Monthly Archives: September 2018

Anita Hill 2.0

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Today is the “big day” on Capitol Hill. Brent Kavanaugh will have to answer to and about the allegations made against him. Several women have alleged that he at best, acted in an aggressive and sexualized manner towards them. At worst, he was/is a sexual predator.

Mark Peterson photo/Courtesy of The New Yorker

Since Mark was killed, I boomerang between days and weeks where life seems like it’s returned to “normal.” I go off and do one of my various freelance activities, or I’m working on one of the one or two articles I turn and get paid for by the auto trade magazine I’ve written for since the summer of 2015. The activity allows me to push aside the pain that comes with losing someone central to my life.

Inevitably, something becomes a trigger, and I can go from “nearly normal,” to freefalling into an angry funk. When this occurs, it’s hard to want to care about anything for a day, or longer. I’m angry at the woman who hit and killed my son. I’m angry at people who seem to be so self-centered and oblivious about others and their pain. I’m sick of thinking about how I’m going to scrounge up some additional income, and a host of other emotions related to grief and loss. This week, it was something that someone who I thought had my back, said. This person once again indicated what an absolute shit they are and have been since Mark’s death upended my life and Mary’s. But it’s always about them and always has been. I must remind myself of that and breathe. Continue reading →

Books and Reading: An Antidote

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I’ve written about subscribing to a “real American newspaper.” The paper that gets dropped at the end of my driveway every Saturday and Sunday is one of the “failing” papers that our always-aggrieved president regularly runs down for its “fake news.”

To call journalism “fake” exposes our bloviator-in-chief for the shallow huckster and carnival barker that he is at his essence. A man with small hands, a smaller heart, and who is totally clueless about the history of the nation he threatens to run into the ditch once and for all. For him, news is always “fake” when it’s not intended to flatter behaviors that are unflattering at best.

To malign reading and intellectual breadth and depth as “elitism,” is a solipsistic sleight-of-hand employed by lazy, shallow dolts who don’t, won’t, or can’t read. Bringing facts to these types is like arriving at a gunfight with a knife or worse: a sheet of paper.

But, to be well-read opens up a well-lit vista that is ever-expanding, rather than the world of the those striving at nothing. For the latter, their realm is a darkened square where the walls continue constricting, forcing out necessary oxygen.

I don’t expect every Saturday (or Sunday) to be a banner news day or one where The New York Times Book Review is bursting with books I want to run out and pick-up. Today, however, was a day when my book supplement had me jotting down notes and making plans to add to my ever-growing pile of “books to read.”

Saturday newspaper reading.

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The Eye of a Storm

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When disaster hits, it’s a good time for all of us to take stock. If you are in the path of a storm or a hurricane—like the people along the Southeastern coast of the U.S.—then your primary concern simply becomes survival, or at the very least, finding the strength to make it through weeks and possibly months of disruption of your ordinary and usual routine.

Natural disasters have wide-ranging effects on individuals and their communities. Loss of specific resources (e.g., household contents, job) following a disaster haven’t been rigorously studied, even though a great deal of attention is given to front-loaded activities like preparedness efforts and then, post-disaster interventions like utility restoration, clean-up, and rebuilding.

One study undertaken after Hurricane Ike utilized random-digital-dial methodology to recruit hurricane-affected adults from Galveston and Chambers, TX, counties one year after Ike devastated the region. Data from 1,249 survivors were analyzed to identify predictors of distress, including specific resource losses. Symptoms characteristic with PTSD were noted, associated with sustained losses, hurricane exposure and socio-demographic characteristics. Depressive symptoms were also evidenced by researchers. Together, these findings suggest risk factors that may be associated with the development of post-hurricane distress should be factored-in with preparedness efforts and post-hurricane interventions. Continue reading →

Don’t Dissemble

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Certain words ring true at particular times in our lives. We might be living through something, or feeling under siege, and you come across a word that elicits that Charlie Brown response from one his infamous sessions with Lucy: “That’s It!!!” he shouts, bowling Lucy over, after she offers her diagnosis to poor ole’ Chuck.

The word this week (and perhaps this month) for me is “dissemble,” as in feigning, concealing, or tamping down one’s true feelings. This is often done for some gain: personal, financial, social. The dissembler might even experience dissonance in the midst of their dissembling. Continue reading →

The Masses

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Years ago, I worked with a guy named Ken. Ken was world-weary and cynical. We hit it off.

We’d both landed at a company with a dubious past during a transitional time in our lives. I was in a cycle of dead-end jobs. Ken had his own issues he was trying to create distance from.

For whatever reason, he saw things about me that I hadn’t yet realized—namely that I had more talent than I gave myself credit for. He was always telling me not to sell myself short. Back in 1996, no one else was offering anything positive in terms of building me up. Coming from him—someone who had no truck with fools—this meant a great deal to me.

He and his live-in girlfriend didn’t have children. They took a real shine to Mark. I’ve learned to read how people relate to young children (and animals) as a sign of their intrinsic worth. Ken had two mastiffs that he loved like children.

Ken had some legal issues and eventually, he disappeared. He called me late one night a year after I’d lost touch with him. He was living in Oregon at the time, working at Home Depot. We talked for about 35-40 minutes. It was the last time I heard from him.

I often wonder what became of him. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. In a world of digital bread crumbs, he made sure not to leave any. He also burned his personal bridges. A man who basically became invisible.

Ken had a favorite saying about people: he’d look at me, frustrated with the managers at the piddling water treatment firm we were both doing sales with and say, “Baumer, the masses are asses.”

The past few months, I’ve heard him in my head saying, “Baumer, the masses are asses.” I can’t disagree with him.

Walking Away

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Walking away from fundamentalist Christianity was a pivotal event in my life. It probably is one the most significant (and difficult) decisions I’ve ever made since. The year was 1985. After three semesters at a school that from the outside seemed like it was “blessed by God,” once I was on the inside (as a student) however, nothing was as I expected.

One of the things I know about organized religion is that reality regularly falls far short of the ideal. Then there were the practical matters that caused immediate red flags when we rolled up to Hyles-Anderson College in our overloaded U-Haul, during the oppressively hot Midwestern August, in 1983. First, there was the expectation that the school provided some support for students when they arrived. I’d been told that there was assistance at Hyles-Anderson in finding a job.

Our pastor back home had given us a point of contact. Clayton Busby had pastored a small church in Maine, but felt “called” to Hyles-Anderson. We stayed with the Busbys for a few days, and then moved into a condo project near the school, where many other students were living.

Two days after arriving, I met the man, Brother Phil Sallie, who was in charge of workforce assistance. My 21-year-old radar told me he was a fraud. Of course at the time, I thought this was “the devil” trying to trip me up. It was evident months later (and perfectly clear from where I sit, today) that this man was a sadist who derived pleasure from wielding control over people’s lives.

Twisted scripture, Northwest Indiana-style.

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