Life is Sacred! So What?

Some time ago I was in a small group discussion that tumbled into the issue of abortion. A man told the group that life is sacred. He didn’t say this aggressively. He wasn’t angry. It was obvious he meant what he said. He was, of course, implying that it was therefore wrong to terminate life, or in other words, because life is sacred it is wrong for us to kill.

The claim that life is scared is a belief statement. There is no way of proving the claim. For most people it also implies the existence of a conscious intelligent deity that interacts in human life and endows life with sacredness. This is also a belief statement that cannot be proven. But for the moment let’s accept the claim that life is sacred and that offending the sacredness of life is also to offend the deity. How would that quality affect our behavior?

All living things have to kill living things to continue living. Human beings are no exception. The odds were that the man in my small group was a meat eater and thus killed animals or relied on others to kill for him. But even if he were a vegetarian he would still have to kill to live. Obviously, there is a difference between killing a cow and killing a carrot. But if life is sacred, what is the difference? Is the cow more sacred than the carrot? Does the deity love cows more than carrots? If so, why?

I once asked this question of a friend who is a vegetarian and ethicist at Oxford University specializing in animal rights and theology. His response was simple: It is immoral to kill sentient beings. By saying that some animals are sentient he means that they are in some way aware of their life story. The definition of sentience would include: the ability to feel, perceive, and to have some experience of one’s self, or the ability to experience subjectivity. My friend said the jury was still out on fish, but it was unlikely the possessed sentience. From his perspective, while all life may be sacred, it only wrong to kill sentient life. So, if we were to accept this reasoning, it would be okay to eat a carrot or a fish, but not a cow or a pig.

Fair enough, but the gentleman in the discussion group wasn’t speaking of vegetables and animals. He was speaking of human beings. So, for the sake of argument, let’s narrow it down and only address the possibility that human life is sacred.

The sacredness argument implies that killing a human being is wrong. The question of when a human being actually becomes human is more than complicated. I would guess that most people who oppose abortion, for example, believe that we are human at the point of conception. Others would disagree, but I don’t want to get into that here. My point is that the man in question certainly believed a foetus is human and that because human life is scared it should not be killed.

Liberals are fond of pointing out that often people who oppose abortion support capital punishment. I’m sure that there are many liberals who condemn capital punishment and also support some limited military actions and all out war. The argument that human life is sacred does not stop the direct or indirect killing of human beings. It never has and never will. It only stops the killing of some human beings and in some circumstances.

Even if we accept that human life is sacred, there are two questions that should be address.  First, when is it acceptable to directly kill another human being? Second, when is it acceptable to indirectly allow human beings to die? Two obvious examples...

It is estimated that around 378,000 people die violent deaths in war each year. Given that the main purpose of war is to kill human beings, those who believe human life is sacred should explain and justify why they are not pacifists. Why argue for just war theories instead of pacifism?

Each year approximately 1.3 million men, women and children die on the world’s roads due to accidents. That’s an average of 3,287 deaths a day. Vehicle death is the 9^th leading cause of death and is 2.2% of all deaths globally.[1] This is an indirect result of human behavior. If life is sacred, how do you justify 1.3 million violent deaths a year?

Obviously we are not going to stop fighting wars and driving cars because life is sacred. Many a noble person has argued for the end of war and yet the preparation for wars and the conducting of wars is one of the biggest and most profitable human endeavours. And imagine a person advocating that we stop driving cars and trucks because life is sacred. I suspect it would be a rather unpopular movement.

If you are arguing for the sanctity of life and that it should impact human behavior, blanket statements won’t do. You need to read up on your ethics.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] See www.asirt.org.

Guns versus Spoons ~ And the Best Killing Machine Is?

Deaths Caused by Gun Violence in the United States
32,000 Each Year
90 Every Day

There is an argument, unfortunately made by members of my own species, that if we are going to ban guns, which are only tools, because they are used to kill people, we should ban spoons, also tools, because people use spoons to eat too much. Please forgive my language, but what a load of shit. It stinks to high heavens. If there is a God, he/she/it is holding his/her/its nose (if indeed he/she/it has a nose). It’s so utterly embarrassing. I heard it first from a woman in California whom I choose to call Spoon Lady.

Okay, Spoon Lady, try and pay attention. It's important.

One, guns are weapons. They were invented to shoot projectiles at high speed into human beings and animals with the purpose of killing or injuring them. Guns were not invented for target practice. They were invented to kill. Spoons are utensils. They were invented to help people eat food.

Two, if you are angry at your colleagues, or your school, or whatever, and you want to cause harm, you do not go out and buy a spoon. You buy a gun (or if you are young, you do not go into your kitchen and get a spoon, you go into our father’s gun closet and get as many weapons as you can carry). Spoons make lousy weapons and guns make lousy eating utensils.

Three, if you take your spoon and eat tones of crap everyday for years and eventually kill yourself, that is very sad, but no one else will die. You can slowly kill yourself eating with a spoon, but you can’t kill anyone else eating with a spoon. A spoon is a lousy killing machine. A gun is a great killing machine.

Four, spoons and guns, though both tools, are very different things. By definition, tools have an inherent purpose. The gun’s purpose is to kill. The spoons purpose is to pick up food. A person using a gun can kill. A person using a spoon can eat. Using a spoon may make you fat, but using a gun may make you killer. Do you see the category difference? Can you understand the moral and practical distinction? Can you perceive that one of these tools can be helpful while the other can be destructive? Do you see why spoons do not divide us and guns do? Try, it’s not difficult?

Not yet? Okay, perhaps this will help. If I take away your spoon, you can easily continue overeating, but if I take away your gun I make it much more difficult for you to simply walk into a school and kill twenty children. A two year old child cannot kill his mother by playing with a spoon. Get it?

America is both a weaponised society and very violent one. If Americans didn’t go around shooting each other all the time, then our guns wouldn't be problem. People in Switzerland absolutely adore their guns. They have more guns per capita then almost all other countries on the planet. Funny thing though, they don’t’ shoot each other with them. If you lived in Switzerland you might actually think guns were invented to shoot at targets and not people. But we do. We Americans do go around shooting people all the time. At present, the number of deliberate or accidental deaths caused by guns and other weapons, while very unfortunate, is acceptable to the majority of the American people and local, regional, state, and national politicians.

I get it, or at least I think I do. I shot a Winchester rifle once and ever since I’ve wanted one. How cool would that be?! I also shot a 45 once. I get it. Power. Guns are so utterly powerful, and not because they can put a big hole in a target, but because they can put a big hole in a person. Holding a gun can make us feel powerful, certainly more powerful than holding a spoon. And, don’t forget, we’re Americans! We have a right to own a gun. I mean, what the hell would America be without guns! They’re in the second amendment for God’s sake.

Yes, Americans love guns, probably more than they love spoons. The price they pay for that love is an alarming rate of gun related deaths. Now, I can hear you protesting that you are a responsible gun owner and not a killer. I believe you, but just for the record, you can’t then claim to own a gun for protection. I mean, a man breaks into your house and threatens you and your family (it almost always is a man) and you say, “Please wait! I need to go to my safe and get my gun and then I need to go upstairs to the bedroom closet to get the bullets that I have hidden at the back of the top shelf.” It’s okay. Admit it. You have a gun in your safe because you like the gun. It’s in the safe and the bullets are hidden in the bedroom closet so your kids don’t kill each other. Though you may overeat with your spoon, you don’t lock it in your safe or keep it out of the reach of your children. Because you are responsible you don’t leave your loaded gun sitting on the kitchen table, but you do a spoon.

If some day my wife is shot dead in the movies, or in church, or sitting in a cafe, you will never hear me say, “this can’t happen again”, because it will. It will happen again. Our politicians are so gutless, so lacking in any ethical and moral integrity,  Americans are so in love with their weapons and the ideology that protects weapon ownership, and some American are so stupid when discussing gun violence (yes, Spoon Lady, I’m thinking of you), it will happen again. While individuals decided to buy or not to buy guns, and while some gun owners are responsible and others are not, gun violence in the U.S. is a social pathology.

Anyway, Spoon Lady, stop it! You’re embarrassing our entire species. How can a member of a supposedly sentient and intelligent species make such an argument? Can you imagine the humiliation we will all feel if another intelligent species somewhere in our galaxy hears about this? Please stop it. And if you’re overeating, get help.

Copyright © 2105 Dale Rominger

Memories and the Making of Me

Memories can delight.

It’s now widely accepted that memories are both recall and construct. We can assume also that some or most of our memories are less then factual. However, that does not mean they are not truthful. When I say memories lack factuality I mean they are not point to point, moment to moment, a match with what actually happened. When I say our memories can be, nonetheless, truthful, I mean they both reflect and realize who we were, who we are, and who we hope to be, or not to be, of course. To say that memories are a process of recalling and creating is not to say that remembering is a lie. Remembering is a process of self-identity and self-proclamation.

There are two obvious ways we recall/create our memories: internally and publically.

I have memories that I closely guard and rarely if ever let out. My first kiss, for example. I have a fairly vivid memory of my first kiss.[1] It would be self-indulgent and downright silly to describe that memory here, but there is another reason I refuse to talk about it. I assume that that which I remember is not actually and factually what happened. I’m more than happy with this situation. Obviously, there is only one person on earth who can verify the accuracy of my memory and if she were to send me a narrative of her memory, assuming she remembers the event at all, which I don’t, I would refuse to read it. I have certain memories that both reflect and create the person I imagine that I am and I don’t want the outside world messing with them.

In the memory recall/construct business there are memories that I talk about publically a lot, no doubt too much. I suspect most everyone who knows me is sick to death of my travel memories. That being said it is interesting to note, there could be one or perhaps two occasions when in the telling of a memory, I could have dabbled in a bit of  embellishment. Of course, if you embellish once, you really are obligated to embellish the next time too – and the next and the next and the next. I find it fascinating that there comes a moment in time when I can no longer tell myself what the original internal memory was. I really do not know, because my embellishments are never over the top[2] and memories can be so fluid.  

For example, I was in Luanda, Angola the day Jonas Savimbi, the leader of the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA) was killed by government troops. In brief, I heard gunshots from my hotel room and went down to the lobby and then outside to investigate. At first I assumed the civil war had returned to the capital city. What I walked into was a celebration. People assumed with Savimbi’s death that UNITA would dissolve and the civil war would finally end. I’ve told this story a number of times in a number of places. Given the exotic location, the brutality of the civil war (the war had lasted twenty-seven years and was responsible for over 500,000 deaths), the magnitude of the news, the endless gunfire, the smiles, the laughs, the alcohol, the absurd coincidence that this middle class boy from the U.S. living in the UK would be standing in the middle of it all, it was almost impossible not to embellish a little. Surely you understand. Surely, you too would do the same – and if you deny that you would, I don’t believe you.

Thing is, did I really stay outside the hotel as long as I remember? Did I actually interact with people? Did I not feel fear – bullets come down! Perhaps my now memory of the event suggests I was a bit more brave, or foolish, than I actually was. I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t venture as far from the hotel as I remember. Who knows? It doesn’t really matter. Truth is, it’s a great memory and in a small way makes me who I am today.

Memories are recall and construct.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] Interestingly, I have absolutely no memory of the first time a had sexual intercourse with a woman. Those of you who have a greater knowledge and understanding of human behaviour than I will no doubt have a field day with this little confession.

[2] I seem to possess some moral compass that pulls me back from exaggeration of who I am and what I did or will do. I suppose I have my parents to thank for this.

Memories and Me

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you[1]

Memories can disappoint.

I have two concerns, indeed complaints, about my memories. The first is, to be honest, that they are not near as good as photographs or videos. They fade and lose color faster than photographs and videos. I actually wouldn’t mind if I could implant a Bluetooth device in my brain so I could watch my memories on a big TV with a great sound system.

Roberta and I celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary this week. Her mom came to dinner and we got out the photo album of pictures of the welcome dinner on Friday night, and the wedding and reception on Saturday. We had agreed twenty-five years ago that we would not watch the video of the wedding because individually and collectively we would be creating and recreating the memory through the years. It was a good idea, even a romantic idea, however, looking at the pictures I realized that I simply don’t remember much of the three events. The pictures didn’t jar memories back into life. They are simply not there. It is almost as though I wasn’t there twenty-five years ago. Wouldn’t it be interesting if we could record, not the event itself (which we do with abandon), but our memories of the event?

The second of my concerns/complaints is that my memories are few and far between. I’m not talking about simply forgetting, that mental  frustration of knowing you know or knew something but just can’t recall it. I’m talking about the complete lack of memories of an event or time. It’s more than forgetting. It’s a void.

My friend Gerry and I met when we were somewhere around ten years old – not sure exactly how old because I can’t remember! He has memories of our friendship that are completely lost to me. For example, he remembers sitting in a booth at a pizza restaurant one night and the conversation we had while in high school. Apparently we were talking about the meaning of life and it was important. I can’t remember the conversation, or the booth, or the restaurant. My cousin Michelle emailed saying she remembers when she was little I would hold her up above my head so she could touch the chandelier in our dining room. I can’t remember doing that. I can’t remember the chandelier. I can’t remember the dining room. The only thing I remember about that house is my bedroom – it was painted different shades of purple. People seems to have a fuller remembrance of my life than I do.

When I was visiting my sisters recently, my older sister Nancy gave me a little photo album with the word “Schoolmates” written on the front. As she handed it to me it did look familiar and I do believe some of my synapses sparked. Inside the rust colored album are fourteen 2.5” by 3.5” black and white photos of kids I knew in high school. Each one has my name on the top left corner and the name of the pictured person on the bottom right. On the back is a message. Three of the pictures are of male friends and the rest of female friends. The boys wrote short vapid messages. The girls filled the back of the small photo with heartfelt prose. I apparently was a great guy! My girlfriend at the time, Carol, was pretty damn sure we would last forever. I was “the most wonderful guy” in her life, “different from any guy” she had ever met. Seemingly my sincerity was a big plus. There’s a picture of a girl named Phyl. She had a crush on me in the tenth grade because I was the “coolest guy”. I certainly don’t remember being cool! I don’t remember Phyl, but given her picture it’s obvious I blew it in the tenth grade. I’m assuming I gave each of these fourteen people a school picture of myself, signed it and wrote something on the back. Did I write with sincerity in the way only a cool guy could do, or did I write banality? I don’t know. I don’t remember giving anyone a picture, let alone writing on the back of it. I don’t remember my picture.

I’m convinced that I remember the tiniest fraction of my life.[2] So much of me is lost to me. So much is fading. Who am I? I mean, if I remembered 50% or 100% of my life experiences would I know myself differently, have a different self-defined identity? Would I even recognize myself? Maybe I am cool but don’t remember!

According to PSYBLOG: Understanding Your Mind, memories do not decay and “lost” memories can “live again”. I suppose there are exercises that might help me enable my memories to live again. I must google that. And It’s a nice thought, that even if I can’t retrieve my lost memories, they still exist, live, and thus so much of me that seems gone is still there. But, for the most part, I don’t remember me.

I’m glad I talked about the meaning of life when I was young. I’m glad I was sincere and cool. So, until that Bluetooth devise is invented or I learn to activate my lost memories, I’m going to assume that what those eleven girls wrote on the back of their photos is true, that that is indeed me.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] Paul Simon. Bookends, from the Album Bookends, 1968. 

Old friends, memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears

Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you

[2] I googled “How much of our life do we remember?” and only got someone’s blog that claimed we remember .001%. Unfortunately, the blogger admitted he had no scientific evidence to back up is opinion.

How I Learned to Swear

I just got back from North Carolina where I visited my family, meaning the Romingers, Bruckers, and one Theiler. I hadn’t seen my two sisters in some time nor my one’s sisters kids and their kids. It was a great visit, full of laughter and remembering, of getting to know the kids who ranged from five to twenty years old. And for me there was the filling of some gaps in my family history. I swear, I remember just enough to maintain some sense of identity through time but not much more. However, I’m not here to write about these good times, but rather about a disturbing observation I made during the visit. Apparently, I’m the only one in the family who swears!

Assuming everyone was on their best behavior, you’d still think someone would slip from time to time. But no. I mean, I swore from time to time, for emphasis you understand, but given the purity of everyone else’s conversation I did dial it back quite a bit. Given this dearth of colorful language and my occasional, well, emphasis, I think it is important to tell my family how I came to swear in the first place. It wasn’t my fault. It was family!

When I was a kid there were three male cousins I used to hang around with. Starting with the oldest, Bruce was a Theiler and his mother was Barbara. Jeff, a bit younger than Bruce was a Hildebrand, his mother being Ginny. Greg, another Theiler, was some months younger than Jeff. Then came me, two to three years back. My mother, the third sister and a Rominger, was Betty. One summer we Romingers went to stay with the Theilers, I think, though it could have been the Hildebrands. Just not sure. What I am sure about is that Bruce, Greg, Jeff and myself sold newspapers on a New Jersey boardwalk late at night (was it Seaside Park boardwalk?).

Bruce, who couldn’t have been much older than 16, drove. We all piled into an old station wagon and he high-tailed it to the railroad station where we picked up the papers. We took the bundled papers right out of the railroad cars and threw them into the back of the station wagon. It was quite a thrill for a little guy like me, I must say. Railroad cars late at night without our mothers! As Bruce drove like a bat out of hell to the boardwalk, Jeff, Greg and I cut the wires securing the bundles and put the sports pages into the main news section of the paper. When we got to the boardwalk, my three cousins set me up in a busy well lit place with a big pile of newspapers and told me that under no circumstances was I to move from that spot. I was to sell papers at that spot and nowhere else. Jeff and Greg wondered up and down the boardwalk selling papers in restaurants, cafes, and bars, or at least that is what I assumed they were doing. I don’t know what Bruce did, but I think he kept a close eye on me, from a distance. (Was that part of the deal worked out between the three sisters that convinced my mom to let me out on a boardwalk until the wee hours?)

We were selling The Morning News & The Mirror to people in their late teens and early twenties. I think we hit the railroad station about ten and then sold papers until early morning. I stood there shouting “Morning paper, News and the Mirror.” Girls would come up to me and say it wasn’t morning yet so I would shout, “Almost morning paper, News and the Mirror.” These young women ranged from 16 to 20 years old. I was quite taken by a lot of them. It was summer and even back then summer meant less clothes. My routine worked like a charm. I got a laugh every time and sometimes they would lean forward and kiss me on the cheek.

Here’s the thing though. My three cousins swore like truckers. They were streetwise. I imagined they carried big knives, not some silly wimpy pen knife I might have had in my back pocket. I was the youngest and definitely not streetwise, so in order to hold my own, I started swearing. Admittedly, it was only a “damn” here and a “hell” there. No hard stuff. Probably not even a “shit”. The hard stuff would come when I learned, not that the world is unfair, but why the world is unfair.

One night my mother showed up at my spot. Talk about humiliation! So I tried my new found tough guy language on her. Probably concocted a sentence that used both damn and hell. She was one angry mother, and I did wonder the next day if she had a frank and honest exchange of views with her sisters Ginny and Barbara about how their sons were corrupting her little boy. Fortunately, she never knew how bad things would get, language wise, in the future (though to be honest, I still lack considerable knowledge of a lot of streets).

During the day we worked at the batting cages and the wheels people would spin in a futile attempt to win a huge stuffed animal. Greg taught me how to flip a hidden switch that gave the wheel an unnoticed jolt insuring that no one won the big prizes. It was a great summer.

Bruce, Jeff and Greg took good care of me and now there are only two of us left. Bruce and Jeff died, young, a long time ago. The photo you see is of me and Greg. It was taken last week in North Carolina. Love the guy. I mean how do you not love a cousin who taught you to swear?

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

The 100K Platform

I’ve geared up my social media activities in the hope of selling my books. A friend asked if I could share what I’ve learned so far, so here it goes…

If you’re self-publishing don’t let anyone discourage you. Where would these self-published authors be if they let a put-down here and there get to them: Thomas Paine, Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Edgar Allan Poe, T.S. Elliot, Carl Sandberg, Gertrude Stein, Upton Sinclair, D.H. Lawrence, George Bernard Shaw, e.e. cummings, Henry David Thoreau, Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, Tom Clancy, Beatrix Potter, etc. Try and remember you’re in good company.

However, if you want your books to sell, you’re going to have to do something about it yourself.[1] You can do what Walt Whitman did and set up a table on the town green. I kid you not. I gave it a try, and I’m pretty damn shy. Last weekend the small community I live in had a big garage sale. Everyone who wanted to set up in their driveways and I, along with four other items from the house, put out a stack of my book The Woman in White Marble. My wife, Roberta, printed a sign: Local Author above my picture. She also printed a sheet of reviews. We actually sold some books and a few people went to my Amazon Author’s Page and ended up buying a couple of my other books. The Local Author tag was the big draw. And I had fun. However, the town common and garage sales aside, there are two basic ways to sell you books.

First, make an appointment with the manager of your local bookstore to ask if he or she might want to buy some copies from your publisher, but be aware, your book must have returnability. Returnability protects the bookstore owner and the author. It means if she buys ten of your books but only sells two, she can return the eight to the publisher for a refund. She is protected. You as author are also protected. You earn royalties on the ten books she purchased, which you keep regardless if she returns eight, or even all ten books. Returnability is crucial, but in self-publishing must be earned or paid for. For example, The Woman in White Marble was awarded Editor’s Choice and Rising Star by the publisher. With those honors came returnability.

The second way to sell you books is, of course, through social media. Facebook is a good place to start, but I personally move cautiously among my Facebook friends. Primarily, Facebook a place of “friendship” and not business. Your friends don’t want you forever flogging you books on Facebook any more than they’d appreciate you giving them the hard sell every time you meet at the pub or café. I do mention my books when their being launched and I pushed them in a light-hearted way at Christmas. However, you can set up a specific Facebook Page for the purpose of pushing your books. I have a Facebook Page for my writing  where I share thoughts about writing, publishing, my books and website. People who “Like” the Page know it is dedicated to all my writing projects. What you post on your Page only appears to those who “Like” the Page. Your Facebook friends who do not “Like” your page will not see those postings.

Twitter is another beast entirely. Twitter is many things to many people but is certainly a place of business. I opened my Twitter account in January 2011 but just played around the edge until a few weeks ago when I worked with a consultant on how to use Twitter to my advantage. The first thing she did was delete the link between my Facebook and Twitter accounts so my Facebook friends would not be inundated with my tweets about my books. We worked through the basics and then she explained to me that if you want to use Twitter for business, it’s all about the numbers.

Each time you tweet about 1% of your Followers are online, and goodness knows how many of that 1% actually read your tweet. So if you have 100 followers the best you can hope for is ten of them seeing your tweet. If you want to sell, you need a pretty big platform from which to work.

I downloaded I book entitled How to Gain 100,000 Twitter Followers by M LeMont.[2] I recommend the book. It’s easy to read, not too long, and gives a lot of practical advise on how to gain Followers, that is, how to build a platform. Equally important, however, is an offer in the book. With proof of purchase, the author will consult with you one on one for up to an hour. I don’t know how long this offer lasts, but if you are interested in building a Twitter platform you could do a lot worse than to take M LeMont up on the offer. One of the first things he asked me was if I wanted to use Twitter for leisure or business. I told him I wanted to sell my books. To which he replied, then you need a huge platform. It’s not just about numbers, it’s about colossal numbers.

I have been following the books advise and thus far have been gaining about 250 Followers a day. I started with 83 and as I write this am up to 3002. 3000 is a long way off 100,000, but already I have a sense of what the Twitter universe is like. Some observations that might help you:

• If you want to use Twitter for both leisure/personal interests and business open two separate accounts. As 250 new Followers joined my world, my original Followings were overwhelmed and lost in the crowd.
• Don’t pick and choose. Add as many Followings as you can each day and then unfollow those who do not follow you back – give them 48 hours to respond. The point is to build your platform. Getting personal comes later, or as LeMont told me, after you have your 100,000 Followers you can then find your tribe within the crowd.
• Don’t be overly sensitive. Some people will unfollow you each day. Don’t even look to see who they are. It doesn’t matter.
• Don’t be offended. While Facebook has considerable difficulty with nudity, and particularly female nipples, Twitter does not. Many of the people you Follow follow you back and send you a direct message. I got a direct message from one man thanking me for following him with a picture of his erect penis. There is explicit pornography on Twitter. However, it is easily ignored or, if you like blocked. Don’t let it get in your way (unless, of course, you really like porn).
• Concentrate on Notifications. It is there that I have found people with similar interests – writing and selling their books – and others who what to help us do that. Already I’ve linked up with web based outfits that promote books in various ways. As you build your platform you also begin to make connections and get your books out there.  

I hear you asking if all this is having any impact on my sales. Well, the honest answer is, I don’t yet know. If my books have gone viral I don’t know about it yet! However, I am now checking my sales and royalties so I can track any change. But the bottom line is, I probably won’t sell many books without engaging in social media.

So, I’m keeping my Facebook Page, Writer, active and continue to gain “Likes”. I’m publicizing my website The Back Road Café on Facebook and Twitter. I’m building my Twitter platform, goal being 100,000 followers in a year. I’m enjoying seeing my books being advertised through numerous tweets from the organizations I’ve signed up with (and paid!) and that the number of retweets of my tweets is increasing. I’m “meeting” some people who share my interests in writing. And, I’m having fun. For now that’s good enough.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] Self-marketing is a requirement of self-publishing but is also becoming more common in traditional publishing as well. Indeed, a friend published with a traditional publisher as was told she would have to market the book. Much of the advice given to her was the same I have received from my self-publishing publisher.

[2] Apparently, the identity of M LeMont is somewhat if a mystery. When I arranged for my private consultation we met through Twitter direct messaging. The Twitter tag that appeared was for Bobbie Dixon with a picture of a woman. I’m assuming the author is male, for various reasons, and that whoever Dixon and LeMont are, they are the same person. I could be wrong, however.

African Memories

Yesterday, as I write this, I took a boat ride on Lake Washington around Mercer Island. On the boat I meant a woman who, as it turns out, attends my wife’s church. She asked me which African countries I had visited in my work (at the time I didn’t know she was from South Africa). I rattled them off: South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Madagascar, Zambia, Angola, Namibia, Ghana, and Mali (with stopovers in Kenya and Nigeria). It was a short conversation but it got me thinking about my numerous visits to Africa. That night in my study I spent some time looking at various items from Africa that I cherish, partly because of the items themselves and partly because of the memories associated with the items. Here are a few...

I made several trips to Zimbabwe during its times of greatest difficulty. Things got so bad that One Hundred Trillion Dollar bills were circulating. I bought my friend Wilbert a beer one day and two beers cost me over ten thousand Zim dollars. It is difficult seeing a government openly harming its people. As I wrote in book Notes from 39,000 Feet:

"Operation Murambatsvina[1], which began on 25 May 2005, Africa Day, was officially known as Operation Restore Order. It was a Mugabe and Zanu-PF government programme to forcibly “clear the slums” in Zimbabwe. It is estimated that when the campaign had finished at least 2.4 million people had been affected. The operation virtually touched every town and city in Zimbabwe.

Given the high rate of unemployment in Zimbabwe many thousands of people support themselves through informal employment, which provides food for the family, school fees for the children, and a bare subsistence level of existence. During Operation Murambatsvina approximately 200,000 vendors were arrested, their kiosks and vending sites destroyed, their wares confiscated.

Small farms and city gardens were destroyed, thus denying people a means of feeding themselves and their children. Small and large houses were bulldozed to the ground. People were then ordered to remove the remains of their homes and with nowhere to take the ruins, they simply buried their homes."

The next photo to your left includes four wood carvings, two wooden mugs, a candle, and a photo from South Africa. If you look closely you will see I am in the photo, a much younger me on the right in clothes I would not normally wear. The photo was taken in a Durban night club. The man next to me is Peter. He introduced me to South Africa and the Southern Cross. I was there to witness the first truly democratic election in the country in April 1994. Again from Notes:

"I went with Peter as he voted. He chose to vote at the Afrikaans school. The queue was quite long and twisted back on itself, so I could watch the people fairly closely. Peter, always very talkative, was almost completely silent for the one and a half hours we stood in line. White faces were mostly sober. Black people were very quiet towards the back of the line and more animated, indeed, celebrative as they approached entering the school. Personally, I felt privileged to stand with Peter during this time. As he went in to vote, I sat under an African tree and simply waited and watched. When Peter came out, he was genuinely moved that at least official apartheid had come to an end, and yet he still had fears of what the next few days would bring, as well as the next few years."

The night before I left for the UK, a person asked me what I would like to take home as a remembrance. Joking I said an election ballot. The next morning she slipped me a folded ballot in a handshake saying, “Good luck.” Luck was with me and it now hangs on my study wall. The ballot has the name of the parties and pictures of their leaders. The buzz in Durban was that the African National Congress (ANC) was telling people in the townships that if they wanted to vote for Mandela and the ANC they should put a big X next to Mandela's picture, but if they did not want to vote for the ANC they should put a small x next to his picture.

What you see to the left is a pipe from Lusaka, Zambia, or at least I was told it was a pipe. To this day I can’t figure out how you get tobacco into it. Never mind. I had a short visit in Lusaka and driving down one of the main roads I say a huge billboard with this message:

A Roof Without Harvey Tiles
is Like Being in Hell Without Your Saviour

And then only a few minutes down the road:

There Should be Nothing Between You and Heaven
Except Harvey Tiles

The next picture immediately below and to the left is of a special quilt Janet, my wife’s mother, made for me. When your work takes you to various countries it is common for people to give you gifts. In most of the countries I visited in Africa people gave me gifts of material, sometimes small pieces and sometimes large. I have saved many such gifts, but knowing Janet is a keen and talented quilter I gave her a number of pieces. Then one day the quilt you see arrived in the mail. I can’t tell you where each swatch came from, but the large batique of one person standing and the other bending over is from Maputo, Mozambique, a city and country I loved. The quilt was an utter surprise and wonderful gift.

And I guess it’s a good place to end, the quilt, which now hangs in our new Seattle home. While many countries are represented in the quilt, its overall impact is of Africa the continent. As I sit here now, two “African headlines” come to mind. The first from Harare, Zimbabwe. While discussing which forces create more madness and which bring sanity and light, my host said:

“Where two elephants fight, the grass will suffer."

The second is an actual headline. On April 27, 1994 the South African Sowetan headline, in huge black letters, was simply:

“Freedom in our lifetime”

 

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] The English translation of Murambatsvina is Operation Drive Out Trash or Operation Drive Out Filth.

4th of July – I Almost Forgot!

For the first time in thirty years I was in the United States for July 4^th, though I must confess it almost passed me by. I visited a friend in the San Francisco Bay Area and flew home on the 4^th. When I booked the flight, the fact that the return was on the 4^th meant nothing to me. I’m asking for understanding here. I lived for thirty years in Great Britain where July 4^th was no different than July 3^rd and July 5^th. I really shouldn’t be admitting this because my conservative colleagues, acquaintances, friends and family will conclude that my breach of national fervor only confirms that I’m a bleeding heart loser. I don’t even own an American flag.

I thought maybe I should embed the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia, today known as the Confederate flag, with this blog, you know, to suggest that I’m not a complete loser. However, I thought I should honor the Daughters of the Confederacy who back in the 1920s advocated that the flag not be used. In fact, the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia only became ubiquitous in the late 1950’s when the Supreme Court forced the southern states to integrate. I keep hearing the flag represents tradition and not racism. I did my best to buy in, but then I read what William T. Thompson, the designer of the flag, said:

As a people we are fighting to maintain the heavenly ordained supremacy of the white man over the inferior or colored race; a white flag would this be emblematical of our cause. Such a flag would be a suitable emblem of our young confederacy, and sustained by the brave hearts and strong arms of the south, it would soon take rank among the proudest ensigns of the nations, and be hailed by the civilized world as THE WHITE MAN’S FLAG.

Mr. Thompson pretty much sealed the deal for me, along with Dylann Roof posing proudly with the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia shortly before he attempted to start a race war by killing nine African Americans in a church. I’m a bleeding heart, no doubt about it.

Anyway, before I boarded the flight from San Jose to Seattle I did realize it was Independence Day. When I got back to Seattle, that very night Roberta and I mingled with thousands on Lake Washington to watch the firework display. Great fun. Glad I was back after so many years for the celebration. Having said that, it wasn’t all smiles and patriotism. I do try, but it might be best to get the bad stuff out of the way.

In the spring of 1776 the Continental Congress meeting in Philadelphia issued the Declaration of Independence and the Articles of Confederation. In the Declaration there is a list of grievances against King George the Third of Great Britain. In the last grievance we find these words:

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions. (my italics).

These words remind us that the native peoples of North and South America were probably less enamored by the Declaration of Independence. Genocide can to that to you.

John Adams attended the Continental Congress and on March 31, 1776 is wife Abigail Adams wrote him a letter asking that women be included in this new social and political order. She wrote:

I long to hear that you have declared Independence – and by the way in the new code of law which I suppose will be necessary for you to make I desire you would remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the husbands. Remember all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any law in which we have no voice, or representation.

In hindsight, John Adams’s response is predictable. He noted that freed slaves, apprentices and the poor were also demanding equality and inclusion in the new dispensation, and he wrote:

But your letter was the first Intimation that another Tribe more numerous and powerful than all the rest were grown discontented…This rather too coarse a Compliment buy you are so saucy, I won’t blot it out.

Depend upon it, We know better than to repeal our Masculine systems. Altho they are in in full Force, you know they are little more than Theory. We dare not exert our Power in its full Latitude…We have only the Name of Masters, and rather than give up this, which would completely subject Us to the Despotism of the Petticoat, I hope General Washington, and all our brave Heroes would fight...I begin to think the Ministry as deep as they are wicked. After stirring up Tories, Landjobbers, Trimmers, Bigots, Canadians, Indians, Negros, Hanoverians, Hessians, Russians, Irish Roman Catholicks, Scotch Renegadoes, at last they have stimulated thee to demand new Privileges and threaten to rebel.

Suffice it to say that the various “tribes” – women, the poor, Native Americans, African Americans, etc. – were not included in the profound and inspiring words “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, and that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. Mr. Adams and the other boys at the convention were emphatically clear that when the said all men are created equally, they really did mean men, with a qualifier. By “all” them meant male property owners. In fact, the first draft of the Declaration included reference to property and not happiness.

The words merciless Indian savages and the rejection of the various “tribes” who were not propertied white males, remind us of one of the two founding malaises of the genesis of the United States: Racism, as realized in genocide and slavery. The other is, of course, the worship of weapons. Both racism and an ideology of weapons is so ingrained in the DNA of the country – in its founding myth, history, culture, politics, economics and legal system – that it seems there is no hope of ever cleansing the commonwealth and body politic. And yet…

Even given all that I said above, somehow, as if by a miracle, the ideal that “all men” meant “all people” was embedded in the founding mythology of the nation, and it lasted, indeed still lasts today. How did radical inclusiveness take root and survive when the men who founded the country were exclusive? How did it become an American ideal? For example:

On February 3, 1870 the 15^th Amendment was passed by Congress: “the right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude”. The 15^th Amendment did not include woman, but in August 1920 the 19^th Amendment, guaranteeing all women the right to vote, became law. On June 26, 2015 the Supreme Court decided in favor of marriage equality giving the LGBT community the right to marry in all 50 states.

I must confess when it comes to redressing injustices I am not a patient person. It took 204 years from Abigail Adam’s letter to the enactment of the 19^th Amendment. It took longer for the LGBT community to find their place in the laws of the land. And yet, we keep moving forward. Our infrastructure is crumbling. We are going bankrupt supporting our military presence around the world, which in turn protects our business interest, and yet, we are moving forward. The Civil War was a long time ago, but it is only now that the Confederate flag is being taken down, and yet, we move forward. I get it. We'r far from perfect. But just for today, just for the moment, let’s park our complaints in a safe place and simply celebrate. The United States and its people have done an awful lot of what is right.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

SCOTUS and POTUS and a Bad Couple of Days for the Black Robe Regiment

During the past week it was good being an American. That’s right! You heard me correctly! Well, I should say, it was good being an American with my social, ethical and political persuasions. In an unlikely, almost cosmic, two days SCOTUS and POTUS were on the same wave length. (Of course SCOTUS is Supreme Court of the United States and POTUS is President of the United States). I say it was cosmically unlikely because the present SCOTUS is a conservative Republican court and the present POTUS is a Democrat. In two remarkable days SCOTUS gave great cheer to we progressives and left Christian fundamentalists and right-wing Republicans feeling betrayed.

Day One: SCOTUS rules in favor of the government on the Affordable Care Act (more affectionately or hatefully known as Obamacare). This was big and will remain big until and if the Republicans win the White House, House and Senate in 2016. We bleeding heart progressives are hoping Obamacare will be bedded in enough by then that the Republicans wouldn’t dare kill it, if indeed they win all three prizes. Time will tell, but don’t forget they shut down the government to fight evil.

The deal was this: States can establish their own insurance exchanges for people to buy health insurance or rely on the federal exchange. 34 states did not set up their own exchanges. The act includes these four words: “established by the state”, which opponents of Obamacare interpreted to means that the use of federal exchanges is illegal.

When there is ambiguity in law, the Court looks to see if the ambiguous words support or detract from the original intent of the legislation, an important legal principle. To rule against the government would have meant the conservative judges deciding against their own conservatism. That, of course, could have happened. SCOTUS betrayed its conservative tradition of supporting state rights when it selected Georg W. Bush as POTUS. But on this day, the conservative judges joined their progressive colleagues and protected millions of Americans in a 6 to 3 decision. As Chief Justice John Roberts said: “Congress passed the Affordable Care Act to improve health insurance markets, not to destroy them."

Day Two:  SCOTUS unleashes a million rainbow flags and celebrations by ruling in favor of marriage equality. This decision seemed more in doubt, and the Court split in a 5 to 4 vote. Still, the majority rules, to the despair of fundamentalists and a lot of Republicans. Republicans frequently scream about “activist judges”, which are judges that make rulings they disagree with. But they now find themselves in a nightmarish dilemma that threatens to fry their cerebral circuits. This SCOTUS was supposed to be “their supreme court”, and has been in many ways. But here they are being activist judges messing with traditional marriage. Already Republican candidates for POTUS are saying the GOP needs to “restock” SCOTUS with conservatives and consider a constitutional amendment to give the states the right to regulate marriage. The first is a real possibility. The second seems like cloud cuckoo land.  

I’m trying to feel some sympathy for those on the wrong side of this decision. On Twitter distraught people were threatening to move to Canada. Despite myself I laughed. I’m hoping thousands of them do, and before they learned that Canada legalized marriage equality years ago. Even more dramatic, Glenn Beck said that between 10,000 and 17,000 pastors were willing to die opposing Christian persecution and same-sex marriage. 

Mr. Beck has a thing called the Black Robe Regiment  of 70,000 pastors.[1] Apparently – and I really don’t have that many more days on planet earth that I want to spend time verifying this – but apparently, a British official called American preachers the Black Regiment because they all wore black robes, and that these black robed preachers were to blame for the American Revolution. If they had just kept their mouths shut, Americans would have been quite happy to remain British. Ah, the power of the pulpit. Perhaps Mr. Beck’s Black Robe Regiment has another revolution in mind, but this time because of sex and not taxes. Goodness knows how the Black Robe Regiment took the double whammy of Obamacare Day and Marriage Equality Day. So far, however, I haven’t read about any deaths among the faithful. Perhaps the Regiment is making preparations to go to Canada. If so, as the saying goes, don’t slam the door on the way out.

Yes, quite a week. And to top it all off President Obama gave one of the most remarkable speeches given by a president. If you have forgotten that he is an African American, watch this speech. A black president in a black church filled with black people. They know what the Confederate flag stands for. POTUS’s speech, was enough to even cause this re-entering American to hope, at least for a while.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1]  Found two websites for the Black Robe Regiment. The first is called the National Black Robe Regiment and the link is above in the text. The second is simply called the Black Robe Regiment. http://www.blackrobereg.org/ I made light of the Regiment, but it seems to be a substantial movement.

Resisting My New Homeland

Last week I posted another one of my re-entering America musings on Facebook, the topic being practical ways in which my life has changed since coming home. One of my friends made this comment: “You are still living like a Brit abroad. Embrace your NEW homeland. Immerse yourself in the USA.”

When I read his comment I chuckled to myself because I knew he was right. When reading the news, for example, I sometimes realize I am reacting as if I still live in Britain. It’s only a momentary glitch in my personal matrix, not dissimilar to the feeling of Deja Vu, but it’s there. It’s not unreasonable that I “forget” I’m no longer in Britain. Nor is it perverse to find it difficult being back in America. I lived thirty years in the UK. That’s a big hunk of my adult life. It’s seems only natural to me that some time is needed for readjustment. However, I’m not sure that is what my friend was getting at when he told me to embrace my new homeland. I think he might have been implying that I’m resisting being back, and if he was, then he was absolutely right. I do resist being home. Why?

In part I have a love hate relationship with the United States. While there is so much about the U.S. I love and admire, there is also a good deal that is hard not to hate and disrespect. We elect people to high office who would be laughed off the stage in Europe. Some of our politicians are seriously troubling people with considerable power. Millions of Americans worship weapons and the ideology that justifies them. You would have thought that after twenty school children and six adults were shot dead in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, in 2012 something would have changed. It didn’t. As Gary Young of The Guardian pointed out, seven children and teenagers are shot and killed every day in America and that last year there were 283 incidents where four or more people were shot. America has a serious love for weapons and seemingly there is no price too high to pay for that love. Don’t expect any of this to change because of the massacre at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Already, gun enthusiasts are defending our open weapon society and Fox News and Republican presidential hopefuls are denying it was a racist attack (either the GOP candidates are being dishonest or they are incredibly stupid, but which ever, they can still be elected to the highest office). Our infrastructure is in need of serious repair. Our federal government is gridlocked. We teach creation fantasies in our schools. We believe in angels. We fight one war after another. We take from the poor and give to the rich. We have Fox News, loved by millions. We can’t send our astronauts into low earth orbit nor can we return them. We are more an oligarchy then a democracy. We…Well, you get the idea. All this was bad enough thirty years ago when I lived here, but after being somewhat insulated through culture, distance, and time, yes, I do resist re-entry.

However, there is another element of my resistance that is certainly less dramatic and perhaps less understandable, but still important to me. When I was living in Britain I liked being a foreigner (and those of you in the UK who know me, know also that I was not hesitant to “play my American card” if I thought it would help). I liked having easy access to historic beautiful cities in Europe (train down to Paris for the weekend, short flight to Barcelona for the week). I liked the cultural and ethnic diversity of London. I liked my last job that enable me to fly around the world, visiting every continent. I liked being exposed to the natural, cultural, ethnic diversity of our world. I loved being on the international stage (yes, I know how pretentious that sounds, but I can’t help it). Coming back to America means that aspect of my life, that identifier in my life, has ended. It’s hard to be an international citizen while living in the United States of America (and I certainly can no long play my American card!). Now I’m just an ordinary American, one of 300 million people on one very big continent with an often times very small view of the planet.

Artist conception of Curiosity rover which landed on Mars August 2012Now, I know much of what I said above is one sided. I listed some troubling things about the U.S. while not mentioning the countries many great qualities. Why? Well, I’m not resisting the good things, and this is already approaching 1000 words. Still, I’m not blind to the good. Some of our universities are the finest in the world. As a people our humanitarian giving at home and abroad is second to known. Our compassion and friendliness is vital and real. Our scientist still win Noble prizes. Our Mars rovers, those who built them, sent them to Mars, and maneuver them on the planet are an amazing success story. Our struggle in the area of human rights, while not complete, is to be applauded. Our creativity, resourcefulness, confidence and hopefulness are not only impressive, but defining.

And, I must add, living in Britain wasn’t all wonder and light. There is much about British society and culture that can drive a sane person to the edge (not least the Tory Eurosceptics and the British obsession with costume dramas (I haven’t watched even one episode of Downton Abby!). And, of course, Europe has its racist, though in most countries they have less access to heavy weaponry (a sad defining element of American life).

So, to those who might care even a little, I beg for patience. I’m settling in to the greater Seattle area. I love the progressiveness of the area. I enjoy being in a church that is not frightened by its own shadow. And while I’m still “coming home”, I suspect I’ll get there eventually.

Copyright © 2015 Dale

The Unmasking of Me

The recent juxtaposition of two moments in time has got me thinking. On Sunday Roberta, my wife, preached an excellent sermon. At one point she spoke about living authentic lives: “Authentic lives. Who we really are? Do you know? When’s the last time you asked?...The way it starts is that you realize that inside you’re not the person the world sees. There is a mask you put on to go to work, to face your family, to face the world.” That was Moment One.

Moment Two came when our new neighbors asked if we wanted to take a walk along a small beach here in the Seattle area. It was nice. The weather continues to be great. We walked and talked and laughed and got to know each other better. Then in the car going home, Roberta said something that eluded to a certain aspect of my past and I immediately said: “Hey, let’s not get too personal. We want these two to be our friends.” We all laughed and the conversation moved on.

Living authentically and not letting a particular mask slip.

It seems obvious to me that it is difficult to know our authentic selves. I suspect a lot of us don’t go looking for it, at least not that often. It’s complicated. If I assume there is an authentic me that I can know, I must also assume that it changes through time. Perhaps there is a core of us that doesn’t change, but I’m not so sure. I’m pretty certain that the authentic self I was at five years old is not the one that I am now at 66, or at least I hope not. And yes, we all wear masks, indeed numerous masks, but this needs a bit of clarification. A mask implies that we are hiding something real and true. Remove the mask and the world sees a different you. I have no difficulty with the idea of masks. I myself have some, all well-worn and familiar – though interestingly, the older I get the more masks I discard. However – and it is a big however – to say that different people in different circumstances see a different Dale does not necessarily mean that I am hiding something. It means that situations are significant and relationships can be profoundly different. It means that sharing intimacy is imparting power to another. The granting of such power is not always appropriate or wise.

However, Roberta knows this, and the reason that what she said touched so many people so deeply was because we all know that wearing a mask is not about wisdom and appropriateness. It’s about hiding who we really are. While not revealing something about yourself given circumstances and relationships can be prudent and practical, wearing a mask is more about insecurity and the fear of exposure, which might lead to unwelcome judgment, rejection, and even attack. There are things about me that remain private because they are no one’s damn business. But there are things about me, things that shape and mold, that carve and chip, my authentic self into being that remain hidden because I assume if they are known people will not like and respect me. What’s more, experiences tells me that I can be judged, rejected, and attacked. An example might help.

When I retired from the ministry I wrote a book called Notes from 39,000 Feet about my international experiences over several years. Primarily it’s a work of nonfiction, but I did include two short stories at the end of the book. The first, The Poetry of Being Human, has explicit sexual scenes. The second, Martha goes to Paris, has a character with a foul mouth. So, sex and profanity. I would never have included those stories if I had still been a minister working for the church. However, the inclusion of the stories was more true to who I was and am. I felt a certain sense of liberation when I did include them.[1] But now that I am going to church again, I am hesitant to share the book in my new church because I assume people will be offended, which means people will be offended by my authentic self. Not surprisingly that concern feels like a step backwards, back into living with less authenticity, to wearing a mask, to being untrue to myself.[2]

As Roberta said on Sunday, there “is no avoiding the messiness of figuring it out”, where the “it” is living authentically. And there’s more. If we hide behind our masks too long, we lose something. Dangerously, we begin living a lie, and if the lie continues, at some magical point in time we become the lie. Roberta was right when she said the “lie becomes unbearable.”

In the car after our walk, my instinct was that if the part of my history Roberta was hinting at was revealed, or perhaps revealed too soon, our potential friendship with our neighbors would be jeopardized. I could be wrong, but why take the chance. As for my authentic self. Well, I’m trusting it’s in here somewhere. In some ways, at certain times, I’m quite clear about who I am, and I’m fairly clear where and with whom I fit comfortably, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say safely. Having felt liberated being my authentic self over these past years, I am loathe to go digging around in my personal garbage can to collect old masks I have thrown away. It’s messy and it’s complicated, but it’s important. So, on I g0 - I assume until the day I die.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

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[1] I suspect lay people in the church may have difficulty understanding this sense of liberation and might even think I’m being rather melodramatic. I also suspect that a number of ordained men and women will understand.

[2] When I think about Notes from 39,000 Feet, I’m sometimes glad I included the two short stories, sometimes I regret including them, but regardless of which I feel at the time I know that I severely limited the use of the book by including them. Interestingly, Bob Sears, Roberta’s father, called me after finishing the book. We talked about numerous chapters and then as the conversation was winding down he said that including the stories put flesh on the theology that ran through the book.

Honestly, I do Exist

I’m not good at selling myself, which apparently is important if I want to sell a few copies of my books. Nothing I’ve ever done has gone viral, though I live in hope. The publisher I’m working with got me on to a social media consultant. She was great. First she helped me set up a Facebook Page, which was pretty basic, but then gave me the low down on how to make it work. Get some “Liked by this Page” on there to attract like-minded people. Use pictures – perhaps obvious but apparently lots of people miss the obvious. Link to my blog on my website as often as possible. Promote the Page. If someone stumbles across your Page and it has six Likes it’s less impressive than if it has 60,000 Likes. So far I have 1,016, which I consider to be good start, though for reasons I can’t explain most of them are from India. The whole idea is to get a “what’s that buzz, tell me what’s happening” going. You want people leaving comments, telling their friends. You want people talking to you. So far, no one is talking to me.

She then turned to my Twitter account and taught me all about #tags and how to write a good tweet. She’s of the opinion that loading your tweet down with #tags is just pretentious and people know it. And she insisted you don’t have to use all 140 characters. Keep it short – I thought 140 characters was short. You want people retweeting you, following you, and interacting with you. So far there hasn’t been a whole lot of interaction. My retweeting rate is embarrassing. I only have 77 followers, the last one being Said Shogaiee Saadi. My problem with Twitter is I can’t think of anything to say. I read that I should be tweeting about my book five or six times a day. Hell, I might as well just copy the book 140 characters at a time.

So, the fundamental problem is this: Virtually no buzz. I’ve had a website for three years and don’t need more than ten fingers to count the number of comments left on the sight, and half of them are from my family. It’s me. I know it’s me. There is something about me.

It started years ago when the Internet was in its infancy and we all had dial-up connections. I was still fascinated that things appeared on my monitor that I didn’t put there. I was living in northern England and found this site called The Gate – think Golden Gate Bridge. It was a connection with home. I found a discussion group on films. I signed in. I read the various threads for a few days and then, with considerable anticipating and excitement, I joined in with something like, “I’m new to the group and was thinking…” No one welcomed me. No one responded to my comment. No one included me. No problem, I was the new guy on the digital block. Be patient, I told myself. I made more comments, and I must say some of them were terribly insightful. No one responded. No one acknowledged my existence. This went on for weeks and finally I wrote, “I’ve been participating for weeks and no one has responded so I guess I’m signing out”. No one said goodbye. I was crushed. It’s always been the same since my dial-up let down.

Recently I sighed up to PenBuzz, a new site for writers. My media consultant said it was important for me to join these things, so I do. There’s a place on the site to write a “blog” and a place to ask questions. I’ve posted three “blogs” and so far have received zero comments. I asked a question. That’s right. Zero answers. I befriended a person, thanked her for her “blog”, and asked about her website. She never responded. I’m about to leave PenBuzz, but now that I’m older and have experienced years of Internet inanimateness, I’m less crushed.

But why? Why? I’m a nice guy, polite, patient, interesting, and sometimes controversial. I fill in the profile bit and put a nice picture of myself up. I compliment people. But never have people on the Internet, with the exception of Facebook, interacted with me. Hell, interacted? They don’t acknowledge my existence. Why? Why? I exist! (I have a friend in New York who would say it’s a trickster ghost among the electrons, but I’m not so sure.)

It has now become somewhat of a joke. But funny as it is, it doesn’t sell books. And the thing is, The Woman in White Marble isn’t a half bad book. If I had the money, I’d hire someone to pretend to be me, like famous people do. He or she could tweet away and write clever things on my Facebook Page. They could take PenBuzz by storm and turn my website into a cacophony of conversations. It would be so exciting. I could live vicariously through my digital other. I could tell people at parties, “That’s right, I’m the Dale Rominger. I have 2,000,000 followers on Twitter and 1,000,000 likes on my Facebook Page.” The big boys would be hounding me to buy The Back Road Café, but I’d hold out in order to keep advertising off the site. No links to women with big breasts on The Back Road Café. I wouldn’t sell out! I wouldn’t have to. I’d be rich because White Marble would have gone viral. And I could simply write the next Drake Ramsey mystery in peace – working title is The Krewe of Boo Murders. Ah, yes. That’s the way it should be.

P.S. If anyone is interested, I’ll give you 10% of all book sales for the first two years you pretend to be me. If you are interested, tweet me, or leave a comment on my Facebook Page, or on my website. Look forward to hearing from you.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

Health and Safety American Style

Being away from the U.S. for thirty years I forgot the degree to which American culture is concerned about public health and safety. It’s a good thing. I’m sure it has saved people from injury and no doubt death. Americans should be applauded for their work and action in this area. Admittedly, it can get a little over the top sometimes.

My New StoveAs we’ve been buying things for our new house, almost everything comes with numerous health and safety warnings. I bought a short extension cord the other day and it had three large warnings taped to it. I didn’t’ read them. However, the one that has made me smile the most is the new stove. The delivery guys wheeled it in on a big hand truck dolly and then almost forced it into its space between countertops (trust me, nothing is going to fall between the stove and the counters). Along with information on how to care for and operate the stove, were brackets to fasten the stove to the wall. There was a warning that the stove could tip over and injure a child. Of course, the notion is crazy. Basically the stove is a very heavy cube. Okay, it is a bit taller than it is wide, but if there is an earthquake that completely brings the house down, I’d bet the stove will still be standing upright. This stove is not going to tip over, on anyone. And yet, I wonder, did a stove at some time somewhere in America tip over on someone? We’re told coffee is hot because McDonald’s got sued. Well, we don’t have any kids so the brackets stayed in their plastic pouch. If Roberta tips the stove over on herself, she will have only herself to blame, that is after she explains to me how she did it!

There is a certain irony here that most Americans don't notice. American culture is very public health and safety aware and is an open weapon society. We always talk about “guns” and “gun control”, but the truth is you can buy assault weapons in America that armies in small countries envy. A good friend once told me that she was horrified by the amount of violence in films, but when I asked if she was also concerned about the number of weapons in her home, she looked baffled. You can read all about a six year old boy killing his four year old sister with daddy’s gun, but it simply doesn’t apply to your own life. You can hear about a two year old son reaching into his mommy’s purse while sitting in a shopping cart and shooting her dead in a store, but that will never happen to you.

Interestingly, my friend had no difficulty arguing that the first amendment to the U.S. constitution could and should be interpreted, resulting from time to time in the placing of legal restriction on freedom of speech, in this case violence in films. However, she would not tolerate any legal restrictions applied to the second amendment, which reads: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” Nor would she discuss what the authors of the amendment might have meant by their use of the words “militia” and “people” - no doubt because she didn’t actually belong to a militia.

When I lived in Britain, every time someone loaded himself up with side arms and assault rifles and proceeded to go out and massacred children, British friends would ask me why Americans don’t do something about it. Britain had a massacre and the government said not again and the people said okay. Australia had a massacre and the government said not again and the people said okay. Neither country has had another massacre. Why not America? The best response I could come up with was always something like this: The owning of weapons and the ideology that protects the right to own weapons are more important to us than the lives of our children. Or, The death of our children, while tragic, is, nonetheless, more acceptable to us than placing any legal infringements on our right to own weapons. Or, The death of children is an unfortunate but acceptable loss in an open weapon society.

Life in America is complicated. But the next time you are open carrying and you walk into a café with a pistol on your hip and a rifle over your shoulder, for heaven’s sake don’t spill that hot coffee over your hand. It’s going to burn like hell and you’ll have to sue to hold someone accountable for you injury. And, I beg you, put that loaded gun on the kitchen table so you can secure your stove to the wall. Don’t want the damn thing falling on your kids. I mean what kind of irresponsible parent would let the stove tip over on their kids?

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

Memories of An Artist

As many of you know, I have moved from London to the Seattle area. Many things have happened during the move which have impacted my life, but two have conspired to remind me of my past in important ways.

First, the person we bought our house from is Lenee Hildebrand. I do not know her, but amazingly Hildebrand is part of my family tree. Second, because everything I owned was wrapped up and packed up, placed in a container, and shipped to my new home, I have had to unwrap my life here in Seattle. Five of the items I unwrapped were original works of art by my uncle who created them during difficult times. He was a Hildebrand.

My mom, Betty, had two sisters, Barbara and Virginia (known to us all as Ginny). My mom married a man by the name of Charles Rominger. Barbara married Douglas Theiler. Ginny married Fred Hildebrand. When we were little we called Fred, Freddy. Fred was a carpenter by trade, though I also think he worked in construction from time to time. I remember when we were kids he said he was offended by the song that started with the lyrics: “If I were a carpenter and you were a lady, would you marry me anyway, would you have my baby?” Even as a kid I wondered if he was offended with a smile on his face. One of his daughters, my cousins, used to play it (in my mind to wind him up), but I can’t remember if it was Joann or Susie.

Besides being a carpenter, Fred was also a very gifted artist with diverse and impressive talents. I remember he built a large and elaborate dollhouse for his daughters. When I was young he took a piece of soft wood and carved me a horsehead. It was beautiful. I have no idea what happened to that carving, but God knows I wish I still had it. He could draw and paint as well, and I think his son Jeff, my cousin and friend who died much too young, had inherited this gift, but I’d need to check with Greg, Barbara and Doug’s son, to see if my memory is true. (I was the youngest of the three sons, but to Greg and Jeff’s credit, they treated me fairly well when we were kids, though I do remember once out in the woods back of Hildebrand’s house Greg shot me in the ass with a bee bee gun. Hurt like hell!)

When I was a child I was told the following: Fred served in Europe during World War II and had a rough time of it. He was pinned down in a barn somewhere with his unit and was the only one to survived the nightmare. He may have been in the barn for a few days, but my memory may be unreliable. I am more than a little curious if these memories are accurate, or partly accurate, but as millions of soldiers before him and after him, he brought the nightmare home with him.

Once when the Hildebrands and Romingers were all living in Cleveland, Ohio, Fred went missing for a few days, was found in the street and ended up in a VA hospital. While in the hospital recovering, he drew in pencil and ink, and painted in black water color, a number of pictures. I have no idea what Fred’s religious and spiritual history and inclinations were, if any, but these pictures, with the exception of one, were explicitly religious in nature. I was told that given his injuries, a nurse had to put the pen, or pencil, or paint brush in his hand. He then drew or painted with broader arm movements, without the delicacy of fingers and hand. For reasons I do not know, the pictures, all drawn or painted on cheap paper, ended up in my mother’s possession. One day, for reasons I do not remember, she showed me the pictures which she had kept in a box. I was moved and impressed (I am particularly fond of the Jesus in pencil and the thorn crown nailed to a block of wood in ink). Fred was, after all, my uncle whom I loved. I asked if I could have them and without hesitation she gave them to me.

Five of them I framed and hung on my wall, actually on numerous walls through the years. I think there were a few more and I am ashamed to admit I do not know what happened to them. It is a loss, but there you are. I have photo’d each of the framed five and include them here. The quality of the photos is not great, and though it is true the paper is now yellowing, the actual pictures are not quite as yellow as the photos.

If my memory serves me well, which it does not always do, it seems to me that Fred overcame the burden of his history, which was also our burden and history, and became as well as we burdened people can be. I realize he had serious problems in his life and on at least one occasion when I was a small boy, witnessed how problems can manifest themselves in behaviour. Still, I remember him as a creative, fun, friendly guy who treated me well. I can see his face now as I write.

If my recollections are inaccurate, particularly those of his war time experience, it is due to fading memories or that the stories were told to me in a certain way because I was a child. In any event, sincere apologies to his family if either is the case. But for now, blessings to an artist who suffered for good and bad reasons, for political and personal reasons, for global and local reasons. He should have been renown. He was talented. He was human. He was my uncle.  

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

For the Love of Materialism

I have to downsize.

The move from London to Seattle is getting old. I’ve been resisting the implications and thus my “moving in” has stalled. We love our new house, but it’s smaller than the one we lived in in London. Not complaining. There is only the two of us and we certainly don ‘t need a big place. Having said that, my study is noticeably smaller, which means less shelf space, which means not everything will fit. Things have to go.

My Books. Some books have to go. I started out hesitantly, but now it’s a purge. So is it too sentimental to suggest books are companions? I don’t think so and many of my companions are going to a book depository, their fate after that unknown to me. Philip Roth, Toni  Morrison, Chuck Palahniuk, Zadie Smith, Dave Eggers, Kurt Vonnegut, Barbara Kingsolver, Roberto Bolaňo, Haruki Murakami, Margaret Atwood, Julian Barnes, and Joyce Carol Oates…all thrown in a bin. It’s impossible to think anyone could love them the way I have. Even duplicate copies of Kurt Vonnegut are going.

My Things. I’ve have a lot of things I brought back from places far away: Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Botswana, South Africa, Angola, Uganda, Zambia, Ghana, Malawi, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Cuba, Mexico, Brazil, Jamaica, Grand Cayman, Guyana, India, Myanmar, China, Taiwan, Thailand, Japan, South Korea, Singapore, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Australia, Turkey, Croatia, Hungary, Romania, Poland, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Germany, Austria…Each item possesses and preserves memories of people, places, activities and events. Not to put too fine a point on it, but as I sat on my new study floor taking each item out of shipping boxes and unwrapping them one by one , I often felt a love for the thing I held in my hand. Can you actually love something material? Can you love a wooden carving from Yangon or a tin cup from South Africa?  

Material Things in Need of Shelf SpaceIt sounds pretty stupid, shallow, deranged, sad, bereft of any psychological and spiritual integrity? Those of you who like me who were raised on liberalism (now progressivism after the Republican Party turned the word “liberal” into an evil word with not so much as a whimper from liberals) might share my seemingly natural aversion to materialism.

Materialism: a tendency to consider material possessions and physical comfort as more important that spiritual values; the philosophical doctrine that nothing exists except matter and its movements and modifications.

Indeed! But there I was sitting on the floor loving a stone carving from Zimbabwe. I don’t love my new TV. I like my new TV, but I don’t love it. So how could I love the child’s rattle from Varanasi?

It’s clear that these material things only have value to me. When I was diagnoses with prostate cancer, before I knew if I had the benign prostate cancer that would more than likely do me no harm or the deadly cancer that could kill me in three months, I sat in my London study, a pad in my lap, with the sole aim of writing down to whom each item would go after my death. I started with the two easiest items. Philip would get my framed original ballot from the first South African general election in 1994 that I spirited out of the country a week after the event. Kevin would get my large pieces of the Berlin Wall I claimed when the wall came down in December of 1989. At this point my wife entered the room and asked what I was doing. I told her. She hesitated for only a moment and then said, and I quote: “Dale, no one’s going to want this stuff!” What a thing to say to a maybe dying man!

She was, of course, right. With the exception of the South African ballot and the pieces of the Berlin Wall, which I still maintain Philip and Kevin would really appreciate and value,  the rest of this stuff is just collections of atoms, materials with no inherent value or meaning. Except to me.

Obviously, it’s not the material that I cherish. It’s the memories. The chopsticks from Shanghai. The mojo from New Orleans. The bottle of El Dorado Rum, which I use as a bookend, from Georgetown. The didgeridoo from Sydney. The pipe from Bangkok. But now I fear, there is not enough shelf space for all the memories.

I’ll get over it, eventually. But my life has been one of movement. Since the day I was born I have moved every five or six years, with the exception of London where I lived in the same house for sixteen years. I have no soil or community to ground me. But I do have memories. Each memory associated with a crass piece of matter contributes to my sense of identity and “home”. This new house in Seattle? Home? Not quite yet, and it’s hard to imagine it becoming home without placing my memories on a shelf. No memories, no me. No memories, no home. So I guess my new study is going to be a little crowded!

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger