Friday, August 26, 2005

What Have You Lived For

What have you lived for
What have you gained
A woman’s heart
Is as deep as the ocean
And some things will always remain

What have you lived for
What have you gained
A child worth creating
Is a child worth loving
But some things can never be changed

What have you lived for
What have you gained
Helping a stranger in need
Teaching young minds to succeed
But some things will never be famed

What have you lived for
What have you gained
Pleasing the god you love
Living a life for blood
But some things can never be tamed

What have you lived for
What have you gained
The experiences of youth
The discipline of principles
But some things will always wax and wane

What have you lived for
What have you gained
Objectives of a searching man
Questions of a dying soul
And hopefully all things will be attained

Monday, August 22, 2005

Building a Platform

I find myself in a strange place, politically speaking. Lately I have been exposed to some things that have made me pull closer to one side or another on the certain hot-topic debates that are popular right now. What brought about this leaning was the occurrence of several events happening all at once. The first thing was an event that happened while I was working on that ranch in South Texas.

We were driving back from a long day of work, still deep in the ranchlands and driving down dirt roads. We came upon the front gate of someone’s ranch that had a flagpole with an upside down American flag flying high at its entrance. If I had not been in the backseat of a two door truck I would have jumped out and corrected this anti-American dictum. I sat there as we slowly drove by it and talked among ourselves about the possibilities of an honest mistake or illegals showing there animosity toward an apathetic government. Whatever the case I could careless about the reasons, I just wanted to do something about it. The rest of the drive home I thought about recent debate on whether or not to legally ban American flag burnings. While flying an upside down flag is not the same as burning it, it has the same implications. I also thought about the way that I constantly defend the right to freedom of speech and I will often take the side for such radical demonstrations when necessary. I feel there is some inconsistency between thought and action here: I like discussion about it and will take both sides of the argument but I’m intolerable with seeing first-hand the more radical views being demonstrated.

The second thing that happened was that I read George Orwell’s 1984. In all honesty, I would go as far as to say that this book actually made me a smarter person. It was a complete eye opener and perspective check. Looking at the world with such suspicion can drive a person insane and a level of trust has to be formed between government and media.

I realized that for the longest time I have only talked about the issues and never played an active role or seen the active role take place first-hand. This is mostly due to ambiguity about where I stand. And the book, 1984, helped me understand government and making government policies and amendments: there is a difference between personal views and general population views. A decision or stance that I would make for religious and personal reasons does not mean that I want the rest of America to have to make that same decision or take that same stance. What might be best for me might not be best for them and vice versa. Therefore, I find that I lean toward more liberal views when addressing the welfare of the country as a whole but I am relatively conservative when the views are taken on a personal level.

The middle road is a wide and well-beaten path but it is also open-minded and less noisy. And that is where I fit in.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

The Plight of the Immigrant

Last week work brought me 112 miles south of San Antonio and 16 miles northeast of Cotulla, TX to a remote but expansive ranch. The owner of the ranch had bought it as a get away from the world. A get away it certainly is. It takes a solid thirty minutes just to drive from the main road to his 2500-acre sanctum. Cutting off the main road onto a gravel road, or sometimes a plain worn out trail, we traveled through five other ranches, opening and closing gate after gate. It is the only direct route to the ranch, unless you travel by air. The property is divided and high-fenced and living naturally wild within each fence is some kind of imported animal. Along the excursion we would often see elk, axis deer, zebras, donkeys, oyrx. We would also see the not so imported animals, or the there via migration animals like the white tail deer, all kinds of quail and dove, snakes, coyotes, and aliens.

Well, I guess to better construe the last kind, I should say that they are there via immigration and that they are by far the shyest, most rarely seen, and least wanted of all the foreign and native sights of the land. Paradoxically, however, they are by far the most populous and the most captured of all the other species that roam South Texas.

I don’t intend to make light of this situation, by any means. In fact, I altogether have completely the opposite of intentions. I wish to surface the subject to a generally uncomprehending, apathetic, it’s-not-my-problem America. I should also say that I am not the one who should cast the first stone, either. Living in North Louisiana for the entirety of my politically conscious life, I had confronted the problem with a far off intellectual type self-debate. Weighing the pros and cons of the situation and acquiring my information
by TV news.

The news spoke of an organization called the Minuteman. This is a type of modern day border patrol militia whose sole purpose is to deter the “illegals” from crossing the border. Their job consists of sitting on their ranches, guns and binoculars in hand, and to scope the trees, valleys, and rivers for unwanted trespassers. The political debate is whether or not they should be considered a legal enforcer, even if they are on their own property. They are banded under a slogan that reads, “Americans doing the jobs that congress won’t do” and justify their actions through a quote by Samuel Adams, the famous brewer (just kidding):

"If ye love wealth greater than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest for freedom, go home and leave us in peace. We seek not your council nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen."

Historically, this is completely taken out of context like a one-sided preacher adulterating some verse just to prove his narrow-minded point. Samuel Adams was in fact speaking of the Tories, or the British loyalists, who kept advertently obstructing the Rebels' path to freedom from England. How do they ignore such liberating quotes such as the one on the Statue of Liberty (with much emphasis on Liberty):

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

More than that, how do they ignore, or rather endure, the inhumanity in the act of causing another person to suffer by turning them away and telling them to "lick the hand that feeds you"? But what they forget, or choose to ignore, is that licking the hand that feeds them is, in turn, licking the same hand that strikes them. I think I too would rather take my chances with the Boarder Patrol and the Minuteman. I guess the answer to the question lies in their inability to understand or look past their own prerogative and the plights inflicted upon them by the immigrants.

I might be overly-simplifying an overly-complex problem, but I perceive the immigrants a lot like pledges that come into my fraternity. They have a innate ability to boost my morale by showing how much they want to be apart. They also make me rethink and question the validity in which the way we govern or are governed.

Another overly-simplistic simile of the overly-complex problem is that illegal immigrants are a lot like competitors, in the business since of the word. In fact, from my current laborious perspective, I hesitate to even call this a simile and would rather prefer to say that they simply are the competitors. They are the labor force competitors, the proletariat competitors, vying for the cheapest labor. They will do serious hard labor for dirt cheap wages for a chance to live an American life. (Side note: I have yet to see a Mexican panhandler begging for money from San Antonio to Houston to Austin, and I have seen a lot).

The main opposition to this problem may come from the principle of the fact that they are breaking the law and are weaseling their way onto government money, spending our hard earned American tax dollars while they don’t contribute a cent. I am not an economic buff and don't pretend to be, but I can counter-argue principle with principle and tell you that it is out of compassion for those who need help where help is wanted that I, for one, do not have any qualms that my just as equally hard earned tax dollars go toward such a worthy cause as helping those who have not the strength to help themselves. In fact, I have much difficulty thinking what I would rather have my tax money go toward. And then there are those who take advantage of the good for which I can not speak for and have nothing respectful to say. Nonetheless, this does not change my position, for they are different kind of weak.

Knowing a person who follows a certain belief or stands for a certain cause, can often times have more effect than the belief or cause alone. Juan was exactly that for me. Before knowing him, I had a hard time choosing my position on the matter. He, however, is someone that I could relate with. He is same age, has the same job, same curiosity about people, and same attitude about life. Juan immigrated to San Antonio when he was 15 years old. He crossed the border with about 20 other Mexicans. The first two times they were caught by the Border Patrol and dumped back over the border. The third time they made it across without being noticed. He said they just kept walking and walking. They walked for 23 days in all. Four of which were spent in an abandoned box car with no food or water. He has lived in San Antonio for seven years now and has an American Citizen wife and daughter. He is an open-minded, gentle person who, through broken English, has told me the story of his crossing. I was also able to openly talk with about the border problem from an American point of view, in which he nodded and (to my surprise) was quite easily persuaded that it was a hard dilemma. The biggest difference between Juan and I is that he was born in a more oppressing country and I can’t justify deploring his "illegal" status on mere birthrights.

As I see it, the Minuteman are about as useful as road-rage. What good does ranting and raving do if succeders are unyeilding. David Duncan once wrote that yearning will pierce the hand and those who are “yearning to breathe free” will never be turned away by restricting laws or incompetent militiamen as long as they are willing to risk death for a chance at a piece of the pie.

Friday, August 05, 2005

The Midnight Rodeo

I was decked out with a bright choral Polo shirt, Banana Republic straight-legged khakis, traditional athletic gray New Balance tennis shoes, Ray Ban wanna-be’s on my head just above my hairline and just past the little spike I so delicately, but naturally, molded my bangs into. Looking like this, if I attended Bayside High School, A.C. Slater would forget who Zach Morris was and quickly don me with the nickname “Preppy” as we fought for the love of Kelly Kapowski. If GQ had a magazine for frat guys, I would be on the cover and the issue would be equivalent to that of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Its headline would read “Sexiest Frat Daddies, Ever!” And, anywhere I was walking it was in strut to Top Gun’s theme song “Danger Zone” playing in the background. To sum it up with three words…I was money.

This is what I felt like last Friday night when a few girls here in San Antonio decided to give me a night out on the town. They discovered I had never been to, or much less heard of, a dance club called “Midnight Rodeo.” This place is evidently pretty popular and the dancing there is filmed to put on cable TV from time to time. According to the girls, we had to go there. No and, if’s, or but’s about it. We arrive, coincidently, around midnight. Upon entering, my theme music, which had been playing all night up to this point, came to a music-record screeching halt. I wore the wrong costume! Apparently I missed the memo about making sure to bring a cowboy costume with me to San Antonio. The girls told me it was them who had to worry about the right clothes to wear; the guys could wear anything. Well, if anything means any kind of cowboy hat, any kind of Wranglers, any kind of boots, and any kind of starched button-up long sleeve shirt then that would have been one thing. But it is another to leave out the last part completely.

I suddenly became aware of everyone and everything. I frickin’ had sunglasses on my head…at midnight! My choral Polo felt like a bright orange construction road cone flashing “Warning! Look at Me! Warning!” Instead of darker blue jeans on I had white khakis and shabby old tennis shoes instead of boots! I didn’t get even close to one form of attire right. However, I had one thing going for me and that was the dance floor. If I could just get out there with one of the girls and dance, maybe I could redeem myself.

This was no ordinary dance floor as it is with the nightclubs in a college town. This was the real deal. It was an oval shaped dance floor with a huge bar in the middle and smaller bars on the outskirts. Also, lining the inside and outside border of the dance floor, were small stools and a sitting bar running its entire length for people to spectate. Naturally I gravitated to the dance floor and watched the people dance with the awe and wonderment of a kid in the zoo for the first time. It reminded me a lot of a roller skating rink: people dancing at different speeds, sliding their feet along the floor, and going in circles (or ovals, if you will). I told myself, “Self, there’s no way you’re gonna learn by just settin’ and watchin’. You gotta get out there.” So, nervous and all I grab the first girl I see and start trying to do what other people are doing. I know how to two step and I know swing, maybe if I cross the two it will half-way look like I know what I am doing out here, bright orange shirted and all. The weirdest thing at first was having to actually go somewhere while dancing. But, after one lap around the ring, I was Texas Two-steppin’ with the best of ‘em.

I learned the Cotton Eye Joe. Well, as much of it that was possible. An older, drunk lady that decided to teach me by yanking me to the floor was dancing and kicking all over the place and yelling “Cotton Eye Joe” a whole half beat off the song. I played along and it was fun. All my friends laughed. Soon after that, a swing-type song come on, no country flare to it at all. All the cowboys and cowgirls slowly traipsed off the floor and I grabbed the girl who just recently applied to be a Spur’s dancer and drug her on to the floor to see what she could do. I told her not to worry about not knowing how to dance to this, just do what I tell you, when I tell you. Well, there was no need for showing and telling anything. She seemed naturally able already. There were many people gathered near us watching as I swung her here and there and the strange flare of arms twisting every which way: seeming to be a chaotic order in it all. Then we ended it with the double twist lean back thing in which she seemed to know precisely when to lean and where I was going to catch her. After this, we would start over, only faster every time.

That leads me to Weird Thing Numero Dos. It seemed any girl I danced with knew what to do. I start moving and she was right in step, didn’t matter if I knew her or not, seemed like each and every one of ‘em was made for dancing with. The only time we stumbled was when I forgot to count the rhythm in my head…left, left, right…and tripped us both up. Forgetting the rhythm came about for several reasons: I noticed people’s eyes following my shirt, accidentally dancing into another couple, or gawking at the girl from Houston whose mid-calf pleated white skirt would put me into a trance every time I spun her around. That was actually kind of a turning point in the night, as for dancing goes. I danced with her for like 5 songs straight. We would be talking about college, Houston, U of H girls soccer team…left, left, right…spin…trance from skirt
flare…stumble…”sorry.” I was getting so embarrassed something had to change what with the keeping of the rhythm, traveling in long ovals, watching out for other people, conversation, and skirt trancing. So, I flew everything out the window, pulled her up close and started listening and dancing to the music.

The night ended well and I avoided from getting in any fights what with my loud shirt and all. Almost getting in one when I sarcastically told one of the cowboys I met there that maybe I needed to pop my collar so I could stand out as much as possible. His face changed and threateningly told me that HE was one of those guys that went around folding down collars. “Oh, right.” So, next time I go out, I’m going to make sure I have got boots and a hat on for protective measures.