The Silence

Every morning they found solace in an age old routine.  She got up first, used the bathroom and went into the kitchen to make herself a bowl of cereal and brew a pot of coffee. The regrets she carried on her back had the weight of a century each morning as she walked down the hall, through the family room and into the kitchen of the rented house.  Her husband of thirty seven years stayed in bed.  He never got out of bed before she had left the bedroom and bathroom. In fact he hardly stirred as she performed her morning ablutions.  They had long since given up on the niceties of morning greetings and inquiries as to how the other had spent the night.  Whatever fondness and respect they had shared decades ago was never nurtured by either, and over time withered and were forgotten, like so many memories.  Now the silence between them was like another person in the house, it filled a void, had a personality and in those moments when it happened to be absent, it was missed.

The couple had married while in High School.  She got pregnant and he got a job as a mechanic in a rundown shop run by an alcoholic. They had never been properly in love when they got married, they were simply together because they were embarrassed about being alone,  but that was not something they had ever discussed. They had a baby boy, who they named Bobby,  now thirty seven years old Bobby is the father of two children and goes by the more formal version of his name.   Only his parents still call him Bobby and no one ever corrects them. 

Bobby would have been an only child if after a few years his brother The Silence had not joined the family.   The Silence started small, one might even say premature.   It was conceived when the alcoholic boss gave the husband a small raise and the husband requested that the 30 additional dollars a month be paid in cash so he could have some money in his pocket without the wife nagging him about groceries and gas.  The Silence grew stronger and at a much faster rate than its older brother.  In fact, Bobby had been just six years old when The Silence had a huge growth spurt and lodged itself permanently in the house.  The spurt was nourished by some fishing trip and a ‘stay with mother.’ The Silence had never been sure about who had gone where and when, it was too small to remember.  But every year it still celebrates the date as its birthday.

Over the years the silence became an integral part of the family.  It lived mostly in the spaces between the husband and the wife.   In the car The Silence sat on the hand break between the front seats and commented loudly on the driver’s skill, speed, route and on the fact that a mechanic shouldn’t be driving this broken down piece of shit.   During meals it would sit on top of the table between the husband and wife and comment on the monotonous and repetitive cooking.   In bed it slept between the husband and the wife and yelled threats like “if you fart under the covers again I’m going to kill you” and spat rhetorical questions like “did you even brush your teeth today?”  All in the most absolute, sacrosanct silence.  For years now the husband and the wife had given up expressing all those things that The Silence screamed so loudly every day.

The Silence had been happy throughout Bobby’s childhood.   It attended little league games, visited the library and had ice-cream at the mall once a week.  Its days were joyful, but for as long as it could remember The Silence hated Sundays.   From an early age it remembered going to something called church where the husband and the wife spent  an hour in silence listening to a preacher, which wasn’t bad, but then to The Silence’s complete despair they socialized with people, smiled and made conversation as if The Silence had never exist.   It was awful.  But The Silence knew that the torturous charade never lasted and that all would return to normal on the car ride home.  

After Bobby grew up the husband and the wife stopped attending the church theater and The Silence experienced some of the happiest years of its life.
When its elder brother went to college, The Silence had the run of the house.  It went everywhere.   And there were moments of great happiness as it had never experienced before.   When a mobile phone would ring and the husband would look at the caller id and let the wife’s call go to voicemail, it felt wonderful.  When the wife’s girlfriends inquired after the husband and she exhaled contempt out of her nose in reply.   That was all wonderful too.   Even on Sundays.

When Bobby decided to get married, The Silence experienced a rough patch in its life.  But it always recovered each morning when the husband and wife so diligently adhered to their routine.   And a few years later came the time when Sundays once again became dreaded.

On Sundays Bobby, his wife and the grandchildren came to visit after church.   On those dreadful days the house was filled with the laughter of small children and stories of the week.  A great living light filled the house on Sundays and The Silence became dim in its brightness.  Oh what horrible days Sundays.   On Sundays The Silence clung to the memory of the morning routine the husband and the wife follow each day.  That memory gave it the strength to endure in the light.  

And so The Silence continued for many years.   Until one morning the husband packed a suitcase and walked out of the front door.   But the wife never motioned to stop him and she never asked him to stay, so The Silence never worried.  But it should have.  For a few months after the husband left The Silence was lonely, almost forgotten.  One day the wife walked into the kitchen and made French toast instead of cereal and then something horrible happened.   She hummed a little ditty while she flipped the toast!!   The Silence immediately got a headache and retired to a corner of the living room, next to the phone. 

A few hours later divorce papers arrived by courier.  But since the wife signed them without reading a single word, The Silence remained hopeful, but its head was throbbing now.

Life is always absurd, you just have to look

Today I walked over a historic monument into a 700 year old institution and paid to contribute to the deaths of thousands.

You don’t believe me, do you? Oh ye of little faith. It’s true! Everyday life is a surrealist experience if you stop to examine it. 

This morning I left my apartment, turned right and walked down to the street. A block later I descended one of four pedestrian staircases of this overpass:
  

 
Built in 1926, it is apparently an engineering feat that required the removal of a hill.  I happen to be very fond of this overpass, but I frequently question sanity of the multitude of tourists who come to Porto Alegre and stand on this overpass to take pictures of themselves just standing there.   I watch them and think that they probably get excited about warm milk…  It is a historic monument in the city of Porto Alegre, which is not saying much about historic monuments in Porto Alegre.  And so this morning I walked down one of its staircases.

I walked three blocks and turned left and into an institution that dates back to 1305.  On January 15, 1305 Dinis I, the 6th king of Portugal, instituted a system of ‘cartórios’ , or registry offices.
 These are outdated, useless institutions that have remained mostly unchanged for 700 years. All of the work is paper based and labor intensive.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that computers are only used as bona fide typewriters to generate more documents. The main function of cartórios in Brazil is to perpetuate the quagmire of bureaucracy  that stagnates that country and deprives of oxygen any hint of progress. And so I walked into the belly of this paper pushing dinosaur and had my signature notarized on a piece of paper.

The piece of paper was a sworn translation I did the day before. Only the few, the proud, the stoopid are allowed to do sworn translations in Brazil – you have to take a test that is only offered once every 30 years and receive official credentials.  In fact, these sorts of sworn translations only exist in Brazil and are only required by Jurassic governmental institutions.  And there I was in the belly of the dinosaur notarizing my signature on the fossilized remains of what was once a promising economy. The paper allowed a South American equivalent of Phillip Morris to import 15 kg of tobacco from well fed Fiji farmers, who exploit malnourished Fiji peasants, to produce cigarettes that will destroy the health of thousands of smokers, who are fully cognizant of the risks!  And this morning there was I, wallowing in the quagmire of Jurassic bureaucracy, paying for a service that will perpetuate this absurdity for future generations and inadvertently, or advertently as the case may be, contributing to the death of thousands of smokers. 

Everyday life is always absurd, you just have to look.

Vanity

The young man selects the prefect smooth, round, flat stone on the shore of the lake.  He brushes it off with his hand and examines it carefully. Needless to say that the stone is very excited with all the attention.  It had heard of rocks having been picked up by such creatures and taken away from the lake, it overheard words like ‘aquarium’ and ‘flower garden’ and ‘bookends’ and it could hardly wait to discover that brave new world away from the lake.   After all, it had spent the last 10,000 years working its way to the shore for just this opportunity. 

The young man examines the surface of the water, extends his arm and flings the stone with the force and ease of someone who has done this many times.

“I’m flying!” exclaims the stone,  “I’m freaking flying!” It’s an incredible experience for the stone, it had never heard of flying stones before. It had heard of precious stones, broken stones and once it heard some horror story about something called gravel, but it had never heard of a flying stone.

“I am the most powerful, the most awesome, the most amazing stone in the world”  it shouted as it soared through the air a few inches above the water. Below, it could see the water shimmering and the blurry outlines of other stones on the bottom of the lake.  “Hey guys! Look at me!” it yelled at the rocks on the lake bottom. The angle of its trajectory started descending and the surface of the water came closer and closer.  Suddenly the rock skipped on the surface of the water and continued its flight.  For a moment it could clearly see other rocks on the bottom of the lake and imagined they were awestruck by its magnificent powers. “I can float! I can actually float! I’m the only floating rock in the world!” The second time it ascended into the air, the rock was giddy with its new-found grandeur.  By the time it skipped on the surface once again it was convinced it was the most magnificent rock in the universe. “I am the culmination of geological formation!” it shouted.

Then it skipped no more and quickly started to sink. Sinking was also a curious new sensation, but rather unpleasant when compared to floating and flying. As it landed on the bottom a moss and grime covered stone welcomed it with a “hey, whassup?” as the sediment that had been disturbed by its landing slowly settled on top of the newcomer.

Magnificence is an illusion of circumstances, in the end you’re really just a rock.

hypocrisy is the core of all convictions

If you live in the modern world and you have convictions you are a hypocrite.  You are, you just never stopped to think about the subject.  It’s an unfortunate fact. Allow me to illustrate:

 Do you think the mining industry is evil and is damaging the environment for future generations? If so, you must not be reading this on a computer that used silicon in its microchips, right? Or a cell phone, or satellite service, or a modern car or a microwave or a remote control, staples, aluminum foil, frying pan, canned goods… You can’t shake your fist at the anti mining protest rally and then drive away in your new car, that would make you a hypocrite.

Are you a vegetarian and against animal testing? But do you have leather shoes and a matching purse, leather seats in your car, a leather couch? An eiderdown comforter, fur trim on your coat, blue suede shoes... no? good for you.  So how certain are you that the glycerin in your soap isn’t from animal fat? Completely sure? Good for you.  Gelatin in anything you eat…  Collagen in any of your foods cosmetics or creams?  Ever had a diet drink, with an animal tested sweetener? Any diet drink, ever, would have been tested on animals.  No diet drinks, nice! But still, most processed food ingredients and medications are tested on animals before being released to the market.

So are you anti logging and all of your furniture is from salvaged wood?  Save our forests! What about your picture frames, toothpicks, chopsticks, paper, cardboard boxes, envelopes, buildings, window frames, the dashboard on your new car, pencils, drywall, baseball bats…  The books you own, the s’mores over a campfire, your fireplace, xmas trees, you enjoy the products of the logging industry, don’t you? well then…

So you are anti Wall Street and think those fat cats who ruined the economy should be taken out and hung? Do you have a bank account, a mortgage, car financing, a credit card?  But they are all from reputable institutions you claim… fine.  Who owns that reputable institution? What institutions is it connected to? Did you know that the top 700 share holders in the market have the potential to control 80% of the market value through their influences? Do you seriously think your credit card, mortgage and car payments are not in one of those pockets? Right…

Oil companies are evil giant conglomerates that are ruining the world.  Nothing around you, not one thing around you, hasn’t been through oil to get to you. (you in oil post)  From the fresh fruit you bought at the farmer’s market to the shampoo you used on your hair, to the picture you took of your child.  It all used oil to get to you.  And think about this, nothing in your life has ever been plastic free.  It was either packaged in plastic (or coated cardboard) when you bought it, it was shipped on a pallet that was wrapped in plastic, it had a plastic tag, bubble wrap, etc.  and plastic is oil. You can’t live in your house and claim oil companies are evil without being a hypocrite.

Religion, are you religious? Do you subscribe to a religion that claims to be benign and all caring but everyone from other faiths will burn in hell for all eternity?  Think about the hypocrisy behind that. 

I don’t have to point out the hypocrisy in politics, it’s self evident.

Are you an honest person who never lies?  Really?  Not even to smile broadly at someone and say “hi, how have you been?” even though you don’t remember who the hell he is?  Or to nod your agreement with the group/boss/priest/judge/parent/friend/coworker though your opinion may be different.  Or to say “I’ll workout extra tomorrow to make up for today”.  Ever call in sick to work when you weren’t?  Ever make any new year’s resolutions? Keep them all? Lying to yourself is still lying… and hypocrisy is still hypocrisy.

So you donate to UNICEF, charities and save the fillintheblank because you want to make a difference. But then you don’t neuter your dog.  But the gas in your car comes from countries where women are treated as property.  But your iPad comes from a factory where workers are treated as slaves. But much of the textile you wear and use is produced by people who live in misery and squalor. Most of the modern consumer goods in your home were manufactured or assembled by people who have a standard of living that would kill you in less than a month. You can’t enjoy the benefits of slave labor/contribute to animal overpopulation/contribute to the development of misogynistic economies, turn around and donate some cash and say you’re not a hypocrite.

Your convictions are not compatible with the modern world. They simply are not.  It’s not possible, in today’s world, to have convictions and not be a hypocrite. 

So be the best hypocrite you can be. It's all any of us can do.

Here's how you fix the world

“Mommy, mommy, I throwed the ball”
The mother smiles at her three year old’s absolutely adorable and intuitive conjugation of the verb to throw, but still she corrects him.
“It’s ‘I threw the ball’ dear, not ‘I throwed the ball’”
“Why?” is the immediate response, and the standard retort to almost any statement she makes these days.
“Because it’s an irregular verb,” she explains. But by the time she finishes her explanation his mind is already concentrated on other things and the notion of an irregular verb is much too abstract to even ask why.

 In all languages around the world that interaction is nearly ubiquitous.  But what exactly did that child learn from that interaction? Did he learn to conjugate an irregular verb? Probably not.  He did however, learn that there is right and there is wrong and there is a reason.  He learned that he should opt for what is right even if he doesn’t understand the reason. He learned that opting for right is a path to self improvement.   It’s a basic lesson for a developing brain: there is right, there is wrong, choose right and you’ll be better off. There, at that moment a synapse is formed in his brain to distinguish right from wrong and opt for right in order to be a better person.

As I walk around Porto Alegre, I frequently eavesdrop in the conversations of passersby,  (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, it’s infinitely more entertaining than anything on TV)  and I’m frequently dumbfounded by the incorrect use of the language, in this case Portuguese.  The phenomenon is more glaring here than it was in Mountain View or Sunnyvale (CA) where I lived before.  But I’m certain that if my life had been less sheltered and I had spent more time in less privileged communities, the phenomenon would have been just as glaring in English. These people are usually very poor and uneducated. When these people were 3 years old no-one told them “this is right dear, that is wrong, choose right,” because no-one around them had enough of an education to know the difference.   On a daily basis these people are exposed to media that demonstrates to them through examples that their use of the language is different for the use of the language made by ‘successful’ people.  But it’s too late.   At the age of 3, while their brains were forming synapses that would serve them for the rest of their lives, no-one around them had enough command of the language to teach “right, wrong, choose right,” “right, wrong, make the choice that improves you.” By the time that person is 6 years old and finally goes to a public, underfunded, violent school for an indifferent education, it’s too late, his brain is already formed.  The critical period in brain formation is before the age of 3 and that critical lesson will never be ingrained and instinctive in his thought processes unless it is taught from birth.  He will learn right from wrong, and he may improve his life, but it will not be instinctive.  It will not be part of his brain’s physiology.

Underprivileged communities everywhere in the world are characterized by the improper use of their local languages, along with criminality and a complete lack of opportunity for social mobility. And everyone believes that poverty propagates a lack of education and social mobility.  It does, absolutely. But there may be a very basic underlying reason for that.  It’s not just that people in these communities can’t afford better schools, it’s that children under the age of 3 in these communities are never taught awareness of self improvement through these basic lessons a mother gives when she herself knows the difference.   It has been shown that in extremely poor communities, the children of women who receive the most rudimentary education are more likely to leave abject poverty and lead productive lives.  This is because they are able to teach their children from birth that there is right and wrong and a choice must be made.  And that lesson teaches her child self improvement, and an awareness of self improvement gives her child opportunities that would otherwise be unavailable to him.

There is right, there is wrong, I must chose and the choice I make improves me. It’s simple, but it can’t be taught in school, it must be learned from a caregiver before the age of three.

Do you want to fix the world?  Here’s the solution, it’s surprisingly simple:  give each woman the most basic, rudimentary education and the miniscule amount of power needed to protect and teach her child.  Mind you, it’s not about correct grammar and a literary education. Basic grammar is just one of the foundations the society where I live and where you live.   A Massai woman isn’t going to correct her daughter’s grammar, she’s going to show her to proper technique for making flour from the grain they harvested. But if she knows that when her daughter is 7 years old she will become the fifth wife of a 40 year old man in exchange for a cow and five chickens… she may be less emotionally invested in the child’s early education. 

Name a current social problem in the world: a rudimentary education and a miniscule amount of power to protect her child is the solution to the root cause of that problem.