MorningBird

Hang-up on Spanish

The Spanish language is in the spotlight. Last month The U.S. Senate passed the immigration-reform bill (S.2611), including a provision declaring English the official national language of the United States. As I write this, there is a similar bill working its way through the House of Representatives (HR 5456). A lot of Americans, including me, are concerned that we are headed for a language duopoly, hence the flurry of activity on Capitol Hill.

Others pooh-pooh that notion and point to past generations of non-English speaking immigrants, primarily Europeans, whose offspring mastered the new language within a generation. But we did not genuflect before the Italian language; or the German language, or the Polish language. One could argue that learning the language of the land allowed the children of those immigrants to quickly move into the mainstream of society; and commerce.

But those immigrants arrived here legally. They were above board, and they jumped through hoops to become naturalized citizens. Now we have a flood in the Rio Grande; a flood of bodies. Never before have so many come so fast, and never have so many illegal immigrants crossed our border, doomed by their unauthorized entry to remain in the shadows. Remember when Jimmy Carter opened the door to Cuban's wanting to flee Fidel's iron hand? And Fidel opened the jailhouse doors and loaded the boats with criminals; remember that? I'm not suggesting that President Fox is pulling a Fidel, but you know there are a fair number of criminals among the hordes of people coming across our southern border. From the shadows to the shadows.

Spanish language newspapers, TV and Radio networks proliferate in the U.S. and they serve to isolate non-English speaking Mexicans even more. Why should they learn English? But why should we be concerned? I don't have to talk to the guy who mows my grass; if I have a complaint I go to his supervisor. And the guy who mows my grass does not have to communicate with me, because that same supervisor insulates him.

It's not hard to understand the motivation behind this flood. Jobs. Apparently there are no jobs in Mexico for these people; or if there are jobs, they do not pay a living wage. And so they come here, take jobs American's do not want (so they say) and send a large part of their earnings back across the border (over $20 billion in 2005). And so, let's assume for a moment that we could find all of them, and load them onto buses and airplanes, and send them home. All 10 million of them; or 15 million; or 20 million, depending on which estimate you believe. What would happen to Mexico's economy? Would that loss in income usher in another left-wing dictator as in Cuba and Venezuela? And then what? Nationalization of GM and Ford plants? Coca-Cola? More oil spikes?

We've allowed a cancer to metastasize before our eyes, afraid to go to the doctor, because we fear the cure more than the disease. Who would harvest our crops? Who would mow our grass? Who would clean our offices? Who would baby-sit our children?

Government--at all levels--contributed to this. Our schools permit Spanish-speaking students to use their English language deficiency as a crutch. We do not force them to learn English as a primary language, and in some school districts, not even as a second language. So much for the second generation learns English theory. In those communities, Spanish rules.

Election ballots are printed in Spanish (and dozens of other languages). What is that about? Doesn't a naturalized citizen have to learn English before they take the oath? Who are these people who vote in another language? Why do we allow that?

I could go on and on about the government's enabling policies and procedures, but government is not the problem. The government is a follower, not a leader. Governments typically react after the fact. They are ponderous, and for good reason.

Commerce is to blame. Without jobs there would be no immigration problem. Forged documents and no documents are the norm. Who checks papers? Who cares? OK, I can empathize with that. You have a business to run and a job you can't fill with legal applicants. You learn about a pool of immigrant workers--day laborers--and you do what you have to do. Meanwhile, the government looks the other way. This is how we got here; it happens hundreds of thousands of times every day and the result is that we have an underground pool of millions of illegal workers. The government ignores their presence, but their needs are not ignored; they are blessed with security blankets for medical care, education, driver's licenses, etc.

But here is my real gripe. The Captains of Commerce have endorsed the Spanish language. What is the first thing you hear when you call your cellular company, your rental car company, or your airline? "Press 1 for English, or 2 for Spanish." The business world has capitulated; greed rules. I suppose we should be grateful that English is the first option. How long will that last?

It's one thing to hire them. It's another thing to put their language on par with ours. We need to hang-up on Spanish.

CARLESS

I discovered something recently; a car is a very expensive appliance. When I went hiking last fall for two months, I put my car in storage--it is still there. How did that happen? Well, I stored the car in Delaware, about an hour from Philadelphia, and when I returned from the hike, days before Thanksgiving, I didn't need a car for the holiday, and so I left it there. The days turned into weeks--and I didn't miss it. And then it was XMAS and I was on my way to Houston for the holidays.

When I returned from Houston, I was weaned. This is not an inconvenient dilemma for me, because I reside only two blocks from the bus stop. The bus takes me to the King of Prussia mall--the largest retail space in America--in a mere ten minutes, and to downtown Philadelphia in 45 minutes. And because of my age, it's free. And I can read the newspaper on the way. And there is no parking tab to pay--and no parking tickets. And once I get to Philadelphia, the subway is free, and the regional trains are only a dollar. Old age has a few benefits (but off hand, I can't remember another one).

I checked on my car last week and she was still there. I started her up, charged the battery and then I said bye-bye--again. For how long I don't know. And so, here I am, still without wheels. A dull and colorless story no doubt, but do you know what I discovered? This: without a car, I spend a lot less money.

An auto is the retail devil's friend. Once I get in the car, there are unlimited opportunities to get in trouble. And it's insidious; I come home and my pockets are filled with little-bitty receipts--Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, the convenience store, the pharmacy, the diner, etc., etc., etc....and they add up to $100! I must have enough Radio Shack batteries to launch the next shuttle.

And do you know what the most expensive by-product of owning an automobile is? Wasted time. The time spent behind the wheel, motoring here and there on mundane errands to the same places I went to yesterday....and the day before. I have more time now. (Whether or not I have anything useful to fill it with, is another question.)

I'm pretty happy without my car. My wife hates it! You know why? Because now she has to run her own errands. Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha...

YOU WANT PRIVACY?

I was born into a world of party line telephones.  My family shared a telephone line with our neighbors in a rural community of 1,500 people.  If I wanted to call my friend Jimmy, I walked over to the only phone in the house, removed the earpiece, held it to my ear, and spoke into a microphone located in the base station.  Base station is a 20th Century word, and I use it here, only because I can’t remember what we called that part of the telephone; probably nothing, the whole thing was simply the telephone—and it was big. 

There was no rotary dial and no keypad.  I would listen to see if anyone was on the phone, and when I heard voices, I hung up (most of the time).  But if I recognized one of the voices, I might join the conversation.  If the line was silent, I simply waited for Mabel, the telephone operator, to answer, and then I would say,  “Mabel, would you connect me with Jimmy, please?”  (I had only to use Jimmy’s first name, because Mabel knew that Jimmy Bevans was the only Jimmy in my life.) And depending on Mabel’s mood and workload, I might have a conversation with her, before she connected me to Jimmy’s house.

Then I would listen for two rings that meant the telephone was ringing in the Bevans house. Of course it was also ringing in the other houses that shared that telephone line with Jimmy’s house, but two rings meant it was for the Bevans family, and the other subscribers on that line, were not supposed to pick up.  Most of the time they did not ’t, but you could never be sure.  In that telephone age, privacy was a foreign word. 

It was the 1940’s; America was fighting the largest war in the history of the world and there was no privacy on the telephone, but not because the government was listening—our neighbors were.  And nobody seemed to care.

Later, my family got a private telephone line, which meant two things. 1) When the phone rang, we did not’t have to count the rings; we knew it was for someone in our house, and 2) we knew that nobody was listening to the conversation; not even on another phone in the house, as inside wiring was yet to come.  The introduction of the private telephone line is a forgotten event, buried by the technological Tsunami that engulfed the globe after WW II, but it was a serious milestone, because it extended the intimacy of private conversations beyond the physical realm.

Fast forward to 2006.  Today, we can’t get away from the telephone—ours or someone else’s.   Telecommunications is the new subculture.  Wire line phones, cordless phones, cellular phones, satellite phones, VoIP phones, smart phones, flip phones, throw-a-way phones, family plans, prime-time minutes, weekend rates, ring tones, prepaid plans, roll-over plans, two-year contracts; it can make you dizzy to think about it.

A typical worker in the industrialized world has at least three telephone numbers—and three telephones: a home phone, a cellular phone, and another phone at work. Much of the equipment and the services are incompatible.  For example, cellular phones and land line phones are not interchangeable; they only work on their networks.  And land line service and cellular service—minutes and plans—are contractually dysfunctional.

But that’s only one side of the coin.  Now that the Internet is telephone friendly, the hot buzzword is connectivity. Say what? You only want to talk on your phone?  Get with it, man!  Instant messaging, text messaging, emailing, music downloads, video downloads, built-in cameras and podcasting are the digital telephone’s fast lanes.  And it’s all about sharing: Sharing favorite photos, favorite music, favorite bookmarks, favorite friends, favorite this, favorite that…and we’re concerned about privacy?

Meanwhile, we have Google, Yahoo!, MSN, and this-and-that search engine, all capturing everything about us—forever—including our mobile forays.  Our cookies broadcast every click.

We’ve come full circle, my friends. Welcome back to the party line. 

KATRINA ONE WEEK LATER

I watched the disaster on TV last week.

The authorities looked helpless—all of them. The Mayor of New Orleans pointed a finger at everyone but himself. The Governor of Louisiana looked like a deer in the headlights, and the Director of FEMA seemed to be on another planet. Where was Rudy when we needed him?

Meanwhile, Texas, first in executions, last in education and largest in hearts, opened it’s arms and said, “Come on in, we’ll take care of you.” Houston absorbed over 100,000 refugees and thousands of other homeless victims were shunted off to other Texas communities. San Antonio even volunteered to house the impotent New Orleans Saints, a sacrifice they will surely regret.

Sunday night, 60 Minutes had its “get even for Dan Rather” moment when Scott Pelley fawned over the hapless, helpless Mayor of New Orleans. This was not an interview, but a sugarcoated attempt to focus the blame on anyone and everyone—read George W. Bush—but the city and the state. But it is obvious the mayor and the governor failed their constituents in the days leading up to Katrina and CBS can’t cover that up; the dozens of inquiries and commissions to come will reveal that. Today New Orleans looks like Haiti, but what do you expect from the Banana Republic of Louisiana?

One week after the storm, I awoke on Labor Day morning to an NPR newscast from New Orleans. In the background I heard music and the tinkling of ice. A bar in the French Quarter was open for business. (Did it ever close?) The bartender was selling alcohol and giving away water. The Big Easy is down, but don’t count her out.

WHO IS GUARDING OUR BORDERS?

The 9/11 terrorists arrived in the United States by air, and performed their awful deeds in the air. Since that day, the American aviation system has been in a state of high alert.

There are five ways to enter the United States. You can drive, fly, sail, swim, or walk in. What are we doing to protect the other gateways?

After flying, driving might be the most inspected mode of entry. Travelers and vehicles enter this country through border stations operated by the Department of Homeland Security, where Customs agents inspect passengers, vehicles, personal property, passports, and other documentation. Reportedly, there are a handful of unofficial entry points on the Canadian border manned by private security guards.

Visitors, who sail to the U.S., arrive on cruise ships, cargo vessels, ferries, charter boats and privately owned vessels. Customs procedures vary as to vessel type, point of entry and other variables. Container ships offer plentiful opportunities for stowaways. And there are thousands of miles of shoreline stretching from Maine to Mexico on the east, and Washington to Mexico on the west, including thousands of inlets where a small boat can put ashore.

Swimming is another way to get here. Passengers may be transported by vessel until close to shore, where they are put overboard, and using an inflatable raft or scuba gear, simply float ashore. Again, the thousands of miles of unprotected shoreline make this an inconspicuous option. Mexico, Canada, Cuba, and the Bahamas are convenient launching pads for this type of entry.

The U.S. coastline is porous and the U.S. Coast Guard, mysteriously mired in the Department of Transportation, does not have the resources to cope.

Yet, with a 2,000 mile land border on the south and almost 4,000 miles on the north, simply walking in may be the easiest way to enter the United States.

In the south, the government cannot, or will not, stop the flow of illegal immigrants from Mexico. To the north, Canada gets even less attention, and its rough and remote geography offers a safer environment for slipping across undetected.

I am not a Homeland Security or Homeland Defense expert, and it is not my intention to examine the convoluted reasons for our porous borders; however, we now face a new kind of illegal alien, one who is coming here not to work for us, but to kill us.

I have an idea for plugging our borders, and it is free; the resources are already on the U.S. Government payroll.

Once a year 1.2 million Reserve and National Guard troops go away for two-weeks of active duty drills. Some units go the same place year-in and year-out; others go to different locations. The destination is a function of their mission in coordination with the military command structure, but my point is this: they all go somewhere for two weeks. Once a year, Army, Air Force, Marines, and Navy personnel get into their jeeps, trucks, buses, boats and aircraft and go off to hone their skills.

Why not deploy them to guard our borders for that two-week period?

The 9/11 Commission asked the question, “Who is responsible for defending us at home?” And the answer was, “Our national defense at home is the responsibility, first, of the Department of Defense and, second, of the Department of Homeland Security.”

1.2 million troops, deployed on a rotating two-week duty cycle on the borders with Mexico and Canada would provide a constant contingent of approximately 45,000 personnel. (1) That assignment would be more than a training drill for them; they would be our first line of defense. Can there be a more important mission than that? And since those two-week exercises are already budgeted, the incremental cost to U.S. taxpayers would be minimal.

(1) The war in Iraq put an enormous strain on Reserve and National Guard resources, and I am not ignoring the dilutive effect that war would have on this proposal. Obviously, Reserve and National Guard commanders would consider active-duty cycles when scheduling summer drills.

GOODBYE MRS. ROBINSON

I have never known a religious Jew, but I knew a Jewish girl that could take you to heaven with a kiss. Her name was Nikki Polychron and she operated in a high school social set apart from mine. She was beautiful and I was afraid of her, but I got up the nerve to approach her at the Senior Prom. I have never forgotten that kiss.

Jewish women are a mystery to me. On the one hand, they have a reputation for being domineering and whiny. On the other hand, for me anyway, they ooze sexuality. I picture all Jewish women with thick, long, black hair and a ribald sense of humor—like Mrs. Robinson.

I always thought Anne Bancroft played herself in "The Graduate"—strong, sassy, sexy and funny. Who else could spend a lifetime with Mel Brooks?

INVESTING IN A DIGITAL AGE

Goodbye Sambuca

My friend Sambuca died last night. His mother, Debbie Lakoff, checked him out of the hospital earlier in the day so that he could spend his last hours at home with his family. He walked into the house and laid down in the living room, not bothering to go upstairs, as if he knew it was time to let go of his old, worn-out body.  It was harder for us to let go of him.

Sambuca was a young spirit trapped in a senior citizen’s body, and his big heart was strong to the end. He had only one request, a serving of his favorite dessert, Frosty Paws, and then he rested while we said our tearful goodbyes. Kind and dignified to the end, he looked at us with forgiving eyes as if to say, “It’s OK.” 

 I knew Sambuca for five of his thirteen years. He was a goofy, playful, kind, gentle, loving, and faithful dog; all heart, a typical Labrador retriever. I loved him. He brought joy to everyone who met him and I believe his spirit will be with us forever.

IT'S TOO QUIET

This week the world will focus on burying a Pope.  And after that, the election of his successor.  That will keep us preoccupied for most of April.

Meanwhile, the Israeli’s and Palestinians are playing kissy-face.

Syria is making plans to march out of Lebanon.

From Kabul, that Democratic corral surrounded by Afghanistan, we hear nothing.

Iraq is actually forming a government.

The crazy man in North Korea is nowhere to be seen.

The Chinese are too busy emulating Taiwan to attack Taiwan.

Egypt had elections?

Be alert.  It’s too quiet.

My Religion

I think I have finally come to grips with religion.  (No, no, this is not about reserving a seat in Heaven.)

I was raised in the Southern Baptist Church, which at that time was the leading Christian denomination in the South; maybe it still is.  I hated it.  Later, as a young man, I turned away from that church and from religion in general.  And as I got older and observed the pettiness, contentiousness, and outright hostility between competing religions, I turned away from God.

After that, when asked about my beliefs, my public stance ranged from no comment to agnosticism.  Now I vacillate between agnostic and atheist, depending on the audience and whether or not I want to have a serious discussion about the subject or simply blow them off.

For me, it seems ludicrous to believe in anything after death, and yet I am not proactive about it.  In other words it is not important for me to convince you of that.  I think that probably disqualifies me as a certified, card-carrying atheist.  Ambivalent is a better word for me.

And yet the past few years have found me silently—more that silently—defending religion.  The fundamentalist religion—and all religions—I rejected as a young man are under siege.  Secularism, of which I am a believer, has been taken hostage by liberal elitists.  Values that this country was founded on, e.g., The Pledge of Allegiance, and The Ten Commandments have been pushed aside.  For what?

The Pope died today. You know what I think?  I think he is dead.  But what a life! 

Pope John Paul II was more than the leader of his Church.  He was a towering beacon for morality, ethics and charity and he touched millions of people around the world, including me. 

But every day there are millions of other good deeds performed by good people in the name of God.  It shouldn’t matter who gets the credit, be it Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, or one of the 5,000+ other known religions in the world today.

As for me, I’ve made my peace with religion.  I think it is a good thing, just not for me.