Capitalism

Capitalism is the only politico-economic system based on the doctrine of individual rights. Advocates of it say that in allowing each individual to act unhampered by government regulations, capitalism causes wealth to be created in the most efficient manner possible which ultimately raises the standard of living, increases economic opportunities, and makes available an ever growing supply of products for everyone. Thus, under capitalism, the individual's pursuit of his own economic self-interest simultaneously benefits the economic self-interests of all others. In other words, as the rich become richer, the poor become richer- at least in theory.

Proponents of this system understandably hold to the belief that capitalism is not a system which exploits a large portion of society for the sake of a small minority of wealthy capitalists (economic elitism). In fact, they maintain that capitalism is the complete embodiment of social justice. In a social or political context justice means that every person gets no more, and no less, than what he gains through voluntary association with other men. A capitalist society is a just society because all individuals are considered equal under the law. Capitalism recognizes that it is just for a man to keep what he has earned and that it is unjust for a man, or group of men, to have the right to what other people have earned. Since all people must live independently under capitalism, all of the material values that a person acquires must be earned. Thus, the expression of social justice under capitalism is that what a man earns is directly proportional to what he produces, with no antitrust laws or progressive income taxes stifling his achievement. All other forms of government, such as the welfare state, institutionalize injustice by legally expropriating the property of some men and giving it to others.

Many people have trouble accepting that capitalism is a just system because of the existence of economic inequality. For example, it is observed that famous celebrities and sports stars receive very large incomes for work that is perceived as trivial, and that many hard working people make incomes which pale in comparison from jobs that are perceived to be of greater benefit to society. A capitalist would reply that each of them deserves what they earn, and what they earn is the result of how much wealth each of them creates Since each man has the right to the product of his labor, it is completely just for the disparity in incomes to exist, and the only injustice to occur would be for the government to take money from the celebrity or athlete and give it to those who supposedly deserve it on the basis of their "need."

What are we to make of this? On the surface it seems reasonable. But is it just? Under capitalism, as it is currently practiced in America, selfishness on the part of the capitalist will always tend toward debt-oriented labor and economic practices making it morally wrong. The best way to understand this is to compare capitalism to communism. Communism failed, in part, because the state owned the means of production. What this really amounted to was that individuals highly placed in the Communist party actually controlled the means of production, and these individuals tended strongly toward corruption. Dissociated from his own self-interest, and dominated by the corrupt and bureaucratic apparatus of the Communist party, the average individual found himself politically powerless and poorly motivated economically, unable to enjoy the fruits of his own labor. In addition to being corrupt, the size and inertia of the state bureaucracy made for inefficiency of administration. And exacerbating all of this, a number of pathological personalities, such as Stalin and Khrushchev, rose to the top of the power structure and acted against the common good. Now let’s look at how our current version of capitalism and free enterprise mirrors this.

Ironically, capitalism has tendencies to many of the same problems as communism, though the failures are superficially different. The large corporation, which is perhaps the ultimate expression of successful capitalism, is the locus of many of the problems. Corresponding to the privileged elite of the Communist party is the privileged corporate elite. Just as the privileged elite of the Communist party rendered the political system useless for the average individual by promoting political corruption, the privileged elite of corporate capitalism has also rendered the political system useless for the average individual by promoting political corruption. Moreover, under corporate capitalism, the individual is wrongly motivated (through fear of loss of employment rather than the desire to build equity), and is unable to enjoy the fruits of his own labor, since most of the value of that labor is appropriated by the corporation in profits for a few while paying disproportionately much lower wages to its workers. Just looking at our current economic meltdown is proof enough of this. We certainly have pathological personalities at the top of the corporate power structure (along with their political cronies bought and paid for by “campaign donations”) exacerbating the situation. After extensive congressional investigations did anyone responsible go to jail? In the end who suffered the consequences for the corrupt practices of Wall Street – the CEO’s or the workers who lost their jobs and the taxpayers who footed the bill for the bailouts?

That the political and economic outcomes have been so similar under both communism and corporate capitalism should hardly be surprising, given that the underlying problem is the same in both cases: too great a concentration of ownership and control in too few hands. From the perspective of morality the problems of the two systems are also the same: neither system allows the average individual to enjoy most of the fruits of his own labor and both exploit the individual shamelessly.

Is there a better system? Stay tuned for future posts. Meantime, share your thoughts.

Frozen Tundra: A Short Story

My father died in the spring.  Six months later my mother took her two daughters on a once-in-a-lifetime cruise to Alaska.  When the trip started it was just a vacation.  When it ended it had become something else.

We are complex women, each an island unto herself.  We were unable to reach out to each other, even in response to the death of a father and a husband.  We had spent a lifetime avoiding just such emotional connections.  We each lived behind our carefully constructed facades.  We were masters of the superficial.  Our roles were so well rehearsed we could easily move from scene to scene, even a death in the family, without breaking out of character. 

My relationship with my mother had never been an easy one. My entire life I had struggled with my ambivalent feelings; I both loved her and feared her.  Even now as a grown woman, I seemed to dance around her, first advancing to attempt closeness, then retreating from the pain of her coldness.  

Thus initially I had been against the idea of this trip.  Too many past family get-togethers ripe with the promise things would be different had left me jaded and guarded.  But, I allowed myself to be persuaded.  The setting, away from our normal lives and worries, could make a difference.  The real treat, I thought, would be breaking through the surface of everything that hadn't been said over the years.  I felt a quickening, a small eagerness that seemed like a happy omen.  And it seemed to be coming true as we excitedly anticipated what each day would bring in this strange new world. 

Alaska is stunningly beautiful, but it was also intimidating with vast stretches of undisturbed wilderness and huge glaciers.  Cruising along the Inland Passage, we passed mind-boggling stretches of dense, pristine forests where wildlife abounded: brown and black bear, moose, Dall sheep, caribou, foxes, wolves, eagles and waterfowl.  These icy waters are home to whales, porpoises, sea lions, and seals.

So much of this state is accessible only by boat or air. Looking at this landscape, the first thing that struck me was the sense of isolation, this was part of the allure for those rugged individualists who wanted to carve a life out for themselves with their bare hands.  It also made me remember something deep inside I thought I'd forgotten.  It's harder to talk about the feeling a certain place has on your soul than it is to feel the tears in your eyes when you see it.  This place awakened in me loneliness so profound it literally took my breath away.  I think it was born from a lifelong sense of abandonment in my family- a wound that had become, over the years, my identity.

Less than less than half a million people live here, making Alaska among the states with the fewest residents.  It has other features too which make it inhospitable in my mind.  The cold, pale winter sun shines for a minimum of five and a half hours each day, closer to the Artic Circle that number drops to only two hours of twilight each .  Permafrost- permanently frozen ground- lies under much of Alaska, and it has places with more precipitation than anywhere in the other forty-eight contiguous states.  None of these features make life here appealing to me, despite the incredible beauty.

After sailing through the night, we approached the first glaciers in the clear early morning light.  Glacier Bay is a spectacular example of what nature has carved over the centuries.  Glacial rivers have retreated, exposing numerous inlets in a bay up to sixty-five miles long.  Spilling down between lofty mountains, sixteen sapphire blue tidewater glaciers plunge into azure, ice-choked fjords.  We stood spellbound at the ship's rail as we watched one of nature's most spectacular performances.  Standing with eyes transfixed by an icy blue wall, all our senses alert, we waited for the telltale crack to shoot like a thunderbolt through the ice.  Then, as if in slow motion, we watched an iceberg ten stories tall break free and slide into the frigid depths below.  Anyone who has witnessed a calving glacier knows that for one brief moment they have become part of something infinitely larger than themselves.  Perhaps this trip would be a breaking free for the three of us; a shedding of old identities carved out for us by years of conformity, habit and self-protection. 

Life aboard ship was an adventure too. Our staterooms were roomy and comfortable, the main dining room opulent with crystal chandeliers and fine china settings.  The food was delicious and copious, often with seven-course meals.  But we had brought along an old familiar family gremlin of discontent. 

We had assigned seating and the cruise line had gone to some trouble to match up compatible tablemates, as much as was possible.  At our table were a husband and wife in their forties and the husband’s elderly mother. What could be more perfect?  Trouble began when our mother, who could not hear well and disliked using her hearing aide, decided it was easier for her to just tune everyone out and make no attempt to join in the conversation.  My sister and I tried to carry the ball, but we could not help noticing the looks that passed across the table when questions addressed to our mother went unanswered or when she would sit through the entire meal with an angry, mean expression on her face. 

For better or worse, my sister and I decided to address the situation later that evening with our mother in our stateroom.  We exhibited a sustained resolve, despite our mother's cold opposition that was like a natural force. 

"You girls analyze things too much," she said. 

She hated the idea of us talking about her, probably because she knew that we always did,  couldn't help it, couldn't stop it.  We voiced our concern that she appeared unfriendly to these seemingly nice people, who apparently would be our tablemates throughout the cruise.  We started out saying we felt uncomfortable with her lack of graciousness at dinner.

"Do I embarrass you?" she sarcastically replied. 

Perhaps she was unaware of how she was coming across?  We gave her examples of body language, facial expressions and tone of voice. 

"What do I care what they think of me," she angrily snapped. 

Then she pushed herself up from her chair and lumbered off to her own stateroom. 

"This is ridiculous," I said in disgust. 

Our mother's pride, always touchy, had been injured to the quick.  We had shamed her.  The alternative, of course, was to allow her to shame us.  No use telling her that we had raised this so she would not be perceived in a bad light.  Or that we wanted mealtimes to be pleasant for us all, not times we would dread with a tightening in the gut. 

We both knew something important just happened, and what it was too.  We had spoken as women, equal with her, and not as daughters.  That was something, I realized later, that we were always pretty careful never to do.  This was a monumental step for us to have taken; we had planted our flag of independence.  Perhaps this was the beginning of a thaw to the frozen tundra of our family's code of silence that kept each of us trapped in our assigned roles for life.

Does Your Vote Count?

Here’s an interesting question – does your vote count?  How many people really believe that every individual vote is counted and the candidate with the most votes wins?   We do NOT elect the President and Vice President through a direct nation-wide vote.  Instead we have something known as the Electoral College. 

The Electoral College is what really determines who wins an election and who doesn’t.  Few people, myself included, really understand how this works because the process is so convoluted.  It goes something like this:  The Electoral College was established by the founding fathers as a compromise between election of the president by Congress and election by popular vote. The electors are a popularly elected body chosen by the States and the District of Columbia on the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.  The Electoral College consists of 538 electors (one for each of 435 members of the House of Representatives and 100 Senators; and 3 for the District of Columbia).   Each State's allotment of electors is equal to the number of House members to which it is entitled plus two Senators.  Got that?

How you might ask, is the number of electors for each state determined?  Some opponents of the Electoral College point out, quite correctly, its failure to accurately reflect the national popular will in several respects.  Here is one of them:  First, the distribution of Electoral votes in the College tends to over-represent people in rural States. This is because the number of Electors for each State is determined by the number of members it has in the House (which more or less reflects the State's population size) plus the number of members it has in the Senate (which is always two regardless of the State's population). The result is that in 1988, for example, the combined voting age population (3,119,000) of the seven least populous jurisdiction of Alaska, Delaware, the District of Columbia, North Dakota, South Dakota, Vermont, and Wyoming carried the same voting strength in the Electoral College (21 Electoral votes) as the 9,614,000 persons of voting age in the State of Florida. Each Floridian's potential vote, then, carried about one third the weight of a potential vote in the other States listed. Does that sound fair?

At any rate, the slates of electors are generally chosen by the political parties.  State laws vary on the appointment of electors.  Neither the Constitution nor Federal law prescribe the manner in which each State appoints its electors other than directing that they be appointed on the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.  The States then prepare a list of the slate of electors for the candidate who receives the most popular votes on a Certificate of Ascertainment. The Governor of each State prepares seven original Certificates of Ascertainment. The States send one original, along with two authenticated copies or two additional originals to the Archivist of the United States at the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) by registered mail. The Certificates of Ascertainment must be submitted as soon as practicable, but no later than the day after the meetings of the electors, which occur on the first Monday after the second Wednesday in December.  My head is spinning!

A majority of 270 electoral votes is required to elect the President and Vice President.  Now get this- no Constitutional provision or Federal law requires electors to vote in accordance with the popular vote in their State.  Imagine that!  For instance, in the 1976 election, a Washington elector pledged to President Gerald Ford voted instead for Ronald Reagan.  In the 1988 election, a West Virginia elector voted for Senator Lloyd Bentsen as President and for Governor Michael Dukakis as Vice President instead of the other way around.  Some State laws do require electors to cast their votes according to the popular vote and provide that so-called "faithless electors" may be subject to fines or may be disqualified for casting an invalid vote and be replaced by a substitute elector.

Pretty amazing right?  So a logical question to ask is does my vote for President and Vice President matter in the Electoral College system?  Supposedly your vote helps decide which candidate receives your state's electoral votes.  But remember, no Constitutional provision or Federal law requires electors to vote in accordance with the popular vote in their State.  And in addition to that, we all are aware that fraud is rampant in the voting process- dead people are counted as registered voters, illegal immigrants are counted too.  People vote more than once, ballots are “lost” and absentee ballots are not always included… and on and on.  It seems strange to me that in this technologically sophisticated age we still can’t manage to get an accurate, fair process for registering voters and counting ballots!  Is this really the best of the American system at work?  Shame on us!  This of course harkens back to what I said earlier about the dishonesty in government. 

Ok, enough on this topic.  My next post will be on something more uplifting.  I don't know about you, but politics depresses me.

Ruminations on American Politics

I don’t know if my current views on American politics is a reflection of my age or a new awareness in general on my part of how things really work (which is a gentler way of saying I am now maybe less self-absorbed), or a combination of both. At any rate, I began this morning thinking about politics- not a favorite past time to be sure, but one which is hard to escape if you own a TV or mingle at all in the public sector. So much has been said by others on this- probably much more articulately- but since I have pretty much decided that I will no longer vote or take part in the electoral system in any way, I thought it deserved a few words of explanation (assuming anyone out there in cyber space cares).

Most Americans think that we have a pretty good system of government- at least it would seem so given our propensity for trying to convince everyone else in the world to adopt it. We have the freedom to vote however we choose and we have a choice of candidates. What could be more democratic, right? We are also always hearing that here in America anyone can grow up to be President- it is after all the land of endless opportunity, or so we’ve been told. But when we examine these statements more closely we see something quite different, something that is not included in the promise of freedom and equality. What do I mean? Well let’s start with the freedom of choice in our right to vote. Is there really a choice if both candidates are equally dishonest and self-serving? That may seem a little harsh, and perhaps it is, but here’s where I am coming from:

First we have two parties. The democrats, also known as “the left” or liberals, stand for some things I strongly believe in- like social justice, helping the poor, taking care of the planet as in the environment, tolerance of differences, stuff like that. Now I’m not naive enough to not see that these “causes” attract crackpots and extremists- that seems to be the price of doing business in this world, but that aside, I do respect and support many of this parties views. How well they put them into practice is another story. Somehow achieving their goals often seems to translate into bigger government and higher taxes. This party is also known for its socialist (some say communist) leanings, which I am not in favor of- not so much because I disagree with the ideology, but because it just doesn’t work. All one has to do is look at places where it has been tried to see that, like Russia, Cuba, East Berlin (before the wall came down). Somehow even when we have the right intention (i.e. share wealth equally- wasn’t that the model of the 1st century church?), we corrupt it. Human beings really do, for the most part, want to be gods. The lure to rule over others and acquire wealth and power in the bargain is just too tempting.

The republicans, also known as “the right” or conservatives, stand for capitalism (an economic system in which the means of production are privately owned and operated for a private profit), an entrepreneurial spirit and the rights of the individual. They idealistically represent the image of early Americans who were rugged individualists- pioneers who blazed trails into the Western hills and overcame adversity on the strength of their own self-reliance. Unfortunately this stance often leads to a disregard for those less fortunate and a belief in the premise stated by Donald Trump that “you can't be too greedy.” Greed and corruption go hand in glove- think Enron and WorldCom (apparently we do need some oversight by regulators). This side also attracts its share of crackpots and extremists- in particular wacko fundamentalists (Jerry Falwell comes to mind) and gun-toting militia groups (many from Montana- no lie). I do respect and support many of this parties views on issues like, for example, the sanctity of life- not just the unborn, but the elderly and the handicapped as well. Achieving their goals takes this party in the direction of smaller government and lower taxes (at least in theory). This party is not known for its attitude of tolerance toward differences. I find this particularly offensive when expressed by the evangelical right wing of the party who claim to be followers of Jesus who welcomed everyone.

So there you have it- neither party is all that attractive to me. Politics are the cause of many arguments all over the world, not just amongst opposing political parties but amongst the public as well. That being said, the actual definition of a politic is something that is artful, shrewd, cunning, or crafty. Now let me switch gears here and look not at what the parties represent, but at the candidates. In the forum of public opinion the prevailing view is that anyone in the field of politics cannot fully be trusted. Statistically, no matter what party an individual affiliates themselves with, it has been found that people think that 99% of politicians lie. In fact, politicians are often thought of as operating along the same principle as used car salespeople. In reality, many people believe the system of politics to be corrupt due to the seemingly ubiquitous scandals that have plagued both parties: Watergate, Monica Lewinsky, and Iran-Contra to name but a few. These types of occurrences have made the American public wary of trusting politics in general.

So who really is attracted to politics? What type of person would willingly put themselves and their families through the mud-slinging and scrutiny of a campaign? Wouldn’t it seem that if democracy was such a noble, praiseworthy form of governance it should be conducted with a bit more dignity and respect for the rights and opinions of others? Apparently once a candidate throws his or her hat in the ring the smear campaign begins in earnest. Nothing is off limits and there is no such thing as common decency. What message does this send the rest of the world about America? What message does it send our own young people?

And it doesn’t end once elected. The public and the media are relentless. So it must take someone with a huge ego and an intense lust for power. They must be a master manipulator, and above all, ruthless in defeating ones opponents. After all, we all know that “nice guys finish last.” None of these are traits normally associated with what I would consider great leaders- people like Dr. Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela or Gandhi. They were known for their wisdom, honesty, integrity, courage and above all, their steadfast devotion to the problems and concerns of others, even at a high cost to themselves. We have all, myself included, supported candidates from both parties who promised ethical government, transparency and accountability. Have we seen any of these things lately- from either party?

In case you haven’t noticed, it also takes a great deal of money to run for office in this country. That eliminates a lot of otherwise highly qualified candidates. “There are two things that are important in politics,” Mark Hanna, the great Republican kingmaker of the late 19th century, once said. “The first thing is money, and I can’t remember what the second one is.” We also know that great wealth and power go together. The historian and moralist, Lord Acton (1834–1902), expressed his opinion about power this way: “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men."

With the varying opinions of the importance of any politic, individuals eventually are left to draw their own conclusion about the political system and politics in general. I think I have made my case in support of my own cynicism. Does this mean I would prefer to live in some other country? No, on the contrary I recognize that most are just as bad and many much worse than this one. I am simply exercising my right to not participate in or support a corrupt government any longer (I would feel the same if I lived in Italy or Haiti). I will still pay my share of taxes and cash my social security checks when I become eligible and if that makes me a hypocrite, so be it. I never said I was perfect either. But I will make a pledge to myself, to God, and to whomever is reading this, to try this year to serve my fellow man better, be more generous with my resources (not just money, but time) and to lift my eyes up to see what is still good and beautiful and worthwhile in this world and in my life and be truly thankful.

Sudden Death: A Short Story

Harlem

Harlem, one of the largest Black communities in the country, is a "city within a city”.  Once the mecca of jazz enthusiasts', where legends like Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Cab Calloway drew crowds at the famed Cotton Club, it is now a ghetto of poverty, crime and despair.  

Few whites today venture above 110th Street.   But here I was on a cold winter day cruising on a motorcycle with Bill, my boyfriend, up the broad expanse of Lennox Ave.   A light snow began falling from a slatery sky.  Already the afternoon was bruised and darkened, there was no color.  The rows of run down tenements spoke of neighborhoods in decay, the grime and dirt blanketing them in an anonymous shroud.  As we crossed over the bustling commerce along 125th Street, I could see the marquee of the famed Apollo Theater looking shabby and ragged, but still able to evoke a thrill of nostalgia for the greats of Motown who first appeared on it's stage.  I leaned in closer to Bill; thankful I had him in front of me to cut the wind as we weaved in and out of traffic.  I was grateful for the warmth of my short, tight‑waisted, moleskin jacket- a real find from a vintage clothing store in Soho. 

I was an insurance investigator and had hired Bill as my photographer assistant.   Our job was to verify that potential clients' homes, cars or businesses, which they wanted to insure, were in the condition claimed on the application for coverage. 

Bill and I would start our day at our favorite coffee shop, where over bacon and eggs, we would plot out our route for the day.  It was a great job and the freedom was intoxicating.  We were on our own exploring neighborhoods and areas of Manhattan and Brooklyn I had never been to before, even though I was born and raised in the city.  We put in as many or as few hours as we wanted and at the end of the day we handed in our completed reports and picked up our pay. 

On this particular day we were heading up into Harlem on our last case just before dusk.  We found the storefront we were looking for on Edgecomb Ave and began gathering the information we needed.  Bill was taking pictures of a hole in the sidewalk in front of the store and then disappeared to check out the rear.  I was busy with my clipboard jotting down notes about the condition of the stairs, hallways, entrances and exits, especially noting the location of the fire escape and the distance to the nearest hydrant.  Our presence did not go unnoticed. 

A tenant from one of the apartments above the store stuck her head out the window and shouted at me,  "Hey, what you doin down there, girl”? 

I explained the landlord had applied for insurance for the building and I was making out a report on its condition.  I assumed this satisfied her as the window slammed shut, but a few moments later she appeared on the stoop accompanied by several other women, some with young children in tow. 

"Don't nothin work round here”, the first woman said.  "You gonna put that in your report”? 

"Well, I'm not authorized to inspect anything more than the exterior and interior structures of the building, like fire and safety hazards.  For example, that hole in the sidewalk over there goes in my report”, I said, pointing to the hole Bill had taken a picture of moments earlier.  Where the hell was Bill anyway, I wondered nervously? 

A second woman, clutching the hand of a squirming toddler said, "We ain't had no heat in weeks, been keepin' my oven on day and night.   Now I can't hardly pay my gas bill”. 

I tried again to explain this was not the kind of thing I reported on.  "Only structural damage”, I reiterated. 

Just then Bill reappeared from around the corner of the building.  I hurried over to him and quickly filled him in on the situation.  "So, tell them we'll include their complaints in the report”, he said unperturbed. 

As I turned back to address the tenants, I noticed a pregnant woman making her way slowly up the block.  Her swollen body flowed outward, encircling the child inside.  As she drew abreast of us, our attention was drawn upward to a dark blur that seemed to fall in slow motion from the roof above.  It was the body of a young man and it landed with a sickening thud on top of the pregnant woman, crushing her under the force of the impact.  Standing riveted to the spot, we watched in horror as a crimson stain spread on the pavement beside the jumper's head.  Someone screamed, a crowd appeared out of nowhere and the wail of a police siren rammed itself above the traffic sounds. 

Bill and I faded into the background when an ambulance arrived on the scene for the pregnant woman, who miraculously was relatively unhurt, and the body of the less fortunate jumper. 

Later as I recalled this time in my life, I realized how short-lived that period of carefree youth was.  It ended abruptly for me by the events that soon followed in my relationship with Bill, just like the sudden death we witnessed that day.  Henry Roth put it well, I think, "Salvage whatever you can, threadbare mementos glimmering in recollection.”

Anecdotes from the City: A Short Story

It is a city of images glimpsed: the spiderweb of the Brooklyn Bridge, cables aglow in the setting sun; yellow cabs fighting the traffic up Eighth Avenue, like salmon struggling up river to spawn.  Street musicians playing Vivaldi on a warm summer evening on the subway platform at Fifthy-Nineth Street; a homeless man carefully selecting a choice nook in front of Trinity Church on Fifth Avenue, laying down his newsprint and going to sleep, perhaps protected by the angels adorning the buildings façade.  A police car racing down Broadway, red roof light flashing; an elegant couple on rollerblades gliding effortlessly, arm in arm, down the center of the promenade in Central Park.  It's like a Dickens novel, I often thought, full of pathos and reflecting every contingency of the human condition.  I cannot think of this city without also thinking of my father, he was such an integral part of its heartbeat.

Like the city that came to define him in so many ways for me, he too was a man of images glimpsed.  He had grown up in NYC attending Catholic school, playing baseball in the streets and hanging out at the YMCA.  Later he became a lieutenant in its Fire Department, and if ever a job fit a personality like a pair of supple leather gloves, it was his.  He wore his firefighter image with the ease of someone born to face danger head on.  Men, who choose careers like firemen or policemen, are attracted, at least in part, to the adrenaline rush.  What else would cause a man to voluntarily enter a burning inferno or chase a desperate felon down a dark alleyway?  Once when I was nine or ten, my father took me to his fire station.  "Hold on tight," he said as he showed me how to slide down the pole.  My knuckles white with tension, I grabbed hold for dear life and shot down to the floor below.  Proud that I had not fallen or disappointed him, I was nevertheless reluctant to try again, so I quickly moved on to try on his heavy rubber boots instead.  They came up to my thighs and movement in them was impossible.  My feet felt incased in cement.  I couldn't imagine running in them, much less climbing a ladder.  Could my father have been a hero?  Did he ever save lives?  Back then I believed all that and more.  He was larger than life, just like the city he was a part of.  If I'd been born a boy, perhaps I would have followed in his footsteps- those giant bootsteps. 

He took the captain's exam several times, but never passed it.  I suspect, subconsciously, he never wanted to.  It would have moved him to the sidelines, perhaps directing others, instead of in front- leading his men.  He liked to be in charge, to have things done his way.  I think he enjoyed coming home smelling of smoke, at times with his eyelashes and eyebrows singed off, like a warrior returning from battle. 

He was a man of extremes.  Looking at his photograph now, it reminds me of his facile ability to charm.  He was a handsome, gregarious man whose smile lit up a room- and the hearts of his young daughters.  But he had a dark side too, like the underbelly of the city he served.  A quixotic temper that devastated like a sudden winter storm blowing in with such fury it made us run for cover.  We waited.  We had become virtuosos at waiting.  When it was safe again, we crept back out and rejoined the flow of life in our home. 

When I was around thirteen or fourteen, my father took me with him to the Bowery Mission.  The area reminded me of a wasteland buried in a corner of an otherwise vibrant, thriving city.  As I think of it now, the images it evokes are of broad streets, empty of traffic on a quiet Sunday afternoon.  Only when you looked for them, or when pointed out to you, did you notice the bodies slouched in doorways, most clutching bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.  They were so still; as if props placed there for a movie set depicting the morning after some invisible plague had struck.  My father belonged to the Christian Alliance of Policemen and Firemen.  One of their charitable works was serving meals and presenting the gospel to the homeless alcoholics who came into the mission for sustenance, and perhaps a bit of human compassion.  My father moved among these lost souls with the determination of someone on a rescue mission, this time a heavenly one.  He approached the work with confidence and a steadfastness of conviction that made others either get in line with him or get out of the way. 

As I grew up and became more of my own person, I lost that brief tenuous connection I had with my father in childhood.  The year I turned twenty-two, he became seriously ill.  The enemy he had fought throughout his entire career defeated him.  The neurosurgeon told us it was not uncommon for firemen to get this particular type of brain tumor because of all the toxic smoke they inhaled at fires.  After they forced him to retire on full disability, he was never the same; he had lost his purpose and his vitality with it.

I moved around over the years, and when I could, I returned to visit the city, but it too had changed.  The images glimpsed were different from the ones I remembered from my youth.  I recalled a card my sister had sent me once that said, "I turn the leaves of fancy, all watermarked with yesterdays dreams, till I find a time my heart saved."  My heart has saved many such times, like this one.