t belong. A Christian, unschooler, widower, not living in fear of the invisible dangers I watched kill my wife? Yeah, I’m not where I belong. That’s fine, I’ll keep on blooming and growing.
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God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
John Holt on Children
“What we need to do, and all we need to do, is bring as much of the world as we can (to them)…”
-John Holt
We are failing our children right now. Government, snitches, nannies, bullies, and the fearful are closing the world off to children.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Saturday Dance Gratitudes
- Yoga. I don’t slow down easily. Yoga pushes me into an intentional dance with my body. I become my own partner, listening and responding to nonverbal cues that I never heard. There’s a call and response between the soul and the body. I’ve started to learn their languages and better honor these parts of my Self.
- Sex. Mind, body, and soul engaged and released in connection with another mind, body, and soul. Moving and responding on levels beyond thought. Acting out love for oneself and another, simultaneously. I lose myself much as I did at the days-long rave or in the mosh pits I shouldn’t have survived, but also as I do in meditation or yoga. I can give my mind a break and act in body and soul. In concert with a lover, moving to all the beats of our hearts.
- Parenthood. Children read your moves like dancers. They emulate, follow, push against, swirl, and take the lead. Little of it is graceful, but they dance. It’s often more like jiu-jitsu or boxing than a tango, but they are working with a partner. The dance never stops, but the tune is always new. Sometimes a song will cut off in the middle of the chorus, you’re finishing a well-rehearsed verse and your partner has found an entirely new genre. I’m not very good at that transition. I want to finish the song we started, but my child may not even remember how it went. It’s the hardest and most frustrating 11-year dance of my life; therefore, the most rewarding. Sometimes I nail it. Seamlessly from watching a documentary on the couch to a wresting match to a ball of tears in my arms, sometimes I let go of myself and follow the dance where it needs to go. Often, I step on toes, fall on my ass, and blame my inexperienced partner for my missteps. I try to forgive myself for those moments, but I find that to be the hardest part of loving myself. You can’t try to dance, you’re either dancing or you’re not. I try so hard to be a good parent. The harder I try, the more clunky and self-conscious the dance becomes. It’s a greater challenge after two months of imposed isolation as a single parent. I’m taking a necessary break from that dance this weekend. I am blessed and grateful for the opportunity. I believe my sons are as well. They will reconnect with family and I’ll get to rest (literally) weary legs and (literally) sore feet.
- “Trouble In Your Mind,” The Carolina Chocolate Drops. I’ve been singing this line to my boys for years, “Don’t get trouble in your mind.” A total joke as Zerbeys are always cooking up trouble. One day as a toddler, Westen took to charging around the living room, yelling this lyric over and over, head butting every cushion and pillow in the room with insane joy. Up there with potty training with a magazine in his grip, this proved that this was my son.
- Wrassling. My boys are boys, through and through. Put on some loud music and start swinging them around the room and they are in instant bliss. Jiu-jitsu isn’t allowed during our play fighting, it’s a lot more WWF than art. We invent moves, naming them as we execute. We size each other up, they get stronger every darn time, and we push each other to physical limits in the most fun and loving ways possible.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Friday Dance Gratitudes
1. Westen’s dance with a friend. A widow friend of mine was watching the boys recently and likes to have dance parties. I wasn’t there, but she said Westen agreed to dance with her. It was such a sweet thing, but struck me hard. Mary was very affectionate. She taught me the importance of touch as I had come from a family that didn’t express love in that way. I cannot provide a loving, female touch for my sons. I’m grateful for the friends who will break the rules. I am grateful for those who choose life and love over fear and death.
2. James Brown, Woodstock ’99. Officially the first act of the weekend, we were a little late to the grounds and didn’t have a great spot on the gently sloping hill. “Dude. When the music starts, let’s jump up and crowd surf closer.” Doubt crossed my buddy’s face. “I’m too tall, they’ll never keep me up.” “No way man, just keep hollering so people know you’re coming, if they push you the wrong way, roll towards the stage, trust me.” He didn’t trust me. Brown’s hype man came on and I said, “Okay, I’ll meet you at the tent later.” It was the first time I had crowd surfed during the day and it was a blast. I grooved right towards the stage and, at times, rolled like I was a kid on a hill. I dropped into a dance circle (crowd density will put you in a dance circle or mosh pit, depending) and let loose to a legend. It was the last time I got on top of a crowd. There were some scary moments that weekend. It was my first personal experience of imminently dangerous mob mentality. I’m grateful for my insane adventures, dancing in the middle of a riot (a separate gratitude, perhaps), and an inherent immunity to following the crowd.
3. Seu Jorge, The Trocadero, Philly, 2006. That was the year France knocked a cocky Brazil out of the World Cup. Hours before Mary and I were to see, as it turned out, Brazil’s most disappointed fans.
I can’t recall if there was an opening act or if they were so lackluster as to be forgotten, but I do remember the empty stage that seemed to last for an eternity before Jorge appeared. Nearly half the crowd gave up and eventually left. Mary and I went to the balcony to have a seat, the wait was long. I noticed a man wearing France’s colors, beaming with joy. That was weird, even the die hards still present were getting surly. “Oh no. Honey. The band is Brazilian.” I had watched the game. Truly a devastating loss for a team that had cruised to the quarterfinals. “Even if they come on, they’re probably wasted. Okay, this’ll be a story at least. If they suck we’ll roll out.”
They did suck. Lifeless, shoulders drooped, they shuffled on stage. Mary and I were let down, we had become huge fans after seeing Jorge play Bowie songs in Portuguese in The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou. Then, like a time lapse video in health class, we watched the healing power of music. It was transfixing. Life crawled back into their bodies. It seemed to take ages, but they started moving to the music. The crowd felt it. We had stayed in the balcony, watching in near disbelief. It became a party. The audience was small, but the energy pendulum swung as high into positivity as it had into negativity. The band entered the crowd and they all swirled to the music. We marveled and moved with the human hurricane from our place in space. It was pure gratitude, healing, and redemption. The band was grateful for those who had stuck it out, the crowd was grateful for the band’s ability to rescue a presumably failed evening, and we were grateful to be a part of this unique moment in concert history.
4. Love Seed Mama Jump, Anson B. Nixon Park, Kennett Square, PA, 2018. Just me and the boys. Nonstop dancing. We had a soccer ball near the stage and bopped and clowned among hula hoopers and kids. No cares. All fun.
5. Hoots and Hellmouth, Mushroom Festival, Kennett Square, PA, 2019. I was the first one on the dance floor. The boys had friends with them and were nearly embarrassed by me. I was feeling myself. Hoots is one of the best foot stomping bands you’ll ever see. I’ve been a fan since their previous West Chester incarnation, Pilot ‘Round the Sun. On our first date as parents, Mary had to “pump and dump” between Hoots sets in 2009.
My friend Lori joined me on the dance floor and I Iike to think we shamed all the twenty-somethings sitting on their duffs. I’m grateful for not giving a darn. I’m grateful for knowing just how short life might be. I’m grateful for the healing power of movement. I’m grateful for every dance.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Dance Memories, Sucka
Our Sunday School leader launched a gratitude project this week and I’m blessed with a daily regimen of gratitudes. I think this is Day 48 of practicing the Wim Hof Method (I’m up to 5 rounds of 30 intentional breaths with an extended retention after the last breath and 4-5 minutes of cold shower each day [I’ve missed 3 or 4 showers]). During the breath retentions and cold shower, I often mentally recite affirmations and thank God for specific blessing in my life.
For my gratitude project, I’m going to focus on important dance memories. Dancing is a spiritual exercise. I am grateful for the moments I’ve let go in movement.
1. Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band playing “Lay Your Burden Down” while Isaac was on my shoulders and we were slipping and sliding on muddy ground. It was our first road trip after losing Mary. She and I had seen Rev. Peyton the previous year in Lancaster and danced our front-row butts off.
2. Summer Music Festival at Delaware Art Museum: Mary and the boys and I danced through the entire Spokey Speaky set to close the night. It was mostly kids and we did that careless and carefree dancing that you can only do when adults aren’t getting in the way.
3. Watching the boys, especially Westen, get loose to music at parties, weddings, music festivals, the Lego table, or the kitchen. I often catch him in a little groove while building or helping me with dinner.
4. A slow dance to Sinatra with my girlfriend in the kitchen this past weekend. Her companionship, love, and help has made these months feel more like thriving than surviving.
5. Mountain Jam 2019: A unique experience. The boys will soon be too old and cool to spend that much time dancing with their dad. But dance we did. Front row for Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds, Toots and the Maytals, and Michael Franti. All favorites of Mary. We snuck into a VIP show with Franti and the boys ended up on stage for both of his performances. Toots was my first concert and dance with Mary in Dewey Beach. We danced with Sister Sparrow’s sister, Isaac on my shoulders again.
-Isaac and I were the only males in a morning hula hoop workshop.
-We discovered a band called Bella’s Bartok and danced with their hype squad adorned in giant Carnivale-like costumes (them, not us, although the boys played with some props).
-Danced with strangers and made friends (I might have a memoir title there).
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason