My Guide on the Long Walk Home

Posted on 04/04/2012 by paulefallon

I have reverted to my habit of walking home.  Lex and Renee and Gama all tell me it is safe, but do so with a shrug that contradicts their words.  If they advised against it, I would not walk, as I know they value my safety not only for me but for them; one incident with a volunteer could compromise much of their work. So I interpret their body language as ‘another weird blan thing’ because anyone who has access to a ride in Haiti and doesn’t take it is just a fool, and off I trek.

With the water high I cannot shortcut across the river bed; I must cross at the road bridge.  The walk is much longer and takes me through neighborhoods removed from the main axis of MoHI properties.  The time does not bother me; I have no after work plans; and the longer walk is delightful.

I am constantly aware of my personal security.  Haiti is a dangerous place and as a blan with a backpack, I am a target.  A few weeks ago a young woman, the sister of a MoHI staffer, was abducted in Port au Prince, robbed and murdered.  She was on a buying trip and had a good amount of cash on her.  Her murder was not random, but it may not have been premeditated either.  Someone might have seen her, realized she had money, followed her, and the rest is a tragic tale.  I am in the country, not in Port au Prince, and even though I carry only a few dollars in my wallet, a potential thief does not know how much I have.  The only thing certain is that I am carrying a lot more valuables than anyone I meet.

On the other hand being so obvious protects me.  Anyone in Haiti who messes with a missionary suffers severe repercussions.  Not from the police, who are notoriously ineffective, but from local vigilantes, who are notoriously effective.  A few months back a Haitian killed a missionary a few towns away.  Locals skunked out the murderer, dragged him to the side of the public road and burned him alive for all to see.  Yes, you read that right, they burned him alive.  In many of these towns the missions are the primary source of economic activity.  The vast majority of locals want us here and value our contribution.

Neither of these stories bring me joy, they reinforce the reality that if I go walking by myself, I need to be prudent.  I remain keen to who is in front, behind and next to me.  I am careful not to bump into anyone, which is difficult in this crowded place.  I initiate a bon soir or salut to everyone who meets my eye.  I do everything short of whistling a happy tune, which any Rogers and Hammerstein fan knows is the surest way to diffuse fear.

I sidestep the zealous tap-tap drivers who try to shepherd me into the back of their trucks (now that seems dangerous).  I engage the gang of guys sitting on their motos in front of the machine shop outside of town before they get a chance to look at me with suspicion.  I carry a full water bottle with me and offer a drink to anyone interested. They would rather have a dollar, but no way am I going to pull out my wallet.

I turn off the road and follow a narrow path along the dry concrete irrigation channel that some aid organization laid years ago as part of some forgotten scheme.  I walk past fields with a scrawny cow and feeble looking corn.  It is at least ten degrees cooler off the road, and I love the dense vegetation.  There are fewer people along this stretch, so I can greet everyone, and if they engage in chat, I get a chance to practice my Creole.  I tell them I work for Pastor Lex and am on my way to Mirlitone.  That diffuses tension immediately.

Except the only person who bears any tension on these walks is me.  My psyche is braced with horror stories, but the reality of walking through the Grand Goave countryside is that I am welcome.  The little children shout ‘Give me one dollar’ out of habit, though they would be shocked if I actually did.  Everyone has their story. One guy with a big machete tells me he is looking for work to feed his ten children.  I ask him if he knows construction, and when he says yes I tell him to see Boss Fanes. People answer yes to everything here, so I have no idea if he knows construction, or even if he has ten children. He smiles, happy just to have someone listen to his tale of plight.  Deep along the channel there is a clearing where a dozen or more young men play marbles with the enthusiasm of a World Cup match, their elegant torsos and long arms arched against the tiny spheres of glass.  The blan passing through is no more than a curiosity in their game.

The path merges with the dirt road that goes to Mirlitone.  A spry man in a pair of jean shorts, no shirt, no shoes, comes out of the driveway of what I consider to be a prosperous Haitian farm; he has a horse a pig, and four goats.  We exchange greetings. He walks along beside me.  I offer my name.  His is Palido.  We walk further.  I tell him I am going to Mirlitone.  He nods.  We keep on.  We come over the rise to the gate of the Mission House.  He stays in step with me.  He walks up to the gate, slides it open and gestures for me to pass through.  Theo, Mirlitone’s caretaker, comes to the gate and nods to Palido, acknowledging the handoff of my safe return.

I am sure that it is wise for me to be cautious on my walk, but it seems most unnecessary.  The eyes and feet of this countryside are always looking out for me.

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! CONCRETE !

Posted on 04/02/2012 by paulefallon

We finished pouring the foundation at the MoHI School today.  I hope that you enjoy this photo essay of the days work.

Here is the site at 7:00 am Monday morning.  The last area to be poured is the upper left portion of the building.

For the past three days we fabricated and installed the formwork and reinforcing.  We measured and measured and measured to make everything square.

Boss Pepe is out leader.  We controls the amount of water in the concrete to ensure a high quality mix.

Huguener is my translator and right hand man.  He is studying construction science in nearby Leogane.

Boss Leon and the rebar crew tie off the last remaining pieces of reinforcing.

I double check their work.

We had 350 sacks of cement delivered yesterday, which we stored in the Depot to keep dry.

 Carrying the sacks to the staging area is a heavy task.

The cement is opened in a wheelbarrow, a very dusty job.

Five truckloads of sand and gravel are scooped into buckets.

Each batch of concrete is composed of six buckets of sand, six buckets of gravel, three buckets of cement, and two and half buckets of water.

The dry ingredients go in the mixer first, fifteen buckets per batch, and we made over 100 batches.

Then we add the water.

The mixer churns for three to five minutes, then the green concrete gets dumped into the batching bin.

The bucket guys wait in line for their first fill of the day.  After that, they never stop moving.

The guys in the batching bin, up their their shins in concrete, fill the buckets.

The bucket crew carry the concrete to hard to reach places…

…which is very hard work since the buckets can weight up to 100 pounds.

They prefer to set up a bucket brigade whereever they can.

Sometimes they sing as they work, sometimes they dance.

Adnel thinks it is all great fun.

The crew places the concrete between the formwork.

The concrete is vibrated to improve consolidation and consistency.

The concrete is leveled with the top of the forms.

The trowler makes the final finish.

The bucket cleaners have the coolest job in the ninety degree heat. They rinse the buckets and get them ready for another round.

Repeat for 13 hours, about 2,000 buckets worth, and 33 cubic yards of concrete are in place.

Night falls by the time we are finished, but we are all proud of our effort to create a solid foundation for the MoHI School.

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Christlove

Posted on 03/31/2012 by paulefallon

Somewhere along their path of benevolent deeds, Lex and Renee picked up Clara and her two children, Makenlove and Christlove.  I cannot imagine what possessed the single mother to tack ‘love’ on the end of her children’s names, but it adds a dash of romance to what could have been a tragic tale.

The three of them came to live at MoHI, residing right in the middle of the compound.  Clara cleaned and cooked for large groups while the boys learned how to work the blan to win sweets, trinkets, and affection.  After the earthquake other children lived at MoHI, but eventually moved on to established orphanages, leaving Makenlove and Christlove as the resident objects of missionary affection.  Last month, Be Like Brit built Clara a house of her own and moved her halfway up the hill between MoHI and the orphanage, but there is little action on the quiet hillside, so the boys can usually be found hanging around one of the construction sites.

Makenlove is six now, thin and bright skinned with perfect teeth and a ready smile.  Of all the children Len Gengal likes to fawn over, Makenlove gets prime attention, including a gorgeous portrait of the boy on the cover of a book that promotes BLB titled, A Lot Like Me.

As someone drawn to the quirky and less obvious, I am in the thrall of Christlove, whose charms are more obtuse than his older brother’s.  Christlove is Matt Damon to Makenlove’s Ben Affleck, a leading man in his own right though hardly a matinee idol.  Christlove is three, stout for a Haitian, with a large head and a solemn expression.  He seems wise beyond his years, like the stone heads on Easter Island.  Not because of what he says or does, but because of the gravity of his presence.

Christlove does not talk.  He hums about and mumbles a bit, but I have never heard an actual word emanate from the sage youth.  He is just tall enough to stretch up and open the shanty door, slip through, and close once inside he always pauses and presses the door tight behind him.  He is a careful child.  He toddles over to the work table and shuffles the chair on castors until he gets it where he likes.  Then he stands next to it until I reach down, pull him up, and tuck him to the table.  Once settled he motions towards a pad of paper and a pen.  I supply him.  He flips to an empty sheet and begins to draw.  Christlove draws tiny ovals, dozens of them in a pattern all over the page.  Sometimes he will draw B’s and to me, his labored breath sounds like ‘Be Like Brit’.  But I could be mistaken.  BLB mania has captivated Grand Goave; here the letter B floats on the breeze.

Christlove’s breathing is labored because the child has a permanent runny nose.  A mass of shiny goop occupies the space between his nose and upper lip. If you wipe it away, it reappears instantly, if you let it be, it gathers force until it either drips away or gets swallowed by his tender mouth. Maybe it is due to allergies or a chink in his sturdy constitution.  He’s had sporadic medical attention, not enough to determine the cause of his over productive nose but enough to determine he has HIV, a diagnosis that is hard to get the treatment he deserves as a poor three year old Haitian.

Christlove may not speak but his lungs are first rate.  He has an ornery streak, and when he doesn’t get his way he screams almighty hell.  Yesterday he was in the office silently punching buttons on a calculator. Makenlove stopped by and started playing with one too.  Then Job, their cousin, joined the accountant team.  Three boys, three calculators, perfect harmony.  Until Christlove decided he wanted two, took his older brother’s, upset the equilibrium and wailed without end when Makenlove reclaimed that was his.  Order evaporated until I kicked them all outside. “Tout deyo.”  Makenlove and Job scampered down the hill but Christlove took his sweet time exiting, carefully putting the sandals back on his feet and then standing outside the door of the shanty, his stocky body pressed against the glass, channeling his best Dustin Hoffman from the closing scene of The Graduate, screaming against perceived injustice.

His cries finally gave out (my own children can attest that no scream has ever bent my resolve).  Later I headed down the hill to work at MoHI.  He followed me.  I slowed down.  He caught up with me.  We walked, silent, two misfits in this strange land. He slipped on a rock and landed on his bum. He cried out.  I reached down and helped him up.  He tottered a few more steps and fell again.  I gathered him up and held him tight to my chest until his weight relaxed into me.  After a few moments I set him on a pile of rocks outside his mother’s house and walked down the hill.  He screamed, but I kept on.  He is a survivor I thought, he will calm himself.  And sure enough, an hour later he showed up a MoHI, standing silent and wide eyes before Renee until he snagged a snack.

Christlove pens circles

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Haiti Washing Away

Posted on 03/30/2012 by paulefallon

Midafternoon clouds came over the mountains from the south, the sky turned black, the construction crews scrambled for cover and we had a fifteen minute deluge.  It ended a quick as it began, the sun returned, and everyone went back to work.  I finished up around five and decided to walk home; driving the pick-up is a thrill but is not my everyday style.  I had scouted out enough options along the far wide of the river to know that I could cross the bridge and find a path that would lead me home.

The Grand Goave River is wide, and it gets wider every year.  Renee says it has doubled in width in the twelve years they have lived here.  When I first arrived here three years ago there were three houses between the Mirlitone compound and the river, now there is only one.  The river has not grown because it rains more, but because when it rains, the runoff is so much faster.  Water eats away at the banks and high ground yields to its power.  With every rain the mountains give up more of themselves, more bare earth is exposed; more top soil is washed away. The cycle feeds on itself. Erosion is epidemic in Haiti.

After this afternoon’s rain the river was a turbulent swirl of mud as the mountains became just a little bit shorter, the river grew just a little bit wider, and Haiti gave up a just little bit more of itself to the sea.

Grand Goave River after an afternoon rain

 

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Making the Corner

Posted on 03/29/2012 by paulefallon

Here is the way that Haitians determine where to locate the corner of a building.  You take a group of guys, at least six, eight is preferred.  You run a nylon string along the length of one wall, about a foot off the ground to correspond to the top of the footing.  You run the string past where it will meet the adjacent wall, and tie it to a stake, a length of #5 rebar.  Then you repeat the process along the adjacent wall, setting another stake where you think it should go.  This creates an approximate right angle between two lengths of string.

Next you take a framing square and place it against the string.  It is important to realize that a framing square is 18” long x 24” long, while the corner we are setting defines the outline of a building that is 54 feet wide by 94 feet long.  In other words, a framing square error as little as 1/32” could translate to the building being out of square by more than an inch.  Three men balance the framing square, one at each end and one at the fulcrum.  They suspend it in the midair along the two lengths of string and shout at each other whether or not it is bon.  The guys holding the sticks twist and turn their rebar this way and that depending on who seems to be winning the argument over the accuracy of the floating framing square.  The boss man, or two of three, stick their hands in the mix and point and give loud opinions.

Finally after much deliberation and, to my eyes no real change, everyone agrees ‘bon’ and the trio remove the framing square.  Then the guys holding the sticks push them in the dirt to make a divot, set the stakes aside and go get a hammer (a Haitian with a ready tool is a rare sight).  They come back with mallets and pound the stake in the ground at the depression they made.  All of the deliberation over the floating framing square is pointless given how casually they actually place the stake. When both stakes are in place, they check the strings with the framing square again. If it is off they wiggle the sticks some more.  If they wiggle them so much that the stake comes loose, they jam rocks into the voids in widening hole to stop the stake from wobbling.  Any adjustment is acceptable except actually resetting the stake, which would amount to an admission of defeat.  Finally, everyone says ‘bon’ once more and there is general satisfaction.

The process takes anywhere from five to fifteen minutes, which I use to advantage as time to do meditative breathing.  I have no confidence in their system but have learned to be patient while they act it out.  Then, after they are all satisfied I announce that we will check the diagonals, a method of determining squareness that actually measures the entire building rather than relying on a floating framing square.  They look at me in tragic disbelief, as if the say, why does this blan doubt us?  But just as I humored them through their shenanigans, they humor me in mine.

We make a diagonal measurement from opposing corners of the building.  When they vary by six inches the crew gasps, distrustful of mathematics. We move the stakes; they go through their deliberations again, than I check diagonals again.  We do not stop until both the group consensus and the Pythagorean systems are satisfied.

We start laying out the last corner of the MoHI School and the remaining dozen or so foundation points and 8:00 am and do not finish until after noon.  We have lunch and then take another two hours to slide the strings up and down their stakes to get them all a the proper elevation per the laser transit.  It takes almost a full day to place about a hundred feet of string.  Instead of shaking our heads over the gross inefficiency, the crew seems pretty pleased with itself.  It is not my place to argue with success, however painful to achieve.

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Ford vs. Kids

Posted on 03/27/2012 by paulefallon

I know how to drive. I even own a serviceable if unglamorous Toyota Corolla, though I rarely log even a hundred miles a month on it. Cycling always gives me a thrill, and I bike many more miles than I drive.  But of course, everything in Haiti is upside down for me.

I cannot imagine riding a bike here, the roads are narrow and rutted and the drivers aggressive.  I walk whenever I can but I knew the day would come when I had to get behind the wheel.  Yesterday that day arrived.  I worked too late to walk home in daylight, and the rivers are rising, so the shortcut across the riverbed is impassable, making the journey several miles.  Gama was burning the midnight oil and I was exhausted from flying. So, he handed me the keys to the Ford F150 Trinon King Cab.  I have never driven anything half so big, but if I can’t cowboy up to a little adventure in Haiti, I’ve got no business being here.   I K-turned the big boy around, remembered Renee’s fateful warning that no matter what happens in accident in Haiti, it is always the blan’s fault, and headed down the hill.

BeLikeBrit is on top of a serious hill; going down the rutted gravel is an exercise in two gears – pushing the brake and slamming the brake.  I doubt a full stop is even feasible.  I rumbled down at amusement ride pace, thankful that the hill levels near the highway.

I turned right and was on Haiti Route 2, heading into Grand Goave’s silvery dusk.  I flipped on the headlights, checked my mirrors and drove too cautiously for such a menacing vehicle but not so slow that everyone passed me.  I shifted to the middle of the road to avoid pedestrians.  By the time I crossed the river and headed away from town I felt pretty good.  Then I had to make the sharp left onto the dirt road through the hamlet of Millitone to the mission house.  I was the only vehicle hunkering through the twilight crowds of people drawing their evening water from the public well, chasing soccer balls, or chatting around makeshift mango stalls.  The whites of their eyes danced like fireflies in the summery evening.

Just before the beach, the road takes a rise.  As I faced up I thought, wow, this truck is high. I would have a hard time seeing someone short.  Sure enough, as soon as I hit the down side, two tiny kid goats stood in the middle of the road; their mother nibbling the nearby bushes.  I stopped twenty feet or more in front of them but realized that if I tried to get closer, I would not be able to see them and could not be sure they would move away.  I honked to no avail.  I did not want to hit those kids; killing someone’s animal in Haiti is a serious offense. I honked again. Nothing.  I settled into my seat, my mighty machine thwarted by a pair of scaredy goats.  After a few moments an old woman appeared from the shack along the road.  She shook her wrinkled head, reached down and grabbed the goats by their hind legs, swung them head first up to her waist and hauled them out of the way.  They bleated in fear and surprise; I mouthed a meci, and went on my way.

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Tourist in Port au Prince

Posted on 03/26/2012 by paulefallon

One of the great delights about being in Haiti is abandoning so many things I feel the urge to control in the States.  I turn off my cellphone, I don’t follow the time.  I get outside the airport gates, hand off one of my heavy duffels to Cherabon, settle into a passenger seat and leave the driving to him as I survey the wonder that is Port au Prince.  Today there were eleven of us in a large van, four other visiting missionaries and six Haitians; I guess lots of people had business in the city.  I am well versed in the road from the airport by now, past the pastel Oxfam houses that are slowly supplanting the tent cities, the gigantic and smelly open market, the port, city hall plaza that is sprouting weeds, the treacherous Cite du Soleil and the oil tank farms that stretch until space opens up near Carrefour and we are in the country.

But today we took a different route, right through town, past sights I had not seen since my first visit to Haiti in 2009, before the quake.  If you squint Delmar Road has a European flair, houses tight to the winding street with colorful vendors lining the sides.  True, the buildings are flat grey and many are damaged, the street vendors are woman squatting in front of wide baskets of rejects from American superstores, but there are treasures to be found.  We passed some long, sculptural bars of local soap and elegant wands of sugar cane.  A statuesque woman carried a platter of the reddest cherries atop her head.

After scaling the rise we hit a straight street that heads back towards the sea.  This is the furniture district, rows and rows of poorly lacquered bureaus and wire beds with garish mattresses.  But ahead of us stand the remains of the Cathedral, now a single wall anchored by a pair of toppled towers.  The remnant of the rose window is still in place, but instead of stained glass inserts, the masonry voids create cutouts of the clear blue sky beyond.

We wind to the left and enter the Federal area, broad boulevards with gracious traffic circles, wrought iron fences that define formal gardens, and the impressive Second Empire President’s Palace.  Just keep squinting and ignore that the palace dome that toppled in the earthquake still sits skewed and unmoved for the past two years, the gardens are overrun with tents, the wrought iron fences are capped with swirls of barbed wire, and the circles are lined with port-a-potties whose doors open right into the traffic.

Our final sights in Port au Prince take us by what must be the import district.  Fat bags of 50 pound flour from France, stacked like bricks over eight feet high. Rows and rows of the stuff.  It is no small wonder that in the past three years Haiti, like virtually every place else in the world, has gotten fat.  Flour is not part of Haiti’s native diet, but the First World’s surplus is here for the taking.  Starvation is on the wane, but the dichotomy of malnourished fat people is on the rise.

Eventually Port au Prince falls behind, we meet up with Route 2 and make our way along the familiar route to Grand Goave.  But I really enjoyed our scenic detours through the city.

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Futurity

Posted on 03/24/2012 by paulefallon

There are few joys in life greater than going to theater to see something you know little about and walking out transformed by the experience.  The pursuit of that rush is why I subscribe to three different theater companies, have tickets early in each run, and never read reviews before I attend performances.

The most outré theater I attend is the ART, where sometimes I like what I see, sometimes I hate it, but I never forget it.  ART’s hallmark is twisting convention.  Sometimes it is terrible, but when the ART’s vision works, as it does in the blockbuster Porgy and Bess now triumphing on Broadway, or Dresden Doll Amanda Palmer’s turn as the MC in Cabaret, or the disco infused Shakespeare of The Donkey Show, it is miraculous.

On Thursday I attended the second performance of Futurity, a musical by The Lisps.  I never heard of The Lisps, and ART’s pre-performance email described Futurity as a civil war era musical about a machine that created peace; not material that is obviously compelling.  The performance was held at Oberon, ART’s alternative performance space where the audience sits in small cafe tables.  I had a terrible seat, in the shadow of the band.  By the end of 100 minutes my neck ached from craning up at everyone’s chin, but the rest of my spirit was so buoyed, my pains barely registered.

The Lisps are five musicians, a dashing pair of lead singers (Cesar Alvarez and Sammy Tunis), bass player Lorenzo Wolff, a keyboard, and drummer Eric Farber who was ensconced in a percussive mousetrap fantasy.  Over the course of the performance the drum space grows ever more complex and delightful as it becomes the machine that creates peace, ultimately involving half dozen or more cast members creating amazing rhythms together in their pursuit of elusive harmony.

Cesar is a Civil War private, adrift in the Ohio 30th Division as they wend their way to inflict and/or experience death in Virginia.  Cesar maneuvers his guitar with the same imprecision as the wooden rifles wielded by the chorus soldiers.  Sammy is the gorgeous, brainy, and articulate Ada Lovelace, the real life daughter of Lord Byron and a serious theoretical mathematician of her era.  Their shared journey, separated by an ocean, wealth, intellect, and circumstance, is a moving love story, and the bizarre notion of a machine that creates peace becomes ever more compelling, and important, as the troops move closer to the complete and pointless annihilation that remains our country’s bloodiest moment.

The music is incredible, the percussion amazing, the staging creative, and the emotional narrative compelling, but the lyrics steal the show.  The songs are dense with intellectual rapping that ask important questions about whether our brains define meaning or are they just a neutral medium, and how might machines transcend the input we provide?  Questions pertinent in our post nuclear age posited against such quaint technological advances as the repeating rifle.  Any show that includes a song that forges provocative links between Socrates, Copernicus, Pythagoras, Mary Shelley, and Abraham Lincoln is a winner with me.

As a regular theater goer I am particular about standing ovations, but at Futurity’s last chord I sprang to my feet.  I lingered to chat with the cast, Eric gave me a tour of the drum contraption, Sammy Tunis stole my heart; and I purchased the CD.  Who knew I had such groupie genes.

I look forward to seeing Futurity again, and wonder how long it will be until another theatrical event captivates me so.

 

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Pedaling Principles Chapter Eighteen – Positive Approach Yields Positive Results

Posted on 03/24/2012 by paulefallon

Guiding principles as a methodology to solve problems and maximize outcomes is a powerful tool.  It begins by finding the commonalties among diverse groups in any situation.  They are usually stronger than we anticipate.  It states in broad terms what we are trying to achieve, identifies the parameters we have to live by, and sets critical targets to measure our success.  Guiding principles operate on the tenet that we will maximize success for the greatest number without crippling any constituent.  Guiding principles always seeks win-win situations.  They do not tolerate disrespect, divisiveness or absolutes except those designated as such by the entire group. Everything is negotiable unless a consensus decides it is immutable.  In fact, any characteristic that the entire group considers non-negotiable becomes a guiding principle.  Guiding principles are not fixed for eternity but neither do they change with the breeze.  They evolve over time only as necessary to be responsive to significant societal shifts.

In this book I considered how the concept of guiding principles could help our country address issues of national identity, food and energy systems, social ethics, clean government, education, addiction, infrastructure, foreign affairs, the economy, and healthcare. I imagine if I had cycled through different states, other important issues might have surfaced.  I can imagine that Vermont might have conjured the environment, Virginia, veteran’s affairs; Texas, the penal system; Florida, senior care; Alabama, race relations or California, the media.  The details of those discussions might have been different, but the application of the guiding principles approach would have been similar. If I am lucky, maybe I can ponder those topics on another cycling trip.

An expected criticism of the guiding principles approach is that it is naïve, too upbeat and collaborative to ever be effective in the down and dirty world of national politics.  Cynics will tout, maybe this process can work in designing a new hospital, but allocating money among education, road repair, defense, and jobs creation is more complex and divisive than deciding whether a new wing will be dedicated to cardiology or oncology.

Actually, it is not any more complicated.  All the same factors are at play.  When a hospital builds a new wing they have to determine whether the wing will be designated to showcase their leading service, or if it will be an opportunity to grow an emerging service.  Will the addition expand their capacity or will it free up overtaxed existing capacity.  Will the new wing generate fresh revenue or is it necessary simply to meet contemporary standards of care like private inpatient rooms and robotic capable operating rooms.  The hospital has to weigh wider considerations like what their competitors are doing, how changing demographics affect demand for care, what makes a sound philanthropic case (pediatrics offers easier fund raising opportunities than urology) as well as ever shifting reimbursement rates.  The criteria that have to be factored to make reasoned decisions are complicated, but hospitals have to consider non-rational attributes as well – the intangible benefit of being the first in town to offer a newfangled technology and juggling the egos of all the doctors who want the bragging rights of a new wing.  Agreed, the scale of a $300 million hospital addition is small compared to managing a $14 trillion dollar economy, but the challenge of balancing immediate needs versus long term investment, using objective measures, and fending off emotional pleas is exactly the same.

There are two reasons why we need to adopt guiding principles as a methodology for addressing our national problems in an intentional way.  First, we know it can work; this was how our forefathers got the country started in the first place.  They brought together the divergent voices of the thirteen colonies and hammered out a solution that led to independence.  After we won our independence and instituted the Articles of Confederation we realized that it was not an effective form of government, so we came together again, wizened by the experience of too lax a federal system, to birth the Constitution in a similar process. In both cases the outcome was not known in advance; all sides took the risk to show up, air differences, find commonalties and forge a solution that worked best for all.  In both cases no side came away with everything they wanted, but all sides came away with enough to make the change desirable. In both cases we succeeded in making improvements, yet failed to address all the issues at hand.  Slavery turned out to be too contentious an issue to be resolved through negotiation, and eventually became the crux of the bloodiest war this nation has ever known.  What we could not resolve through principled debate got decided in a manner we never want to experience again.

The second reason to use guiding principles is that the current environment of partisan posturing does not work.  When every debate is framed to highlight opposing points of view, the more extreme the positions get the most media attention; they stir the drama, promote division and diminish the opportunity to come to agreement.  Our current political process is grinding down the fabric of this land.  It is diminishing our stature in the world, creating economic havoc and disengaging our citizens.

One of the most often used strategies for a person running for Congress is to run ‘againstWashington’, based on the premise that people in the Heartland disdain our Capital.  After cycling 3,000 miles through the Heartland I am confident this is a misguided strategy.  Americans do not disdain our Capital; we just hate the antics of politicians once they embrace Beltway games.  We love our Capital, but we want it to be strong, vital; we want it to act decidedly and keep our country moving in a confident direction.  We need a Federal Government; that is why we abandoned the Articles of Confederation and adopted the Constitution.   But we want a government equal to our best.  Our country has great problems, and individual Americans have great problems, which I metaphor as our obesity. Yet there are still many of us who are fit, energetic and curious, thrifty and prudent, and even more of us who, given the opportunity and incentive, can muster the discipline to shed our obese tendencies.

We want to reinvigorate this country, we are not afraid of the work required to rally our defining traits of independence, ingenuity and industry.  Our leaders cannot do it, locked in their ideological traps.  But fortunately for us we live in a country where ultimately the government belongs to the people and not the leaders.  It is our right and our privilege to demand that our politicians move away from a culture of division and towards one that triumphs our common interest.  It will require every individual in this country to find his voice and raise it loud toWashingtonuntil every elected official, every bureaucrat and every lobbyist hears our demands; they are so used to talking they barely listen.  We can demand they put aside their bickering, we can demand they work with us.  It is time to move this country forward again, in a direction guided by principle and not by partisanship.  The only way to move forward is together.

 

 

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Pedaling Principles Chapter Seventeen – Entitled to Contribute

Posted on 03/24/2012 by paulefallon

I believe in the adage, ‘We get the government we deserve.’  I do not think it applies to everyone in the world; people living under tyrannical dictators have little choice but to endure until seeds of change can sprout, but in theUnited States, our system gives us enough opportunity to participate that the adage applies.  Yet as I rode through this country I could not help but notice how many citizens do not feel that way.  Government feels foreign; the world seems too complicated for any one individual to affect.  We say we want less government yet virtually all of us have a special interest or compelling need that we want the government to address.  We want the government to be efficient as business but we forget that if the tasks of government were profitable, businesses would do them.  Our government’s job is to address all the things that we as a society want done, efficient or not.  We feel out of control, we grasp for meaning. But unlike other quandaries put forth in this book, getting the government we deserve is not a chicken and egg question, it starts with citizens getting involved and demanding it. It begins with each of us, individually, improving ourselves, improving our families, improving our communities, improving our nation.

A dissonance has developed between our independent character and our burgeoning culture of entitlement.  The old fashioned notion that the government intervenes in emergencies but otherwise citizens shoulder on their own has been replaced by the philosophy that everyone has their hand in the till and, darn it, I want my share.  In the same vein that we cannot continue to borrow money for everything we want forever without one day the bill coming due, we cannot all receive benefits without paying for them.

From my perspective what we are entitled to as citizens of this country is not a benefit or a handout or a tax break.  What we are entitled to is a more supreme privilege; to be active participants in our government.  Billions of people around the world are denied this opportunity, yet so many of us squander it here. At the very least this privilege means that we vote, and vote intelligently.  It means we understand how our government works and that we feel empowered by our ability to be part of the democratic process.  Being part of the process does not insure that our point of view will prevail, but it ensures our voice will be heard and our arguments will be respected.

The path to leaner, more responsive government will not occur through cutting taxes or lopping programs if everyone is intent on extracting her personal share. Only higher debt and greater discord will result from that.  The path to leaner, more responsive government will only occur when individuals realize that it is a privilege to contribute to the common pool.  When people prefer to stand on their own two feet rather than lean against someone else with their hands out.  Just as a consumer-based economy will not find balance, so to a consumer-based government will never achieve equilibrium.  The objective of government is not to dole out benefits to individuals.  The objective of government is to manage the system of rules, shared property, and common interests we develop to shape our society.  When those rules warrant actions to help individuals in need, the elderly, children, disaster victims, whomever, we bestow benefits to certain individuals, but the benefits are the expression of our collective interest, not the reason for government.

The most distressing and ubiquitous condition I observed as I travelled this country was the epidemic of obesity.  I believe there is a link between the dissonance we have with our government and the dissonance we are creating within our own bodies.  Our government is bloated, alien and unresponsive, and so are we.

Perhaps I could have observed analogies of related traits; drinking or smoking, promiscuity or depression.  But no other disability is growing so quickly or, to be frank, so visibly, as obesity.  Fat people are everywhere in America.  I also have a personal relationship with the obesity epidemic because I was a fat child.  I suffered the awkwardness of not being able to keep up with others, of being unattractive and uncomfortable in my too ample skin.  On the flip side, as an average sized adult I decided that I wanted to lose the cushion around my middle and in the past three years I have lost twenty pounds through exercise, improved diet and healthier habits.  Neither of these experiences makes me a candidate for a makeover reality show.  Still, what I gained in the process was more than looser fitting jeans.  I gained discipline, confidence, and the understanding that although I cannot control every aspect of my life, I have more control than I previously understood.

These days I weigh 160 pounds or so.  I can’t imagine getting down to 150, but then again, when I weighed over 180, 160 seemed like a fantasy.  I still eat everything I did before; just less of it.  I accept hunger as a feeling that occurs during my day, like being drowsy or energetic or thirsty or full. When I am hungry I eat, but not always right away. Sometimes I let hunger linger; it does not always have to be satiated on demand. When I feel hunger I become more aware of my body, I observe the hollow in my stomach, I contract my abdomen, reveling in the taut middle that used to be spongy.  I embrace hunger; I learn from it, and eventually I satisfy it, both with nourishing food and my own penchant for sweets.  I am not about to starve, or even compromise my productivity by allowing a hunger craving to linger.  Hunger is a messenger telling my body it will need food; it is not a dictator with immediate needs.

Having been fat and now thin; being very conscious of what I eat and how I exercise makes obesity an issue I can relate to at a personal level. I have experienced alcohol and cigarettes and inhaled a few illegal drugs, but they never registered as more than incidental experiences in my psyche.  My addictive streak runs through food; what I just ate and what I will soon eat are never far from my mind.  My attention to food, and its corollary of exercise, is ever present. I have learned to ward off the immediate gratification of that brownie with the disciplined understanding that the brownie does not serve my long tern interests well.  I still eat brownies, and I enjoy them; actually I enjoy them more than I did before because now a brownie it is a treat in the fullest sense of that word.  I have learned to eat enough food to sustain my body and to understand that like so many other aspects of life, enough is actually better than more.

As a nation, we have not grown fat and happy, we have grown fat and unhappy, and neither characteristic is attractive.  Obesity is the physical manifestation of being disconnected, from ourselves, from our families, from our community, from our national identity, and from our country.  This is logical since obese people create an internal schism between their bodies and their selves; many are so big they cannot actually ‘feel’ their physical extents, others simply refuse to recognize that giant mass in the mirror, that bulk that causes so much lethargy and strain, as an integral part of their being.  We only have one body; it is the vessel God gave us to carry our spirit.  Yet millions of us are abusing our bodies and then pointing beyond ourselves to assign blame for our discomfort.

The alarming disregard for our physical bodies that I witnessed in my travels filters through every topic I mused upon during my journey.  There are the obvious connections. Our national weight problem is tied to the foods we eat, how we manufacture them, how we price them, and how we deliver them; to our sedentary lifestyles dependent on driving, and to the astronomical healthcare costs associated with so many obese people.  Then there are the less obvious relationships.  As we grow obese we have less control over own bodies and compensate by seeking greater control over others; obesity breeds intolerance. When we are fat we have less energy to do physical work, and some studies indicate obesity adversely affects intelligence as well.  Obese people suffer social rejection; make less money than healthier people and live shorter lives.  Eventually I came to understand obesity not as a singular problem but as a syndrome that drains us of vitality and wellbeing.  It obstructs our independence.

I believe our inherent drive to be independent is a positive force among Americans.  Being independent means that we can do many things for ourselves and have choices about how and when we interact with others.  It means we affect the shape of our own lives, have some control over the events around us and perhaps even guide those events.  Sure, stuff happens that we cannot control; hurricanes, floods and earthquakes, car accidents, disease, downsizing, and death.  Even the most prepared of us experience unexpected events.  But the reality is, accidents happen less to people who drive defensively, disease occurs less in people who nurture their bodies and spirits, downsizing is less catastrophic for a person with good education and flexible skills, and death occurs later to those who lead a healthy life.  Mother Nature’s treachery is so far beyond our control all we can do is respect it, which is appropriate because no matter how advanced we may think we are, we are still just another species on this amazing planet.

The key to being truly independent is not to control everything, but to control enough.  To have a hand on the tiller of our destiny so that maneuvering the currents and storms is an adventure more often than it is a tragedy.

Independence cannot be achieved without personal responsibility.  Our society offers more opportunity for independence than any on earth.  Our system of government ensures it, our open markets, free education, and abundant resources foster it.  True, two hundred years ago the independence afforded by an emerging nation was greater than it is today, but that was the past.  Measured in the present, our country still offers more independence than any other, which is why despite our problems, immigrants clamor to come here.

It is disheartening to see so many Americans abdicate our independence by allowing obesity and its attendant challenges to infiltrate our bodies.  It is even worse to see how we gain weight and lose esteem, gain weight and lose confidence, gain weight and lose mobility until we metastasize from independent spirits to victims who have abdicated control of our most personal possession, our own body.  Responsible, independent people suffer setbacks, make poor judgments, and have bad luck, but that does not make them victims.  Victims think they have no choice; that everything is beyond their control.  And they are wrong.  No one in this country has unfettered choice, but all of us have some choice. Every day every one of us decides whether to watch TV or take a walk, whether to eat a cruller or a banana, whether to complain about a problem or act on it, whether to extend an empty hand expecting someone else to fill it or extend a hand nourished by our national resources to lift up someone less fortunate, whether to seek alms from the common pool or contribute to it.

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