The elephants are heading to the beach. At least, they are in Oregon.
I put my mother on an airplane to Portland yesterday morning. She and her friend Ruth are on their way to Seaside to participate in the 50th Dorchester Conference.
For those of you who are not Oregon politics junkies, the name probably means nothing. But the conference has a long and storied history in these parts.
It was organized by then-State Representative Bob Packwood as a response to the 1964 elections where the Republicans took a shellacking. In Oregon, as well as around the country.
The conference was designed to find a way to nominate Republican candidates in Oregon who could win general elections. And it worked. First in legislative races. Then in state-wide races. In 1968 Bob Packwood himself was elected as United States Senator -- replacing one of Oregon's most powerful Democrats, Wayne Morse.
If you have not already read the subtext, the Dorchester Conference was interested in electing Republicans. But the Republicans it was most interested in were liberal Republicans. That was an era where some Oregon Democrats were far more conservative than some Republicans.
Over time, the Dorchester Conference took on a more conservative tone. But, when the chips were down, its roots would show. Especially on issues like abortion.
Well, those roots have shown once again. On the 50th anniversary of the conference, some of the more conservative members of the Republican coalition have decided not to show up at the conference. The details are unimportant. I will simply say they feel as if they have been insulted by the conference organizers.
As a result, even though the conference has no formal relationship with the Oregon Republican Party, three organizations (Oregon Right to Life, the Oregon Family Council,
and Common Sense for Oregon) announced they will not participate in the conference because "the
evidence suggests that this year's Dorchester Conference has turned into a
publicity stunt for liberal social causes rather than a forum for Republican
dialogue."
Instead, they will hold a freedom rally this Saturday in Clackamas -- a suburb of Portland.
That is too bad because all three have voices that should be heard on the three conference discussion issues that have been announced: 1) Actions to Improve the Affordable Care Act; 2) NSA Surveillance vs. Privacy; 3) Same Sex Marriage. Not surprisingly, the issue that has caused the greatest stir is the last one.
The conference's greatest strength is its openness to all points of view. I had considered attending because I wanted to discuss an idea that has been percolating in my little brain over the past year. It combines same sex marriage with the goals of Oregon Right to Life.
My prediction is that the Dorchester Conference will endorse same sex marriage. Whether it does or doesn't, same sex marriage is coming to Oregon -- either through a ballot measure (the preferred method in a democratic republic) or by court order (a method that will cause populist grief).
Taking that as a given, my idea was to combine the Christian grace I have often seen exhibited by Oregon Right to Life with their brilliant political acumen in attempting to save the lives of as many unborn babies as possible. And one of the best methods is to ensure that any baby who is unwanted can have a home where she is wanted -- through adoption.
And that is where my idea comes in. I am not certain what type of educational materials Oregon Right to Life currently distributes. But here is a modest proposal.
Why not distribute a brochure to every couple who marries in Oregon informing them of the adoption services available in the state? Or to place the brochures where families seeking children might read them?
The primary purpose of marriage is to produce children and to provide a safe environment in which to raise them. But not every couple is biologically capable of producing their own children.
That is where adoption comes into play. And without regard to what the sex of the parents may be.
It is time to bury old battles and deal with the world and its complex realities. Maybe it is also time to focus on a primary mission and to not get distracted by those things we cannot change in life.
As I said, it is a modest proposal. But it just may help all of us live better lives with one another.
Do you want to start a fight?
Just pull out a map. Such as this one.
That is what Absolut – the vodka people – did in 2008 when it published one of its edgy advertisements showing the Mexican-US border as it would have been if General Santa Ana had not proven that his military skills were no better than those of George McClellan. (guns and texas roses)
There was much gnashing of teeth and moaning in the dark from Americans who felt as their destiny had somehow been made less manifest. By a booze ad.
I thought of that adman edginess today when I saw this map.
It is nothing more than an ethnicity map. But it does bear the infamous Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo line. And its subject matter will undoubtedly raise eyebrows in certain quarters.
The map shows the density of Mexican ethnicity (not citizenship) by county. Not surprisingly, the heaviest Mexican ethnicity is centered on the counties along the border. My observations during my assignment in Laredo in the early 1970s is consistent.
The accompanying article in The Economist includes an interesting paragraph: “Some are recent arrivals; others trace their roots to long before the map was redrawn. They didn’t jump the border -- it jumped them.”
It is true that there were Mexicans living north of the border when it was drawn. (Technically, anyone living north of the border was a Mexican subject.) Some with ancient land holdings granted by the Spanish crown. And some who fought shoulder to shoulder with the insurgents to gain independence on behalf of the Texas Republic.
But there were not many. And it was the lack of Mexican civilian and military settlements that made the contested land such a prize for the Polk administration.
I suppose I had never asked myself why what we now know as the American Southwest was devoid of settlers in the early 1800s. It turns out that it is the same reason that the Mexican government invited American settlers to Texas -- to protect the Mexican frontier from one of the best fighters in the Americas. The Comanches.
Two summers ago, I was enjoying lunch in the courtyard of a fellow blogger in Pátzcuaro. One of our fellow diners told us he was reading the best book about American Indians he had ever read. S.C. Gwynne’s Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History.
He was correct. I knew next to nothing about the amazing story of the Comanches. How they had transformed themselves from a low-status mountain people to the fiercest horse-mounted war machine the Indian nations had encountered. They drove all other tribes from their territory.
And that territory was the heart of the territory the Americans had wrested from Mexico. James Polk may have thought he had won a great prize for the United States. What he had won was one of the longest-running war Americans would face. It it ended only when --
Wait a minute! That is the whole point of Mr. Gwynne's book. And I do not want to spoil it for you.
Once you have read it, you will never look at maps like these two in the same way.
I am starting to feel like an administrator for Obamacare.
At least, when it comes to my much-anticipated trip to Central America.
You know the drill by now. Last September I told you how my cousin Dan presented me with an offer I could not refuse. (a new dawn)
He and his wife were planning a three-month road trip from Florida to where the Pan-American Highway ends in Panama -- and then returning. It was exactly the type of adventure that drew me to Mexico.
And then reality intervened. Dan had a great employment opportunity arise. The trip was postponed until later in the year -- October or November. (i'm on the road to central america)
I was still excited about the prospect. And well I should have been. The prospect of seeing Central America Jack Kerouac style was something that every aging American male would like to do. The spirit of Jack London is more than ethereal in our aging souls.
In mid-February, Dan let me know the Apollo rocket was back on the gantry. (the inevitability of surprise) He would be waiting at my gate in Melaque when I returned from this tax trek north. But not in October. It would be a mere four weeks away in March.
I would fly in on a Wednesday, and the three of us would pull away on Saturday -- headed to the land of pistols, ponies, and bandits. Well, maybe not so many ponies.
Just before I came to Oregon, cousin Dan contacted me again. The allure of more employment had once again postponed the trip. Until October.
With each postponement, he has apologized profusely. There is no need. When it comes to figuring out where I will be on any given day, I am as flexible as they come. Combine that with my obsession with taking this trip, and I am more than happy to wait until October. Or wherever it happens.
And that is why I am not as concerned as the Obamacare administration. I know my trip is going to happen -- and I am going to have a good time.
Is there anything better than swapping tales with old friends?
There may be. But sharing stories over dinner has long been one of my guilty pleasures.
Last night Ken, Patti, and I were having dinner at The Ram (a chain that is vaguely reminiscent of the pub near the law school we attended together), and the topic of student protests on campus came up. More specifically, student protests against speakers.
You know the rather sad litany. If a small group of students can mold their moral indignation into a frenzy loud enough to cow their betters in the academic administration, the invited speaker will be unfriended by the university.
The classic example occurred last October. A group of radical students at Brown University, with voices stronger than their reason, shouted down a speech by New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly.
Kelly was there to argue why New York City’s stop-and-frisk policy has deterred crime. But his argument was never heard. He was repeatedly shouted down by students who must have learned their rhetorical skills from either the Red Guard or the Nazi Youth.
It was not always so. Ken was an undergraduate at the University of Montana in 1974. John Dean, fresh from the aftermath of Watergate, had been invited to speak before several thousand students at the university.
Dean came to the stage, set aside his speech, and announced that he would like to speak directly to the audience about their concerns, rather than deliver a set speech. The organizer had provided index cards for questions.
As if on cue, about a dozen students marched forward following a sociology professor -- placards in hand. They were the Montana Socialist Party – as Monty Pythonesque as that sounds.
They mounted the stage as if they were storming the ramparts of the Bastille. Dean moved away from the microphone, and the professor ranted on about the inappropriateness of having a known felon address the university audience. He then built himself into a frenzy of moral indignation and challenged Dean to donate his honorarium to the poor people of Missoula.
Nonplussed, Dean took the microphone and agreed to the challenge -- if the professor could show that he had donated his last pay check to the poor people of Missoula. The Montana Socialist Party slunk away to the exits.
That story sums up why fascist-minded students would rather shout down their opponents than engage in actual debate. They too often show up to a knife fight with a glob of organic goat cheese.
There is no doubt that some people who show up at universities have controversial ideas. That is what universities are supposed to be -- places to think through ideas. To learn why we believe what we do. Universities are where the First Amendment should be accorded its full practical application.
As John Dean proved at Ken’s school, when freedom of speech is given its head, the fatuous can easily be winnowed from the truth. That may be why students, who are not educated in rhetoric, can only destroy rather than build.
I miss movies in Mexico.
It isn't that there are no movies in Mexico. There are. But driving the hour to Manzanillo to see nothing other than mass-market American movies is a luxury in which I seldom indulge.
Not so on my trips north. Movies are everywhere. The only trick is to find the time.
I have -- twice on this trip. First for the second Hobbit movie. And then for The Monuments Men.
Because this essay is not a film review, I will simply say that I enjoyed the Hobbit film. It bears the cross of being the second movie in a trilogy.
It transcends the genre. The movie tells a rollicking tale and drives the narrative toward the finale of the third film.
As for The Monuments Men, I really have no idea why the film was made.
Well, that's not quite true. What is true is that George Clooney had no idea why the film was being made.
It undoubtedly sounded like a good concept -- a group of academics insert themselves into Europe during World War Two to protect the art of Western civilization from the ravages of the Nazis and Russians.
But, on the screen, it plods and stumbles through a set of blackout vignettes that run the emotional gamut A to B. I would have walked out, but the movie's flaccidity had drained the energy from my legs.
I thought about both movies on Sunday night while watching the Oscar ceremonies with my friends Ken and Patti. It must have been at least twenty years since I last watched the Oscars. And nothing has been missing from my life by not seeing the little naked statuettes being distributed to show folk.
Having said that, I must confess it was fun to watch the cascade of self-congratulation with my friends. Lawyers have a jeweler's eye for cant -- and fashion disasters.
Rack it up to schadenfreude. I may not earn enough with each film to save a full region in Africa from starvation, but I would never be caught wearing a necklace backwards.
I have no idea who won what. Nor does it matter to me. It may be the Woody Allen in me, but I cannot understand how any single performance or film can be rated as "best."
Maybe my feelings are a bit stronger this year because I have seen only one of the movies nominated for best film. And because I made mock of the acting abilities of Jared Leto (jared leto nude (almost) in mexico) -- just before he won the best supporting actor award.
But even in the vast sea of narcissism that is the Oscars, a gem occasionally appears. Last night it was offered from the soul of Lupita Nyong'o: "To every child, no matter here you are, your dreams are valid."
And that is why we go to the movies. It is one place in our lives where we can consistently chase our dreams. Even when we are ready to walk out of the film.
I wish Mexico had a passenger rail system.
Of course, there are the remnants of a world-famous rail system constructed in the late 1800s with American investment dollars. A system that efficiently transported the insurgent forces to victory during the Revolution. One of the most famous rump lines is the train that services Copper Canyon. (likin' the lichen)
I love trains. On each of my trips north, I try to squeeze in at least one train leg.
Yesterday was the day. After spending a couple of days in Salem tying up some family trust tax issues, I decided to ride the rails to Olympia to visit my friends Ken and Patti for a couple of days.
One of the joys of train travel is to watch the heartland of America speed by the carriage window. Farms and houses bordering on the tracks often give up a lot of their residents' secrets as strangers roll by peering into their lives.
I couldn't do that on this trip. For most of the trip, we traveled in the dark. Had I given into the urge, I could have drifted off to rhythm of the track noise. But I had tales to share with you.
Over a year ago (da train -- da train), I played with the idea of taking a long road trip on the rails in The States. For a number of reasons that did not happen.
And it could not happen in Mexico. The government made a conscious decision to abandon passenger rail travel in favor of road construction.
But, if I wanted to take public transportation for a long road trip in Mexico, the choice would be obvious. First class buses.
I have mentioned them before. They travel everywhere. And, if you can find an ETN bus going where you are headed, you will have seats that recline better than on an airline. A stewardess who serves refreshments. Movies on overhead screens. And a bathroom.
Whenever I get around to my next road trip in Mexico, it will probably not be by bus. My Escape is the perfect vehicle to take me anywhere in the country. But it is nice to know the first class buses are there as a backup.
But passenger trains? Not in Mexico. For that, I come north.
Was it Bernadette Peters who sang Time Heals Everything?
Last week I was flying from Cancun to Guadalajara on Volaris -- a newish Mexican airline that may be my new favorite with spiffy flight equipment and efficient flight attendants). I usually glance through the in-flight magazines to see what type of fluffy fare is being served up to readers.
I particularly like the Mexican magazines. My ability to read Spanish is far better than my aural comprehension. And I often discover something new.
I certainly did on Saturday. Take a close look at that photograph.
If you didn't know the context, it looks like any cliché photograph in a travel magazine. Closely-cropped subject in vibrant colors.
But the context matters. This is a Mexican airline. That is the Alamo. And the article extols the touristic possibilities of a trip north.
Somewhere, that old scoundrel Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón, or just plain Santa Anna, as most of us know him in history, must be weeping. He thought he had put down the insurrection of the Texas Independence crowd with his victory at The Alamo -- only to be caught with his troops down at San Jacinto. (I need to write a post about Santa Anna one of these days. A man who styled himself as the "Napoleon of the West," when he was closer to being the Nixon of Mexico.)
But Mexico is getting much better at bearing the weight of ts history. Mexican history once stood in the way of national progress. In these days of NAFTA, its history now informs its future.
To a point. I am certain there are still some soul mates of The Original Comeback Kid who, when seeing how the wounds of The Alamo have been healed, would turn down the lights, pour a tall glass of tequila, and repeatedly play torch songs.
We can join them, at least, with the music.
