Migrant this, migrant that, migrant them – Ole!

I spent one hot, humid summer in North Carolina working alongside some Mexican migrant workers picking tobacco. My hands and arms were always sticky, my body always sweaty, and the workers were always kind and friendly.

I have my own view of the Mexican migrant "problem" and would like to propose five easy steps to abating this absurd debacle.

1. We will open the border to any Mexican that wants to come here. If all the cheap labor moved here to the US, then the car manufacturers and garment makers in Mexico would have to move all their plants back here too. America gets the added GDP and the owners get cheap labor. It’s a win-win situation! Oh yeah, and I’ll bet you a peso, that when they build that giant wall on the border, Halliburton will get the contract.

2. Instead of calling it illegal immigration we should call it repatriation – after all, we robbed some of this land from Mexicans to build a nation and a first class economy. From now on, we can just call it even.

3. Illegal aliens are supposed to pay a $2000 fine in order to stay here. $2000!? That’s way too much for poor people, especially considering that they came here to escape poverty by working for a couple dollars a day. I say the fine should be changed. Instead, every migrant must bring either a cool Day of the Dead doll or an excellent wood carving from Oaxaca.

4. Be sure to inform every new citizen from Mexico that the Social Security system will soon be defunct and that we are in the process of dismantling systems of medical care and public health anyway. Do not inform them that we have already used a bunch of that oil in Texas – keep that on the down low.

5. All Mexican repatriates may freely import those muy caliente, sexy soap operas, but we must emphatically draw the line at their game shows.

So let me be the first to say sincerely, “Buenos dias, mis amigos y amigas. Welcome to America. Vote for Pedro.”

Beneath the Skin, Beyond the Masks

There once was a man from the lands of Iran. In my own lands I was told that he and I would never be the same – that we could never truly be friends. But he studied astronomy, mathematics, and medicine. I also studied these things. He loved to create poetry and music. I love to create these things too.

He once wrote:

And fear not lest Existence, closing your account, and mine, should know the like no more: The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured millions of bubbles like us, and will always pour.

and:

The Revelations, of the Devout and Learned who rose before us and as Prophets burned, are all but stories, which, awoke from Sleep, They told their comrades, and to Sleep returned.

I sent my soul through the Invisible, some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my soul returned to me, and answered: 'I Myself am Heaven and Hell.'

Omar Khayyam ~1048-1123

So he and I believed many of the same things – had come to some of the same conclusions. How is this possible – he, a Persian living almost a thousand years ago and me, on the other side of the world a thousand years later? We are only made different by the veils of institutions and the illusions of the intellectually deformed. So do not ask me to hate and make war on people from the other side of the world because I will refuse as I always have – these people are my friends.

If you cannot grasp that we are not so different here are some more contemporary friends of mine. You could try Neda for a glinting glimpse From Above the Wall or read about Mr. Behi and his adventures. You could also visit Iranian Girl though she has not posted for awhile. It’s just a suggestion but you might want to visit them before making war on them.

And to you Khayyam, a greeting – perhaps a thousand years late, but you are nonetheless welcome in my home any time. I wish you could see the stars as we see them today.

Photo from the Hubble Telescope of multiple star generations in the Tarantula Nebula.

Hitchhiking in America: Part 2

Eventually they stopped on a dirt road where there was nothing but wheat fields. The tree line was over a quarter-mile away. The passenger asked excitedly, “Do you want to see something neat!” The driver reached under a blanket and pulled out an assault rifle while the passenger produced a pistol from under his vest. They both opened their doors and, while still sitting in the car, began firing their weapons into the surrounding fields.

I remember watching the ejected shells flying out of the assault rifle, bouncing off the windshield and then downward, collecting on top of the dash board with the other shells. I was pretty sure my time had come. I knew they wanted me to walk out into the field as a target, or a sacrifice, or something crazy like that, but I wasn’t upset. I had done a lot of cool things in my life up until then. More importantly, I don't believe that crying or begging is very dignified or helpful and that when the time comes to die, it should be faced as calmly as possible. People die all the time; why should I be any different? Besides, at that point I was pleasantly amused to note that it was a sort of checkmate; two armed felons, backseat of a two-door car, the nearest cover over four hundred meters away. What was I going to do? I’m not made of steel and the bullets would very quickly prove that fact.

Knowing what was coming next and, seeing no reason to prolong the situation, I calmly asked the driver, while he was reloading, “So do you want me to get out of the car now?” Our eyes met briefly in the rear view mirror and then he paused for a moment looking down at his assault weapon. Then he turned and looked at the passenger. They stared at each other for a long time but never spoke. They were reading each other. I’ll never know what changed their minds, but eventually they closed their doors and the driver said, as though a bit annoyed, “Naw, we’ll take you back to the highway.”

I was lucky to walk away from that situation but I have not forgotten that there are many others who never got a chance to walk away.

Can we humans truly believe ourselves to be “civilized” or “advanced” when, just as in the wilderness of the world, our days are still nothing really more than a contest between the predators and the prey?

- Just a peasant

Photo from the interesting galleries of Chuck Kimmerle

Hitchhiking in America: Part 1

I was hitchhiking through Texas once during a summer long ago in my youth. A car pulled over to give me a ride and I got in without really looking at the driver or the passenger. Quite simply, young people are stupid and have very little peripheral vision. It was only after I was in the back seat that I noted some important details. They were both white guys; the driver was heavy set and the passenger a bit smaller. They both sported the deep indigo of homemade and prison tattoos – the smaller guy even had a teardrop tattoo. The driver had a profane word spelled out on his knuckles and I thought I probably should have turned this ride down. I really do hate two-door cars.

The conversation was easy going at first but then, down the highway, it changed. They asked me if I was a “faggot” perhaps because I had long hair. They asked me if I was a “mud child” though I have no idea why on this last one. And I do apologize to any reader if these words hurt your feelings but you understand, they were not my words. Once these men had established that I was neither of the aforementioned stereotypes, they carried on with more conversation and used other crude descriptors which I do not need to repeat and with which most of us are familiar in any event. If I recall correctly, prison was mentioned somewhere too. After a few more miles, they left the highway and we drove on back roads through summer wheat fields. It was bumpy and I noticed a rattling sound coming from the top of the dashboard; it was a small pile of empty bullet shells. Now, I was seriously regretting my decision to get into that car.

to be continued . . .

- Just a peasant

photo from the excellent artwork of Sean Kernan

But Sir, Blood is sweeter to me than Oil

civil war n (15c): a war between opposing groups of citizens of the same country.

If it is true that war inflicts terrible traumas upon the soldiers – imagine what it is like for the civilians who don’t even have guns or bombs.

Do you think they’ll have nightmares or will they just get a coffee at Starbucks and forget the whole thing?

Just a peasant

Outside the Laboratory

There are always those in your own society that will do violence to you. They will beat you or kill you for your beliefs. I have more to fear from the people living in the homes around me than mysterious assailants from across the ocean.

Howl's Moving Castle

This week will see the DVD release of Howl’s Moving Castle – Hauru no ugoku shiro - directed by Hayao Miyazaki. Of course, this should be the English-dubbed version so, if you do not speak Japanese - fear not. If you have not seen a Studio Ghibli film, you are missing out on one of this life’s finer delicacies. Hayao Miyazaki’s films are far more sophisticated than your standard animation. Now admittedly, there is plenty of Japanese anime garbage – vacuous, uninspired characters and shallow, unoriginal stories – but Miyazaki’s stories are creative and detailed. I also like the fact that he does not insult our intelligence and certain films, like Porco Rosso, can be appreciated by adults. The sound tracks are usually composed by Joe Hisaishi who also gives us music indicative of a feature film and not of a cartoon made to amuse children. Unlike many Disney films, Ghibli films do not, as movie-critic Lisa Schwarzbaum aptly points out, "substitute self-reference for original wit and pop songs for emotional content.” Two other Ghibli films you might check out are Spirited Away and Grave of the Fireflies.

Animation note – A key animation is a single frame of the movie while the in-betweens are all the other frames drawn to connect key animations. The in-betweens are what allow us to see a smooth flow of action. There are usually ~1200 key animations for a Ghibli film; ~1400 for Spirited Away. So how many total in-betweens are there? The number of in-betweens actually depends on the speed of the action between one key to the next. Fast action scenes, such as punching or sword-fighting, can have as few as three in–betweens while other slower-paced scenes, can have more than ten.

Three on a Hill

I have had the unusual privilege of being a victim, on multiple occasions, of three different ethnic types in my own country: African-American, Hispanic, and Caucasian. Here I will speak of one situation with some white guys since the motives of the other two entities were usually a matter of simple economics – a few dollars and nothing more. In one incident, in South Carolina, three white men with shotguns approached me and then chased me through the woods at night. Why? You must understand of course, in these situations one does not stop to inquire as to the disposition or rationale of the assailants. You run. Yes, you await a moment of opportunity and then let your adrenaline have its leeway. Under a bright moon you speed as silently as possible through the dark ambiguity of a forest, dodging roots and ignoring branches that whip and cut your face.

But what had I done? I had only sat by the lake after a long day working as a cook. Why did these men suddenly feel that they could hunt down a fellow citizen? Where did that power come from? What cruelty inflamed these three men to simultaneously and hungrily seek out violence? What great American value were they dispensing?

I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’m still here and therefore, I won.

Photograph by Arne Ader - Moonlight in Puhtu Forest

Cockroaches with Tools

Did it ever occur to you that the ultimate achievement of human civilization is not the global projection of military power, the extent of technological advancements, or even the proliferation of cultural ascendancy? It is instead the simple idea that, even if the world’s resources fade, it's better to starve to death together as friends than to die fighting over the rotting scraps. Achieve anything less than this and we prove ourselves nothing more than cockroaches.

- Just a peasant

Photo art from the music and sound performances of Miya Masaoka