No Non-biological Parents Need Apply

Marriage is about procreation.

That’s what advocates of Proposition 8 said before the Supreme Court to support their case against gay marriage. And that’s what Chief Justice John Roberts seemed to be saying in the questioning at the Supreme Court yesterday. As The New York Times reported: “Chief Justice Roberts said history was on the side of traditional marriage. ‘The institution developed,’ he said, ‘to serve purposes that, by their nature, didn’t include homosexual couples.’”

Justices Stephen Breyer and Elena Kagan pointed out that sterile opposite-sex couples get married and couples beyond child-bearing years get married (the always-tasteful Justice Antonin Scalia joked about Strom Thurmond, who fathered a child in his 70s, but Scalia and Thurmond are exceptions in way too many ways). The questions and answers became quite tortured — not surprising on an issue so emotional and so reflective of people’s values and beliefs.

I have respect for people who feel earnestly on either side of this issue. My own thoughts have changed on gay issues in the past decades.

But two forces cry out here — history, and babies.

Dismissing history as a reason not to allow gay marriage is easy for me. History was on the side of slavery. History was on the side of denying equality to women — history is still there, as we see in the rapes in Egypt, where traditional religious leaders are blaming rapes on women becoming involved in the world outside their homes. History was on the side of Jim Crow and is still on the side of racial, ethnic, religious and gender discrimination.

History is a brute. We shouldn’t be ruled by it. Escaping history is a high calling of leaders and legislatures and courts.

Now, babies. Everybody loves babies. But making babies is not the only reason for committing to a relationship, and asserting that making babies is the only or the most-important reason for marrying is ludicrous and harmful, seems to me.

The presumption that women will create babies can eclipse women’s rights and aspirations and potential. Society has traditionally denied women equal standing in most of human endeavor — governing; running or even participating in the institutions of commercial, civic and social life; working outside the home; being taken seriously — so that women can bear and raise children.

Creating and raising children is holy and admirable. But it is not the only reason women exist.

And — seven billion isn’t enough?

Liberals often complain that conservatives are pro-life until the baby is born. Many of us liberals feel that conservative policies are harmful to children now, and harmful to the future, therefore harmful to our children’s children. (I know, conservatives believe this about our mounting debt, and they are right; we disagree on what to do about it.) But it does seem hypocritical to me to be so selectively concerned about children. Let’s stop debating marriage equality and address instead the devastating and growing income disparity in the U.S. and the world. That’s far more harmful to humanity old and young.

Seven billion isn’t enough? Do we need more kids? I don’t want to sound like Jonathan Swift here, but a modest proposal would say let’s not make growing the world’s population a central goal of our policies.

People get married for many reasons, not just for adding the seven-billion-and-first child to this groaning planet. They get married, mostly, to show love and commitment.

I’ve been married three times. That will disqualify what I say here in some people’s eyes. I get that. But here I go anyway. My first wife and I were too young to be ready for kids, and I wasn’t sure the marriage would last. Good thing we didn’t have kids. My second wife already had children, and I was privileged to be part of their raising. We didn’t need “our own.” My current and last wife, like me, has never felt that having biological children was central to her life. We’ve had the privilege to be involved in raising a niece — not the same as growing a kid from the ground up, but rewarding and challenging and wild.

I’ve entered into each of these marriages with joy and hope and commitment. The first two marriages eroded, and the commitment didn’t last. The divorces were sad and painful. In none of my marriages was the main purpose to create children and raise them to adults. Perhaps that’s why the first two didn’t last, one could argue. But that’s a narrow view of the purpose of marriage, which is my point. Marriage is about two people saying they want to live and grow together, and believing, even if wrongly, that they will do so forever. Marriage strengthens the couple, and strengthens society. And having parents who are in a strong marriage helps kids, no doubt about it. Gay or straight.

But marriage’s sole purpose, even its most important purpose, is not to grow children, seems to me.

And that’s just one of many reasons that gays should be allowed to marry. Period. End of story.

– Bruce Benidt

(Image from babycentre.co.uk)

A New Pope and the Unholy Sea

It’s an interesting coincidence that a new Pope arrives simultaneous with a survey that shows the United States has never had so little interest in organized religion. And that’s here in “The New World”, where despite Constitutional prohibitions against mixing church and state a politician would more likely campaign as a drooling, yellow-eyed pedophile than an atheist or an agnostic.

The study in question, concludes that 20% of Americans no longer have any religious affiliation, (and have no problem saying so), and that among self-described liberals the number spikes to 40%, with only 9% of conservatives admitting to not giving a damn what any minister says on Sundays.

That all feels about right. Although based on my personal bubble culture the no-affiliation/no attendance number probably floats up in the 70-80% range, but only because I’ve learned to trust and enjoy the company of pagans and heathens more.

I was raised Catholic. Not as in wearing horsehair underwear and barbed-wire scapulars. Mom and Dad were more of the small town, “Let’s get dressed up, show our faces and get down to hot pancakes and bacon before the Lutherans break camp” sect of mackerel snappers.

I can tell you the precise moment when “the spirit” of Catholicism left me. It was 1965. I was 14 and still believing what the nuns constantly warned us about. Namely, that if I was having, (or as they phrased it … “entertaining”) “impure thoughts” which, oh yeah, damned straight I was about every sweet and dewy girl in my class, I would for absolute certain writhe in a perpetual furnace of godly retribution … unless I confessed.

But when I tried, in the dark confessional, to an aged, disembodied voice on the other side of the screen, instead of some avuncular bromide about “learning to control our passions”, I got instead a whiff of clerical pederasty. Instead of a penance of a couple “Hail Marys”, I got a wheezy inquisition into exactly what I wanted to do to those tender young things … and to myself, assuming real live girls would remain an elusive prey?

I remember stopping in mid-sentence, processing the blinding realization of what apathetic wretch the guy was, and walking out. I could hear the old guy calling after me.”My son? MY SON?” and then stepping out of his Caligari-like cabinet and scanning the church for the succulent but impudent little pervert who declined the righteous forgiveness of the Lord Almighty.

When our two sons, Uday* and Qusay*, were young and incorrigible we briefly considered “re-connecting” with a parish here in the Twin Cities. That experiment ended on about the third Sunday, when the priest handed the (invariably irrelevant, innocuous and risk-free) sermon over to a local businessman. The guy, tarted up in a $1000 suit (it was the late ’80s) and TV anchor helmet hair, introduced himself as the chair of the newly-created building campaign and, like some Power Point from God, went on for a half hour about the $2 million we rubes were going to be expected to cough up for a new foyer, signage and “community space”.

I believe my first words to my family at that point were, “We’re outta here.” If there was a loose $2 million to be sucked out of that parish, I could come with a list of 2o impoverished Latin American villages and South Dakota Indian reservations that had a more pressing need for the money.

Watching the new Pope do his ritual wave from the balcony at St.Peter’s, I can’t help but be struck (again) by the common miseries of the Catholic church and American conservatives. To reiterate: Aged, predominantly white (to an absurd degree), male (ditto), laden with medieval sexual superstitions, sclerotic responses to science, cultural evolution and the role of women. The Vatican and the Tea Party/Conservative Political Action Conference. Pretty much the same ideological fringy-ness and intellectual intractability. (Although, the cardinals get points for better costuming and pageantry.)

I can still make a case for the role of a massive theocratic infrastructure in the 21st century. But only if that “church” is an indisputable reflection of modern society, with the unimpeachable priorities of re-balancing the distribution of wealth around the world and loudly condemning ideological-inspired warfare and international financial chicanery.

Until that time, (which is a long ways off), I’ll reflect on my innumerable sins while skiing through the forest on Sunday mornings.

* Not meant to be factual statements.

If we had something like Prime Minister’s Questions, Rand Paul wouldn’t have had to hold it for 13 hours

Matthew Feeney at Reason writes:

The recent filibustering of John Brennan’s nomination to the CIA by Senator Rand Paul (R-Ky.) was not only an entertaining and refreshing change to the usual proceedings on Capitol Hill, it also highlighted a deficiency in the American political system, namely that the president does not appear before legislators to take questions. While Rand Paul’s filibuster was an impressive physical and mental feat, I can’t help but think some time would have been saved if we somehow managed to introduce some parliamentary combativeness to the proceedings on Capitol Hill.

Every Wednesday at noon the British prime minister appears before the House of Commons to take questions from members of parliament. The leader of the opposition is granted a certain number of questions every session, and the speaker of the House of Commons calls on other members of parliament (who indicate they would like to ask a question by standing). The practice is part of British political culture and provides an element of theater to British politics that despite at times seeming childish does require that the prime minister be prepared to publically [sic] defend his government’s policies in front of hundreds of unsympathetic colleagues.

‘Tis a familiar refrain.

Where Have All the “Reader Advocates” Gone?

Among the things that continue to amaze me is how little thoughtful, generally well-informed people care about the steady demise of newspapers. It may be that after a half decade or more of hysterical death knells such people have stopped believing the Star Tribunes and Pioneer Presses of the world are really going to go away.

Or … it may be that even the thoughtful and generally well-informed have lost whatever emotional attachment they once had to papers, which is odd considering how the internet with its “comment”-ability would seem to offer more ability than ever for readers to interact — emotionally and otherwise — with those that deliver the news (as those that deliver news define news).

Word that the Washington Post has joined the list of papers dismissing their ombudsman — the allegedly independent voice that both solicited reader complaints and issued a judgment on the quality of the paper’s work –  seems like a good moment to address what’s wrong here. Largely, I’m in agreement with veteran media writer Jack Shafer, who writes:

“As conceived back in 1970, the ombudsman’s job was, in former Post Executive Editor Ben Bradlee’s words, “to monitor the paper for fairness, accuracy, and relevance and to represent the public in whatever strains might arise from time to time between the newspaper and its readers.” (Emphasis added.) The Post ombudsman was “resolutely autonomous,” Bradlee wrote. Working on contract rather than staff, the ombudsman was given the independence to write about whatever he wanted to write about. He couldn’t be assigned. He couldn’t be edited. And he couldn’t be fired …

But the occupants of this perch have generally shied away from using their power to inflict public punishment or embarrassment on the Post.  … No matter what the ombudsman’s background, the tendency has been to pull punches whenever the Post erred. Instead of roasting the paper for its transgressions, the ombudsman could be relied on to sympathize with the hard job of newspapering and gently explain the newsroom’s mistakes to readers. Worse yet, some ombudsmen have played Monday morning quarterback with their columns, detailing from the safe remove from deadline pressure how they would have assigned, reported, written and edited a flawed story had they been in charge.”

You will not be surprised to learn that neither of our two local dailies has ever turned such responsibility over to someone who wasn’t one of their paid and trusted employees, someone who could be counted on to “over”-represent the paper and apply team-think opacity rather than embarrassing transparency.

The reason for papers’ disinterest in the sort of brave and bold oversight Ben Bradlee suggested echoes a couple recent threads here on The SRC. Namely, the discussion after Bob Woodward’s pissy overreaction to a White House e-mail, and our new policy moderating the worst of the trolls.

Point being no one anywhere likes being told, in public, that they’re wrong, or that they’ve screwed-up, least of all journalists. Reporters and editors have extraordinarily high regard for their probity and wisdom, and already feel perpetually embattled by both cloddish know-nothings and smart-ass ideologues eager to witness their final fiery impact.

If there’s a walking hell worse than the person who outs a reporter for laziness, a breach of ethics, or an entire big city paper for timidity in the face of great civic peril, or gross conflict of interests (**VIKINGSSTADIUM!!**) I don’t know what it is. Maybe a snitch in the Baltimore drug trade. The social/professional peril for that person is nigh on to mortal. But it is what has to be risked to be of any real value, if  “reader advocacy” and “transparency” mean anything besides corporate buzz-blather for “return deflective fire”.

The reason neither local paper bothers with even the pretense of formal, regular, ongoing public accountability is that done badly and irregularly, it only serves to feed its enemies, the PowerLines of the world, adversaries determinedly selling the “reckless liberal bias” meme to their retrograde readership.

But that is almost precisely the reason to have a fully independent ombudsman, on duty throughout the day every day, rather than beard-stroking once every other Sunday. Here at SRC and other good blogs (if I must say so myself) our new “moderation” serves first to block out the worst of the socially maladjusted numbskulls, the inflamed clods who soil the punch bowl for everyone involved, while our interaction, generally speaking, has the intended effect of clarifying gaps in our original posts. (It doesn’t always work that way. But then we’re not always sober, unlike everybody working in newspapers.)

If the Star Tribune parked a Ben Bradlee-style ombudsman on its comment lines, sifting through the most trenchant complaint or observations and offering near-real time response, I kinda think the paper would win national kudos for getting its big boy/big girl pants on right and showing genuine courage in the face of enemy fire. Moreover, based on the comments we can all read on the Strib site, the majority of the complaints border on rank, ideological nonsense and can be easily dismissed with withering authority.

On the occasion that the paper or a reporter really shanks one into the woods … well, it’s not like no one noticed, and they only look worse when they send a hapless employee apologist out to explain how tough it is to do “great journalism” under deadline pressure and the vital need to sustain “open lines of communication” with powerful local business interests.

Just as no one gets ‘em all right, the public institutions that try to imply a reputation both beyond and immune to reproach is really only baiting its enemies and dismaying its allies.

Sinkholes, Horror, and Congress

Sinkholes. Sounds like Washington D.C.

In Florida, we have sinkholes that open, gaping, in the ground. Florida is a limestone peninsula riddled with caves and underground streams; as it rains and the limestone melts, open spaces in the rock cave in and the ground collapses.

This week, just east of Tampa, not far from where we live, a sinkhole opened under a house and a man in his bed, with a little of his bedroom furniture, dropped into the hole and disappeared. His body can’t be recovered from the hole, which goes down 50 to 60 feet and continues to grow. As the Tampa Bay Times wrote, “The sinkhole that took Jeffrey Bush’s life will be his final resting place.” It’s shocking. Sinkholes can open up anywhere. Our house is next to an ancient sinkhole that formed a tidal pond connected to the Gulf of Mexico. Another sinkhole could fall in at any time. We have, along with hurricane and flood insurance, sinkhole insurance.

A photo accompanying this story in The New York Times also shocked me. People across the street from the sinkhole house are out on lawn chairs in their front yards, watching the efforts at recovery and looking on as officials inspect and then condemn the house. They seem to be watching it like TV.

It reminds me of a scene in William Faulkner’s The Mansion, one of his Snopes books. A wealthy couple in a small town is getting a divorce, and the husband is moving out. Other townspeople line the fence at the couple’s house, and rural people come on mules and in wagons, to watch. Unashamedly. They just sit there, with picnic lunches, and watch.

During the first battle of Bull Run, people from Washington came out with blankets and picnic hampers to watch the war begin.

How cold to sit and stare at others’ horror.

I mean no disrespect to Mr. Bush when I say it’s too bad a sinkhole doesn’t open up under Congress in D.C. And then I realize that one has. And we’re all unwilling, horrified spectators as our economy falls into the gaping hole caused by Congress’s — mostly Republicans, in my view — shocking irresponsibility.

But I’m not going to pull up a lawn chair to watch McConnell and Boehner and their motley crew sink the country. I’ve seen enough and am turning away from the wreckage and the wreckers.

– Bruce Benidt

(Photo from The New York Times)

Chapter I: How Did I Get Here?

Note to readers:  What can I say?  A lot, apparently.  This started off as a simple post back in January, but it was a slow day on the work front and it was too damned cold to go outside if I could help it.  As a result, I found several hours later that I had run on for better than 3,600 words about how I was a lousy student in college and lived to tell the tale…and I hadn’t even gotten around to getting kicked out the second time or how it came to pass that I did get a college degree.  The first draft was such a hot mess that I let it sit for nearly a month before mustering the courage to come back to it. After looking at it again, I decided that the first part – 2,900 words – was not so much about how I screwed off in college (though there’s plenty of that) as they were a general recounting of how I’ve been “different” from way back. I could – probably should – have simply pitched the whole thing over the side, but since I’d wasted so long writing so much I decided to at least post the somewhat intelligible part as Chapter I of what may – or may not – be a series of posts about my youthful indiscretions (the ones I can cop to anyway).

Readers of a certain age may enjoy the result as a trip back to the 1970s and any parent of any child can now console him or herself with the words, “At least I’m not Austin’s parent.”  No matter what, that’s true.

I mostly look for ways to differentiate myself from David Brauer (and, I suspect, he from me), but I found a kindred spirit in his confessional about his failure to graduate college on schedule back in the 1970s.  In my case, it took 7 years, three institutions and the assistance of an entire village of friends, mentors and family to get one under-achieving slacker his undergraduate degree.  But for that assistance I suspect that I, too, would have been a long time going back to finish.  I’ve bored my family and friends many times by recounting my college career so why not you too.

Oh Please…

Bob Woodward’s hissy fit over being “threatened” by the Obama administration makes me think it’s time for the septuagenarian journalist (he turns 70 in March) to hang up his quill and retire to Martha’s Vinyard or wherever he summers. If he’s serious, he’s lost his taste for blood.  If he’s not serious (and I’m pretty sure he’s not), he’s lost his moves and the game has passed him by.