Do Talk To Strangers

In November 2014, two children belonging to Alexander and Danielle Meltiv were picked up by police officers while walking home from a park a third of a mile from their home at 5 p.m. The authorities did not contact the parents about the whereabouts of their kids until three hours later and would only release the children into their custody after they had signed a "temporary safety plan" promising not to leave their children unattended.[1]

There is a big problem with perception vs reality in the United States today. I'm talking now, specifically, about the misinformed and idiotic trend toward reporting, arresting, and charging parents with child endangerment for allowing their kids to play outside unsupervised. Given the reality of the risks involved, this embarrassing state of affairs constitutes a true tyranny of ignoramuses in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

In the US, a child aged 14 or younger is more likely to die of a sudden, unexpected heart attack than to be abducted by a stranger. We have 60 million kids in this age group[2] and, in the latest year of compiled statistics, 115 of them were abducted by strangers.[3] That works out to a 0.00019% chance that, in a given year, a child aged 14 or younger will be abducted by a stranger. In fact, you are more likely to find a child dead of accidental drowning in a bathtub than you are to have him or her abducted by a stranger in any given year.

The most laughable (and tragic) misunderstanding of these odds is that many people feel that exposure to society is more dangerous for kids today than it was 20, 30, or 40 years ago. But this is not the case. From 1990 to 2007, for instance, "substantiated cases of child sexual abuse have declined 53% and physical abuse substantiations have declined 52%."[4] Rape, attempted or completed, against children fell a further 43% from 2003 to 2011.[5]

I could launch here into an exposition about why more people today are more likely to imagine that American society is more dangerous than it was in previous decades. But I'm not going to do that. It would only give a false air of legitimacy to the perpetrators of this trend. In the end, it is an uninteresting mystery to solve -- in the face of the active curtailment of liberty that is going on due to the breathless intervention of uninformed busy-bodies.

It really just comes down to this for parents: are you going to be influenced more by the true facts of the world or by fear of looking bad to people who are going to judge you regardless of how well you take care of your children? And to law enforcement, the courts, and the various child protective services agencies out there we need to say, "Enough is enough." What happened to the Meltiv family in Maryland should never happen to any family.

[1] Slate.com story about the Maltivs
[2] 2013 US population numbers by age range, US Census Bureau
[3] May 2013 Washington Post opinion piece by the director of the Crimes Against Children Research Center at the University of New Hamshire
[4] Trends in Childhood Victimization, Crimes Against Children Research Center, University of New Hamshire
[5] Free Range Kids.com crime statistics page

Announcing My Name Change

On this day, January 13, 2014, the day before I achieve 46 years on the earth since my birth -- I discard all names previously given to me or taken by myself and I choose and embrace a new name, Mark Donohue Valor.

tldr; Because I can; because the new name pleases me.  All the world's a stage, and I have changed my stage name.

To the more interested:  One year ago, I journaled that, on the way to embracing Transcendentalism (the affirmation that everything is eternal spirit, with the physical world as a transient illusion), I discovered that Materialism (the affirmation that everything is physical, with the spiritual world as a transient illusion) was the underlying reality of the universe.  I've had 12 months to try out this mental 'suit of clothes'.  Each passing day since has served only to strengthen this conviction.  In the English summary of the ancient words of the Roman poet Lucretius: "There are atoms, and the void, and nothing else".  Far from bringing any sense of depression or despair, this understanding has opened up a new and exciting life of wonder, joy, and personal growth for me.  I wholeheartedly embrace it and already inject it into every expression of what I say, do, and create.  I am such a different person today than I have been in the preceding two decades that it would rather be a fraud NOT to express myself by changing my name.

Honestly, I never was a "Buddy", a "Bernard" or a "Bernie" in my own mind.  Loving, wonderful people hung these monikers on me to give me a good start in life.  Each of these names has served to identify a particular epoch of my life through the years as I worked through important transitions -- from the meek child, to the scrappy young man elbowing his place at life's table, to the hopeful seeker of profound meaning.  I freely confess that each of these past phases of my life has taken longer, far longer, than it has for some of my contemporaries.  Yet, at each transition, I wrung more and more traces of magical thinking from the fabric that is my life.

And further:  When I was young, my family used to travel to Indiana in a motor home to watch auto races.  The very first 'idol' I ever had in my life was a thrilling race car driver named Mark Donohue.  He dominated every racing circuit he drove in.  He fundamentally changed the rules of racing with his knowledge of physics and his willingness to tinker and experiment with the mechanics of his racing cars.  The title of his autobiography is "Unfair Advantage".  He died as he lived while practicing for the Austrian Grand Prix in 1975, immortalized at the top of his game like Bruce Lee, Jimi Hendrix, and Buddy Holly  To this day I am moved and inspired by his life.

If you insist on calling me by the name you knew when you first met me, I'm probably not going to knock myself out correcting you.  Those who matter most to me understand that this is just as big an event for me as someone else's christening or marriage.

Celebrating My Mother's Life, 26 Years After Her Death

26 years ago on a Friday the 13th, I was at a rehearsal for a Christmas play at Jimmy Swaggart Bible College in Baton Rouge, Louisiana when the Dean of Male Students interrupted us to escort me back to his office. Nothing could have prepared me for that call from my sister, informing me that our mother, Norma Jean "Stormy" Falor, had died.

She was a fighter. She was a crier, She waited tables to put herself through secretary school after dropping out of high school to elope with her sweetheart in the Air Force and then facing the disappointment of divorce It was as a waitress that she met my father. After getting a break to join the steno pool at Toledo Edison, she worked her way up all the way to Executive Secretary to the President. (All while helping my dad produce his Masters thesis.) When John Williamson would fret and fume over corporate difficulties, she would take him by the arm and lead him to the glass walls of his 15th-story office, point to the streets of downtown Toledo below, and say, "Look at all those people walking around down there, Mr. Williamson, just as if the world weren't coming to an end!"

When I was born, the doctor had to inform her of my heart defect, warning her that I might not make it to infancy when surgery would be possible. She looked him in the eye and said, "Bet me!" She made many mistakes, some of which (drinking and smoking) drove me from her home and put her in an early grave. But none of that can ever blot out my admiration of her, my gratitude for all she was and did for me, or the sweet sorrow I feel that she did not live to see me come into my own and lead an extraordinary life.

I've lived more years, now, without her in this world than with her. Yet the memories and the love remain strong. I know she would be proud of me. The occasion of today's anniversary gives me the opportunity to express publicly, "I'm proud of you, Mom and I celebrate the brief, dazzling spark that was your life."

Losing An Uncle, Gaining A Family

I'm not sure why it takes a death in the family to spur us to reconnect with loved ones we've lost track of, but that's what the last few days has been like for me. My beloved Uncle Stan died on Valentine's day and I traveled to his part of the country to attend the memorial service held in his honor last weekend.

Stan lived a long and interesting life and he was rich in the areas that count most, love and life experiences - as well as being well off materially. Like a star, his homestead attracted the nearby dwelling places of his natural and extended families. His own fascinating house commands an incredible view at the top of a low summit aptly named "Love's Hill". It's tempting to write about the cool cars he drove and raced, his pilot's license, his professional ascent to Chief of Medicine at the hospital where he worked, as well as the less auspicious but satisfying medical work he did at local schools and prisons. My dad says that his brother "Wanted to do everything, try everything." It's pretty clear from my life history that I inherited that part of the family's genetic sequence myself.

Whether it was the turbulent transition from the sixties to the seventies or personal transitions in their own lives, my father and uncle left the wives of their 20s and 30s at a similar time, stranding cousins and aunts from the regular contact that would have happened if it had not been so. We all went by nicknames back then. I was "Buddy" (Bernard II), Stan Jr. was "Chummy", and his brother John was "Johnny". My paternal grandparents were a hub of occasional re-uniting, and it was always fun to get together. Well fun for me anyway, I was the youngest of us three. I'm sure I was a bit of a pain in the butt to Chummy and Johnny, but it was the good kind of pain in the butt - they got back at me whenever we went outside and played catch. Guess who got to be the eternal and everlasting monkey in the middle? Good times.

And then the inevitable high school commencements and goings out into the world, some to college, some to the military. We were spread out all over the country. Every once in a while one of us would make an effort and re-establish contact. But like in the parable of the sower, "the cares of this world" took their toll and it would often be years before we would hear from one another.

So last weekend, I got the chance to hug the necks of some dear people I hadn't seen in a good long while, not just Chummy and Johnny and their mother, but Stan's second family and friends of the family as well. Miss Baltimore came with me (I had been visiting her for Valentine's weekend when I got the news) and it was a delight to introduce her to them and vice versa. It felt so good to be so connected again after all the years. I hope we all make the effort to keep in touch and visit from time to time.

Why Adults Don't Get Star Wars Movies

In 1977 I was nine years old. The country was "going to hell in a handbasket" (according to my grandparents) with stagflation, the specter of nuclear holocaust, ERA, communism knocking on the door of Latin America, and gasoline approaching $1.00 per gallon. My father occasionally taught a weekend seminar at a hotel in my home city and there was a movie theater next door to the hotel. While he led the seminar I would either hang out at the hotel pool with other kids or go watch movies.

At nine, I wasn't too conscious of mass marketing. To be honest, I don't believe I had heard much about the release of the original Star Wars movie before I wandered over to the theater that Saturday. I most likely chose to see it at the time because it was the next film available on the viewing schedule. I sat down and after the previews and then the 20th Century Fox logo, I thought it odd that the movie soundtrack hadn't come on when the text appeared on the screen:

A Long Time Ago In A Galaxy Far Far Away...

I considered, briefly, whether to go out and tell someone that the sound wasn't working, when suddenly

**** BLAST ****

From the instant that John William's score assaulted my ears until the credits rolled 121 minutes later, I was rapturously transported to a world of magic, destiny, adventure, and danger. A world where an insignificant boy from the boondocks of his social order was inexplicably selected by fate to save all that was good and right and beautiful from the terrifying forces of evil. I watched that movie three times straight that day and twice again the next day. From that point on, I wanted to BE Luke Skywalker. I swore to my parents and to anyone else who would listen that I could hear the voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi assuring me that the force would be with me always. Luckily for me, this was before the days that mentioning something like that could get a kid prescribed on Prozac or Ritalin.

More than anything, experiencing Star Wars at that time in my life bought me just a few more precious weeks or months of pure, unadulterated childhood from the ever encroaching onslaught of pressure to grow up and be serious - to become yet another one of the lunatics running the asylum of civilized Western life. I would find other children younger than me and play an unnamed game with them that I guess would be called "Clash of the Superheroes" if we had bothered to name it. I'd always let them go first. "Who do you want to be?" I'd ask. "Batman!" or "Superman!" They'd answer. Then it was my turn. "Who are you going to be?" They'd ask. There was always only one answer. "Luke Skywalker." After looking at me like I was the strangest kid they'd ever met, we would begin. I would ALWAYS win. Batman has a hard time throwing a Batarang at you when his arm has been chopped off. And it's difficult for Superman to fly when he's been separated from his legs.

One of the more infuriating conversations of my life happened a few months later with some young adults. They started talking about the movies. Of course I brought up Star Wars. "What a dumb movie!" One of them exclaimed. I was outraged and demanded an explanation. "My college physics professor tore that movie apart. You wouldn't be able to see laser gun blasts as short cylindrical colored bullets of light. And if something exploded in outer space, there would be no flames since it is a vacuum without any oxygen." I tried in vain to argue, but I had nothing to counter their smug scientific facts with. I was heartbroken. It was almost as if someone had tied up Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy right in front of me and then had shot them there at point blank range. But along with this painful disappointment I had a sense that they had somehow completely missed the point. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I felt it very, very strongly.

Time passed and the rest of the original Star Wars movies came and went. 22 years after Episode IV was released, I flew to Austin, Texas to interview with an up-and-coming dot com company called Trilogy. I asked the HR lady about the company's name. "Oh, the founders are big Star Wars fans," she replied. "In fact, the company is going to rent out a movie theater for a special premier of the the new Star Wars prequel that's coming out soon!" Talk about the power of first impressions - I instantly knew this would be a company I'd like to work for. It didn't work out that way for various reasons, however, and Trilogy later became a casualty of the dot com meltdown. When I went to Episode I, though, I became that nine-year old boy once again. I loved everything about it, especially the way young "Ani" was able to destroy the droid control ship by using his instincts to pilot a space fighter for the first time.

Boy was I ever the odd-man out in discussions about the new movie. It seems that Jar-Jar Binks was nearly universally reviled among amateur and professional movie critics. "You can't even understand him!" "Why did he walk in that funny way?" "He didn't even use the English language correctly!" And that same old feeling rose up within me, the one I had felt when the college kids had shot down the original film with the laws of science. Only this time I was far more articulate.

"You're missing the point." I would offer.

"What do you mean? How can you say that to me?" Was the typical response. So I would explain, "Lucas created Jar-Jar's character as a culturally diverse person for a reason. He's showing that people groups with apparently very little in common need to find a way to discover common ground when their mutual interests are threatened. The Naboo and the Gungans were cultures that would not have allied together under normal circumstances." It didn't always endear me to others when I'd point out that the mainstream discomfort at Jar-Jar's dialect and mannerisms could be due to our own Western Caucasian racial hang-ups.

Wait. Stop. Now I had missed the point.

See, I wanted to have a chance to be that kid again and come back with an equally smug and scientific-sounding riposte to the ones who had put down the film I loved in 1977. But in my zeal to do well, I neglected to notice that I had become just like the ones who I felt had wronged me. I was reacting from a position of defensiveness, which (I now understand) typically creates an unintentional feedback loop. By putting out defensiveness, I received defensiveness. These conversations did not usually result in harmony and understanding.

Adults don't get Star Wars movies. They never have. If you were around when the original series came out, think back for a moment. What did your Uncles and older cousins, siblings, and family friends say about them? Nothing encouraging to a child, I'll bet. Even Freddie Mercury sang (in Bicycle Race) "Jaws was never my scene and I don't like Star Wars." It's interesting to be an adult now who was a child back then. Interesting because we don't notice that we are now "them", the ones who put down the original Star Wars movies back in the day. We are no longer nine years old, we are the smug, scientific, socially stratified muckety mucks who want to seem like clever people that can poke holes in other peoples' stories.

The animated feature, "Star Wars: The Clone Wars" was released this weekend. I went and saw it last night. So many kids in the theater. And then the text flashed on the screen. Then the blast. Then the fantasy and adventure, action and thrills. You may read a number of reviews panning the film. It was only rated 27% on rottentomatoes when a co-worker checked there the opening day. Don't you believe it. It's become fashionable to put down George Lucas and claim he has ruined the franchise. But I saw in the faces of the little ones who were filing out of the theater afterward what they must have seen in my face. Wonder, giddiness, and at least one extra day of recovered childhood.