The Trump Tick

Like a tick, the longer he’s in office the more dangerous he is to our country. Nearly a year into the presidency, he has long since infiltrated the nation’s bloodstream with his poison as he bloats up from gorging on the nation’s fear and stupidity. All in plain sight, yet the country just watches as if they are fixated on a horror film at a theatre—completely detached from reality, entranced and wide-eyed while stuffing popcorn into its own face.

There’s been more than enough rationale to run Trump out of town on a rail long ago. And yet, nearly a year later, there he sits—embedded in the White House like some uninvited, blood-sucking tick. Honestly, I’m a bit worn out by the litany of causes that are asking for my money to fight this Presidency and his Republican-dominated Congress that are so blatantly fucking us over. I’m starting to think that all of this is orchestrated to simply generate money for those who oppose Trump as well, but have no real intention of ousting him. If we haven’t eliminated him by now, something tells me that those who have the power to actually pull it off aren’t truly interested.

So, I’m resigned. Whatever damage, disease, catastrophe we suffer as a result of our current “leader,” we have it coming. We deserve it, and there should be no shock when the other shoe finally drops. Because in the end, we are no better than any other country in the world that has experienced the same in the past.

Step up America, it’s time to get punched in the face really hard (and you thought 9/11 was bad). Congratulations, you’ve earned it.

A White On Whites Challenge

Let’s not kid ourselves here: Anyone that is likely reading this is probably as white as a saltine cracker. This blog is written by a White dude (a border-line, old-White-dude), living in a very dominant White community in a very dominant White state and so if that’s the case, you’re probably White too. That said, this post isn’t for those White folk who reference Blacks (or other minorities) with derogatory/disparaging references, rather it’s for those who find themselves surrounded by such individuals or who have a neutral/say-nothing viewpoint. In essence, this post is especially for all of you Caucasians out there. Nevertheless, any Black folk that accidentally, luckily, or serendipitously stumble on to this, you’re certainly welcome to chime in as well.

So first this: Black lives matter. They really do. They matter as much as the lives of everyone else. And as long as we’re here, BLM does not mean that other lives don’t matter. Rather, in the light of so much injustice to those with darker skin, they matter as much.

That’s the essence of Black Lives Matter in case you missed it. No one ever claimed that it was about “Black lives only matter.” This phrase was coined due to the unjustified and unprosecuted deaths in the Black community carried out by a disproportionate amount of law enforcement officials. Specifically, Black Lives Matter is the response that erupted following the acquittal of George Zimmerman for the murder of Trayvon Martin. Alicia Garza is credited for the phrase in a Facebook post following the news of Zimmerman’s acquittal when she said, “Black people. I love you. I love us. Our lives matter.” From that brief love letter to her own people, one of her friends created the hashtag, and the rest is history.

Further, Black Lives Matter is not only about Blacks, I would argue that it is also a rally cry of all marginalized minorities of color, religion, sexual orientation, etc.

Black lives matter is another way of saying White privilege needs to be reeled in. You don’t have to look too far back in history to find evidence of this—whether it’s armed White dudes taking over a wildlife refuge in Oregon or armed White Nazis and Nationalists marching through the streets of Charlottesville. Anyone who has lived in this country long enough knows that none of that would have unfolded with so few casualties had these groups been African-American or Latino.

As Anglos, it is dire that we not remain neutral or silent—considering ourselves as only spectators in this struggle of social justice. Perhaps we can look to the examples of White NFL players Chris Long (Philadelphia Eagles), Justin Britt (Seattle Seahawks) and Seth DeValve (Cleveland Browns) who have supported, stood next to and kneeled with their Black teammates. In short, we can now factor in these role models of our own as we consider where we stand in this ongoing dialogue—if that’s what it takes.

Consider the words of Seattle Seahawks player Michael Bennett who has chosen to take a knee during the National Anthem this season after experiencing his own taste of racial profiling at the hands of law enforcement in Las Vegas. “It would take a white player to really get things changed. Because when somebody from the other side understands and they step up and they speak up about it. ... it would change the whole conversation. Because when you bring somebody who doesn’t have to be a part of  the conversation making himself vulnerable in front of it, I think when that happens, things will really take a jump.” —Michael Bennett / Seattle Seahawks

And so, here we are at a crossroad where I am asking you to take up my little challenge. You don’t have to take a knee during the National Anthem, march in the streets, or take over a government-run operation.

You see, I have a few of these Black Lives Matter wristbands that are yours to wear if you are up for the challenge. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? But, you know what? I’ve been wearing mine here in Powell, Wyoming (perhaps the most conservative county in the most conservative state of the nation), and I’m still here. And yes, I’m ashamed to say that I’ve even caught myself considering removing the wristband when I’m about to put myself in a setting that might not be too kind to the message’s reception. Yet, I tell myself, those are the times I must keep it on.

Think of this challenge as you’re own little slice of everyday dissidence, or you’re own little silent protest. Yeah, I know, it’s a little uncomfortable at first, but as the quote says on the banner of this blog, “If it’s not at least a bit uncomfortable, it’s probably not real dissidence. Some have stated that they’d rather not be political or controversial when it comes to something like Facebook, and if that’s the case, here’s a way of doing such outside of the Facebook universe. And if you just can’t bring yourself to this challenge, I’ll understand. I’m not going to think any less of you should you not respond, only more respect should you take up the cause.

Should you need inspiration beyond my words, here’s a couple good quotes that might push you over the edge to take up this challenge.

“Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” —Maggie Kuhn

“What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.” —Katherine Fugate.

I would imagine to some extent, Black folk wearing BLM clothing and accessories is practically a necessity or at least, a given. But, it certainly isn’t expected or considered necessary when it comes to those of us with fair skin. However, as I sit here writing this, I’m starting to think that maybe such displays are necessary if we truly believe “all men are created equal.”

Curing Mental Illness vs. Gun Laws with Teeth

“This American carnage stops RIGHT HERE, and stops RIGHT NOW.” —Fuckface von Clownstick.

(And the people clapped)

It’s been well over a week, so it would seem now is good time to start talking about gun laws—before another mass shooting shakes the country to its core again. (Never mind the everyday mass shootings that injure and kill only a handful of our fellow citizens.)

As authorities in law, psychology, and other professions sift through the evidence more than a week after the Las Vegas shooting, everyone remains dumbfounded in the case of Stephen Paddock, the Las Vegas shooter. Even those closest to him (family, the gambling and gun-selling communities) are clueless and never had a vibe regarding his character of darkness that he kept from everyone so well. He certainly was an anomaly, but that’s how distant we are to addressing mental illness as a solution to mass murders. Think about it: its been over a week after the Las Vegas massacre, and we still have zilch.

Its odd that those who advocate curing mental illness is the solution to preventing mass killings, have no particulars when it comes to how we get there. It’s just this vague, clouded idea—much like asking for directions to a location and your told, “Yeah, I know the place, but I’ve never seen it, but if you go up the road a distance, I’m sure you’ll find it.”

This seems like a good place/time to ask why gun violence is always linked to mental illness? I think our society has a tendency to make the two synonymous. As to say, gun violence is the result of mental illness and mental illness is the result of gun violence. One thing to keep in mind—based on research—the overwhelming majority of people with mental illnesses are no more violent than the overwhelming majority of people in general.

Simply stated, the mental health discussion to a safer community that carries firearms is nothing more than a smokescreen for the gun advocates of our society. It’s simply a diversion with an impossible solution that keeps as many people away from talking about real solutions. This is a quintessential example of “kicking the can” down the road.

Can you imagine what advances in mental health it will take to reach a point where outward-appearing everyday guys can be found-out before they reach their inward critical mass to do the unthinkable (which has materialized far too many times)? It will be nothing short of placing mind-readers in gun stores, the workplace, and the homes of everyone who is suspect. 

And how far do we go in lumping the various attributes that lead to violence with mental illness? Most agree that things like schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, and major depression can fall under the mental illness umbrella, but what about those with a history of child abuse, binge drinking, or simply being male—because those things are also linked to violence. Then there are those who have experienced resentment, revenge, social isolation, a tendency to externalize blame, a fascination with violent video games, and a passion for weaponry.

The immediate answer to reducing the number of mass murders in America  isn’t in wrestling and sorting out the far-off mysteries and fuzzy-logic of mental illness, but rather in implementing concrete, extensive and tougher gun laws that mirror the requirements of other dangerous operations such as the various levels of licensing in the operation of a vehicle.

When it comes to mental illness warning signs, it seems fair that anyone who has over, x-number of guns (a number agreed upon by a rationale-minded group) and a bunch of ammunition is a candidate for some kind of mental illness screening. And, short of legitimate gun collectors, those who possess vast arsenals of guns and ammo, might this passion be an extension of their army-playing days in their youth. (If that isn’t a form of mental illness, I don’t know what is.)

Should we make drastic improvements in mental health that allow us to identify a mass-murderer before they act, then we can talk about the elimination of gun laws. For starters, if you want to stop mass murders, require every person who has x-number of guns and ammo, or owns an “assault-style, non-hunting” gun to get regular screening.

Getting a driver’s license, a car license, and insurance is a true inconvenience when it comes to driving. However, it doesn’t prevent us from securing our right to drive, it’s just a precautionary to ensure that we can carry out the task without being a great risk to society. And so, owning a gun should be the same kind of inconvenience for anyone wishing to possess a firearm and/or ammunition. Besides, if you're a “good-guy-with-a-gun,” you shouldn’t object to a little inconvenience, right?

Despite all of this, I’m reluctant to believe that if the day should come when we can identify people with mental illness quickly, the NRA-gun lobby will likely still resist anything that prevents people from getting their hands on guns.

For the time being, America has long since disqualified itself when it comes to “greatness” in its tolerance for continuous massacres of its innocent citizens. Any great country would have addressed and solved this problem by now. Australia... now there's a great country. New Zealand... another great country. Japan... yes. Etc.

What’s Your White Privilege Agenda?

This is not a time to be passive. This is not a time to worry about your job or how your employer might react. This is not a time to worry about losing friends or pissing off other family members.

By now, the events of Charlottesville that produced a visual display of hate directed at anyone not in the White Nationalist/Neo-Nazis camp is known to all. If you’re not appalled by what unfolded there, than you might as well go ahead and send in your annual dues to the Ku Klux Klan, The Daily Stormer, The National Vanguard, or any other hate group.

This isn’t a matter of free speech expressing ideas that are beyond the status quo. This is about the treatment of others who are lesser in numbers, lesser in power and influence, and especially those of non-white skin color and not claiming Jesus Christ as their personal savior.

As I search for ways of expressing my views on such matters, I am comforted by those who have made their expressions known already and do it in such a way that there is no need for me to “reinvent the wheel.”

Alex Stonewall, a journalist living in Seattle, Washington had this to say:

1) All the labels aside, what unites these White Nationalists is a belief in turning the U.S. into a White ethno-state. By definition, such a state would undermine the fundamental rights of Americans who aren’t white, and violate our most basic principals.

2) For that reason they’re entitled to the least generous interpretation of the first amendment. They don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, an equal seat at the table, a venue at our schools and universities, or special protections by our police for their demonstrations, because they’re not coming to those conversations in good faith — they’re coming with an explicit end-goal of violating the rights of others.

3) Their employers, family members and neighbors have the right to know when they’re actively espousing such a harmful agenda -- what they do with that information (e.g. firing them, ) is up to them, within the confines of the law.

Lastly, the ageless words of Eli Wiesel, a Romanian-born American Jewish writer, professor, political activist, Nobel Laureate, and—most importantly—Holocaust survivor.

“We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe.”

In short, this is not a time to be spectator. Consider you neutrality, your passiveness, your willingness to be silent, your comfort, your privilege—your White privilege in particular.

As Philadelphia Eagles defensive end (and White athlete) Chris Long put it regarding his recent actions of support for fellow-teammates protesting during the National Anthem,  “I think it’s a good time for people who look like me to be here for people fighting for equality.”

Start Background Search Here

It’s no secret that I’ve been looking for other work, in other places. It’s not that I’m unhappy in my current teaching job, but the climate of low enrollments along with the recent cutting of programs and personnel makes it more treacherous than past years. Although I’m am tenured, I’ve never considered tenure an absolute lock on any given job.

So, in the last two years, I’ve been looking a little harder than usual. Mostly looking for jobs beyond the classroom, but not necessarily outside of education. As I see it, I’m probably in the last ten-to-fifteen years of my working life and this is a chance to do possibly one more thing that is a departure from the last twenty-five years.

Admittedly, I don’t look forward to the physical act of relocating. There’s a part of my history where I’ve paid my dues when it comes to moving—not to mention the assistance I’ve provided for others to do the same in my adult years. As a result, if I never succeed in finding a new gig, I’ll still be happy where I am and in the same job. I could do much worse.

In searching and applying for new employment, a few colleagues and friends have warned me about my social media activity. “You better clean up that Facebook page before you put yourself out there,” is a common suggestion. And, I understand how that—as a general rule—is good advice. God knows I have a blog that has more than its share of political monologues, along with Twitter and Facebook posts that are critical of almost anything. So, it comes as surprising to no one that I have kicked my share of anthills.

Yet, as I consider this advice, it is counter productive to who I am. I’ve often asked myself, “Do I really want to work for someone or some entity that finds my critical (albeit blunt and direct) commentaries intimidating or distasteful? Do I want to work for someone who thinks I might ask tough questions on the job, step on someone’s toes, and/or be confrontational at times?”

Well, my answer isn’t just “no,” but “hell no!” If a potential employer is so timid, so thinned-skinned, so pollyanna-esque when it comes to my character and my willingness to call out someone or some policy to be defended or explained, I don’t need them—and they certainly don’t need me. What they need in another “yes person,” and that ain’t me, folks.

Photo by Marsha Stewart

Words About Wind

Polecat Bench Overlooking Badger Basin

27 March 2017

The wind is strong and steady, but there are no visual clues. No tree branches whipping in the air up here—no flags flying, no tall grasses swaying in the breeze.

Everything is stunted and low to the ground. The harshness of this environment has no appreciation for ornate or abundant extremities. The world up here is all about modesty—except for the wind.

You have to look close at short blades of Buffalo grass—specifically the cured out growth from last season. There you can see the wind’s power. 

But you’ll never see it driving at 65mph, or 45mph, or 25 mph—not even at 10 mph. You must be still, and only then you can hear it.

You’ll hear it whipping along the contours of your vehicle. Turn off the engine and you can even feel it rocking the truck. As strong as it is, the sensation inside the heavy machinery is gentle and soothing.

Step out into it and you hear even more. Feel it navigate around your body and head, creating audible turbulence as it works around the odd shapes of your non-aero-dynamic ears.

You sense a lull, perhaps it has finally tired. But no, it is only inhaling another breath of atmosphere into its Wyoming-sized lungs. This next blast is even greater. 

The Flagpole of Spurn/Squat

There’s this flagpole on our campus that seldom flies a flag—of any kind. On graduation day, an American flag is hoisted up the mass of straightened metal and flies for the day. I’m told that it flies again sometime in the summer when Girls State is in town for the week. So, in all, it might fly a flag for a total of 1 week out of the entire year.

This flagpole of spurn is located in front of our gym which is also the same building of the art offices and classrooms. This January, my office was moved to the art department and it was then that I became acutely aware of the flagstaff’s abandoned state.

I contemplated its under-appreciated existence several times as I pulled up to the building on my Sears single-speed bicycle in the mornings. And then slowly, I started considering the idea of what it would take to dress it up—short of requiring the attendance of a color guard everyday.

These thoughts were totally innocent and had nothing to do with making a statement when it comes to flag-flying. It was a proposal rooted in bringing color to an empty and under-appreciated space on our campus—nothing more. However, if someone had accused me of being “politically correct” in this proposal, I suppose I would have absorbed that charge as well.

Flag Laws

The first thing I did was look into the legality of flying a non-American flag on a college campus. I didn’t think there was anything illegal about it, but nevertheless I did a bit a googling.

There were a few things I didn’t know and many things I already knew. The new knowledge I gained about flag flying had to do with the flag-flying laws of each state—and almost all of it was in the context of the American flag. For example, did you know that…

• On Memorial Day, the flag is to fly at half-mast until noon.

In my search to find anything wrong with my proposal, I found only the following:

• The American flag should be displayed daily on or near the main administration building of every public institution.

• In North Dakota, public display of other than the U.S. flag, a State flag, or flag of a friendly foreign nation is prohibited.

• In California, Oklahoma, West Virginia, and Idaho the display of the red flag or any other flag in a public place is prohibited. A plain red flag is associated with socialist or communist rallies—think International Workers’ Day. It is also an unofficial symbol for socialism, communism, and left-wing politics—going all the way back to the French Revolution.

However, when it comes to Wyoming, I could only find the following: “prohibits state military organizations from carrying other than U.S. flags.”

The Proposal

Following my semi-exhaustive research into any flag laws that might bite me in the arse, I sent my proposal out in an email to the campus community:

If there are no objections, the Art Department would like to be the caretakers of the flagpole in front of Cabre Gym. In case you’re wondering, it only flies a flag (the American and Wyoming flag) on graduation day. We would like to give it something else to do for the remainder of the academic year (perhaps even summers) as well.

As its caretakers, we would like to fly a number of different flags—a new one every week if we can muster it. National flags where some of our students come from, other states where our students come from, professional organization flags that are active on our campus, flags that represent humanitarian causes, and of course, flags that simply celebrate art—hopefully generated by our students. (Hey Del Nose, how about sending us a NIRA flag for this spring?) We’ve even considered having a contest to see who can identify a not-so-common flag now and then.

And fear not, we’ve established a checks and balance system: any flag that flies must be agreed upon by all members of the Art Department before it is hoisted up the pole.

Lastly, during the entire week of graduation, we agree to fly Old Glory and the Wyoming flag only while lowering them each day at sunset (unless we get lights for it).

So, if you have a flag that you believe is worthy of this cause and you’d like to see it fly in front of Cabre Gym, send it our way and we’ll fly it some upcoming week. Let’s put some colorful leaves on that tall, gray tree.

—Morgan Tyree

Asst. Prof. of Graphics

The Reception

As expected, the responses from this timid, little campus were few—probably about five percent of the entire campus faculty and staff (if that). The first responders were all very favorable. But one community member was against the idea unless there was another flagpole. Another chimed in saying that flying other flags “would be asking for some unwelcome response.” One staff member wondered if the flagpole and whatever flag was flying might “become a bully pulpit for any particular way of thinking.” He also asked, “Is the Art Department willing to offend both sides by giving equal time on the pole?”

But the biggest stink came from a middle-management administrator, who was vehemently opposed.

Despite her opposition and informing me that it was illegal, she proved to be no better than our President Trump when it came to citing facts. Here’s the back and forth via email that transpired.

She said:

I do have an issue with other country’s flags being flown on the American soil without the presence of the Old Glory….it is downright disrespectful and I take offense to it.

There is a code of conduct when it comes to displaying other nations’ flags on American soil….as was suggested in your email regarding international students’ country of origin flags being displayed without the American flag. 

There is a code of conduct when it comes to flying the American flag and as Americans we need to respect the symbol of our nation.  Keep in mind the people of this community provide financial support to our College and I am sure many will be offended if they don’t see the Old Glory respected properly.

You may want to refer to U.S. Code, Title 4, Chapter 1, Section 7 regarding the display of other nation’s flags on American soil.

My response:

I couldn’t disagree with you more. There’s no law that says you can’t fly another flag of nationality on a Wyoming college campus. Those laws have to do with flying other nation flags alongside the American flag. The flagpole in front of Cabre Gym is not an “American only” flagpole. This isn’t about being disrespectful to the American flag or marginalizing it in any way, and I’m sorry if you take it that way. It’s simply about flying other flags for the sake of brightening up a campus eyesore. But, if there’s enough noise about this, it’ll stay barren because I don’t have the energy for making this into a political/patriotic debate.

She said:

There are laws ESPECIALLY for public buildings such as our College and it would be beneficial for you to research it a bit.

My response:

Show me the language. Cut and paste it.

She said:

Research flag code for the state of Wyoming

My response:

This is all I’ve uncovered…

Wyoming “prohibits state military organizations from carrying other than U.S. flags.” See section on “forbidden flags” by state. http://www.crwflags.com/fotw/flags/us-law.html

She said:

Research further on the code regarding the flag for public buildings.

My response:

Quit wasting my time. You show me. You say it’s there, cut and paste it for me.

She said:

As a scholar you know how to research so enjoy researching. : )

My response:

I’ve looked and found nothing that verifies your claim. Time to put up or shut up about it. Prove me wrong.

She said:

Morgan, I don’t appreciate your rudeness towards me. Your email started with “if there are no objections”…….I had objections and shared them with you in a civil manner and have tried to hold a discussion with you. I don’t appreciate being told to shut up.

My response:

My apologies, but you still haven’t supported your claim.

She said:

Morgan, whenever I want to start any project, I make sure to do my research before I present it.  I am not obligated to prove anything. However since this is your project, the burden is on you to do thorough research.

My response:

Ha! So, you really have nothing. I shared with you the little bit of related research I could find on this subject. The onus is on you now to prove otherwise since you have disagreed with my findings—skimpy as they may be. I’m sure if you really had something concrete and convincing, you would have schooled me properly on matters of research by now—which I would humbly accept. You would have done well to simply object on your own merits without referencing some obscure/mysterious/non-existent flag law that you are unable to verify.

She said:

Morgan,

you made me laugh out loud.....you are funny :)

My response:

You’re pretty hilarious too.

What a time-waster. In the end, having this “civil” discourse with one of my educational colleagues was an educational bust. Instead of just simply saying that she would find it offensive, she defended her blind patriotism with a made-up-in-her-mind flag law, all the while citing the importance of doing educational research. Yet, in the end, she couldn’t produce a shred of evidence that backed up her claims. Reminds me of a defenseless parent who resorts to saying something like, “Do what I say, not what I do!” 

A part of me has embraced this outcome because it’s pretty much what I expected from such a weak-kneed and unimaginative community (as a whole). All it took was a minuscule, but vocal few to drown out whatever numbers of quiet support there may have been.

No doubt I should have listened to a friend who texted me and told me to stay out of it with the following…

I don’t mean to be Debbie Downer here, but if you’re serious about a career move you don't need to be distracted by shit like this. Focus grasshopper. If you’re getting out of NWC, it’s time to turn your back for good. Don’t post this flag stuff on your blog either. And yeah, I expected some sort of reaction like this when u told me about it. 

And, I don’t always make the right choices either. 

Folding it up

In the end, I suppose it’s truly symbolic (since we’re talking about flag-flying) of this community that an empty, barren and cheerless flagpole turns out to be preferred over flying a few harmless rags of color. Think about that symbolism.

Ironically, this brief discourse has come and gone with very little input from a significant membership of the community—it’s students. But, since the newspaper has been taken down, what other means do we have to engage the student population on such matters?

There’s much to read into about a community that is hesitant/unwilling to fly any flag other than the national flag. Perhaps they don’t want to be labeled unpatriotic, but if I were a betting man, it strikes me as textbook xenophobia. Nevertheless, I suppose it’s a fine line between the two.

Lastly, in contemplating political correctness, in the run-up to Donald Trump’s presidency, he and his followers in the national spotlight railed on the whole political correctness “thing,” claiming it was getting in the way of looking out for America’s best interests (albeit “White America”). I wouldn’t have thought the same message would resonate so far down the food chain to our minuscule, local level—but indeed, it has.

Death to the GOP

Donald Trump has delivered. We can not act surprised in this man of action and the promises he has made and carried out thus far. However, just because someone makes promises and delivers, doesn't make them noble, ethical or magnanimous. He is simply a man of action with a diabolical agenda—not a role model for any decent human.

Despite my unhealthy views for the orange-faced dictator, I have even more contempt for those who continue to support him and prop up his agenda in what is known as the Republican party.

I’ll confess here, that I've never gone out of my way to vote Republican, but I've never ruled them out completely. And yes, I have voted Republican a few times in my voting life. But, after today—after the confirmation of Betsy DeVos as the Secretary of Education—I never will again. No more. Nada. I’m finished voting for these political whores of the rich and powerful. I’ll vote an independent-write-in before I vote for another Republican. I’ll make up an opponent before I vote for a fucking Republican again. Anyone who chooses to run under the same flag that is propped up by scoundrels and frauds like Mitch McConnell, Mike Pence, John Barrasso, Mike Enzi, Paul Ryan—and yes, Donald Trump—are guilty by association in my book. The GOP has become a shameless party fueled by pure unapologetic deceit and unabashed hypocrisy—camouflaged in Christian values and the American flag.

The Republicans have become a desperate bunch who know the glory days of the “grand old White party” are waning, and they’ll do anything they can to hold on to power. Welcome to the early stages of America’s Apartheid. Hopefully it is short-lived.

He Is My President

Donald Trump is my President, and I think he is a fuck-wit.

I may not like Trump, but I really do have to accept him as my President just like he may not like me calling him a fuck-wit, but he’s going to have to accept that too.

So, for the next four years (and hopefully it won’t be that long) I intend to doubt everything about him based on his past. Give him a chance? No way—he’s a calculating jackass. And who gives a calculating jackass a second, third, or fourth chance? I saw all I needed to see during his campaigning—which was disturbing to say the least. I have all kinds of adjectives for Trump—none are favorable, and I don’t see anything on the horizon that will make me think differently. I’ll never rule out the possibility of having something good to say about the douche, but I’m doubtful. He’s dug himself in pretty deep as I see it.

But, for the record I am willing to admit I’m wrong about anything to do with Trump if it ever comes to that. In fact, I would prefer such an outcome. This is one time I don’t want to be right.

Which reminds me; people don’t like to admit they are wrong and they don’t like to say “I’m sorry.” In this day and age, it seems more true than ever. And that’s the scary part. Too many of the proud Trump voters will probably stick to their guns even when the most casual observer has concluded Trump is every bit the fraudster we said he was. When the economy tanks, when the good-paying manufacturing jobs never materialize, when crime starts rising again—and God forbid—the nukes come raining down on the world, the mouth-breathers of the United States will find someone else to blame. I betcha Obama will be the scapegoat. 

As a voter who voted for the loser, it’s important for me to point out here that the uproar over this President, isn’t about Republicans winning and Democrats losing. It’s about an asshole running the country. It’s about an asshole fooling a lot of good people. It takes a fool to vote for a fool, but Trump roped many others with his little feat of political sorcery—competent, smart, and reasonable people. Nevertheless, I suspect many of them will come to regret that choice someday.

Had Jeb Bush, John Kasich, Marco Rubio, Carly Fiorina, or even Ted Cruz won the election, nothing would be going on like it is today—nothing like it at all. Oh sure, there would be some cracks at one of those new Presidents (no worse than G.W. Bush or Obama), but Donald Trump is in a class all on his own, and it’s a very, very low class—where the greasiest, double-dealing snake-oil salesmen dwell. You voted for Rubio over Hillary, I get’cha. But, you voted for Trump over Hillary (or anyone)! What the fuck, man!

So, as this shit-show of a Presidency unfolds, I will remain optimistic as I anticipate the day when Donald Trump is a broken and demoralized man—more so than the day of Dylan Roof’s execution.

Membership Has Its Privileges

Racism isn’t just politically incorrect, it’s wrong. And sadly, this still has to be said as 2016 comes to an end.

I’m not an expert on racism, but sooner or later we all end up in conversations about it, and like it or not, we end up speaking our mind. I’ve done so before on this blog and after watching a disturbing video recently, perhaps this is a good time to say something about it again—in particular, “reverse racism” since it is gaining traction in light of our new President and his followers.

Over the years, I’ve heard my share of White folk now and then talk about “reverse racism”—stating events where they or someone they know (also White) have experienced it. It kind of makes sense if you don’t think too hard about what they are saying, but I’ve never bought into this fabricated concept, and here’s why.

Racism is something that is dealt out by a majority. Now, if you are White and living in a neighborhood where a minority of our country’s citizens are the majority, you might experience racism at the local level, but you won’t have much to worry about beyond that neighborhood. However, if you’re a minority of our country, you probably have plenty of stories in your life where you have experienced the ugliness of racism no matter where you live.

Many see minority and majority in terms of numbers only. But, those who possess the greatest power easily become the majority as well—see Apartheid South Africa circa 1960s. Here in the United States, Whites make up over 60% of the population and the closest contestant to that are Latinos at a paltry 16%, with Blacks coming in at 12.2%. Given this math and the excessive distribution of power doled out to Whites in government and business, it’s safe to say that Caucasians are indisputably safe as our country’s majority.

It’s also important to keep in mind that racism is based on two important concepts that minorities don’t have much of, and therefore can not exercise: power and privilege. Look no further than the disproportionate arrest and sentencing for people of color vs. Whites when it comes to… say, drug crimes. Further, Whites are certainly less likely to experience racial profiling and when arrested, will almost certainly have superior legal representation compared to those of color. Finally, the odds favor Whites when it comes to talking themselves out of an arrest—especially if it is a White police officer.

The bottom line is this: you can’t make a legitimate claim as a victim of racism providing you’re a member of the majority. 

And while you’re at it, don’t get confused when it comes to angry words, protests or fights for equality as some form of racism. This is simply (and understandably) an unpleasant response from centuries of White privilege and power. Civility is nice if you can get it, but not everyone who has experienced racism is going to be nice about it when it comes up in discussion. Being a pollyanna about such discussions will only confirm how comfortable you truly are in your White privilege—which probably means you are a racist.

Lastly, I read this not long ago:

Making a racist statement is a manifestation of racist culture; being “mean” isn’t. For Whites, it can be difficult to be confronted with the reality of racism, and with comments from people of color about how privilege and power operate. It’s tempting to take such comments personally and to insist that people of color are being “mean,” which is often a hop, skip, and a jump away from an accusation of reverse racism. —S.E. Smith

I’m unsure if there will ever be a time in the future when being a member of the majority won’t be a privilege. However, as long as that’s the case, along with your privilege you should include several good measures of accountability, compassion and an ability to absorb criticism or insults that may not be as personal as you think. It’s a puny price to pay.

Critics Unite!

It’s a fine line between being a critic or being a complainer. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who isn’t too afraid to speak out and offer up a critique on any given issue that I encounter. As a result, and over the years, I know many in my community and workplace see me as a complainer.

For the record, here’s some definitions that I scrounged up on these two terms:

Critic: a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something, the practice of judging the merits and faults of something.

Complainer: one who states a grievance, an expression of displeasure.

I’ve certainly  “shot my wad” as the expression goes. Translation: I’ve spoken up enough times—especially in those instances when no one else did—that anything I say from here on is for the most part greeted as, “Oh, that’s just Morgan complaining again. He’s always complaining about something.”

In contemplating these two terms, I’ve stumbled onto many famous quotes that defend and attack the critic/complainer. 

In the corner attacking criticism/complaining, there are the following:

“Criticism is an indirect form of self-boasting.” —Emmet Fox

“Be an encourager. The world has plenty of critics already.” —unknown

“If you don’t like the menu, leave the restaurant.” —Chris Brogan (Akin to “If you don’t like it, leave.”)

“Any fool can criticize, condemn and complain and most fools do.” –Benjamin Franklin

“Watch out for the joy-stealers: gossip, criticism, complaining, faultfinding, and a negative, judgmental attitude.” —Joyce Meyer

And in the corner defending the critic/complainer, we have these:

“Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man’s growth without destroying his roots.” —Frank A. Clark

“I like criticism. It makes you strong.” —LeBron James

“Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.” —Winston Churchill

“To announce that there must be no criticism of the president... is morally treasonable to the American public.” —Theodore Roosevelt

“The trouble with most of us is that we would rather be ruined by praise than saved by criticism.” —Norman Vincent Peale

“I much prefer the sharpest criticism of a single intelligent man to the thoughtless approval of the masses.” —Johannes Kepler

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that I relate more to those quotes that defend the critic while those who attack it strike me as thin-skinned do-gooders who are actually up to no-good.

In the last four years or so, I’ve been relatively quiet in my critiques, which can be verified by looking at the frequency of posts to this blog. Some friends have even noted it as well saying things like, “You’ve been pretty quiet lately—what’s going on?”

I must confess that the election of Donald Trump and everything that he brings (and doesn’t bring) to the Presidency has awakened me. Yep, critical posts to Facebook and my little circle of like-minded friends (mostly) isn’t good enough any longer. So, here I am.

Further, rather than critiquing something about the President-elect here or some other important issue in our world or nation, I’d like to offer up this critique to those who are a little closer to me—those who have patted me on the back at some point in the past and told me quietly, “I’m so glad you said that, I feel the same way.”

Well, the time has come and Morgan has used up a good chunk of his “cred”  in all of his critiques. Which means it’s time for you to speak up and say those things that you have been content with only hearing from those like me. Yep, imagine… just imagine if you are the one who speaks up before me, or along with me, instead of sitting on your hands. Imagine yourself and a few others speaking up instead of being silent. Suddenly, it’s not, “That’s just ‘Tirade Tyree’ spouting off again,” but now there are several who feel this way and maybe, just maybe others will consider the critique and take it seriously and perhaps even get behind it as well. And the next thing you know, change is unfolding before us all.

So, quit patronizing me or others when no one else is around. Get off your ass and speak up for those things you believe in and call out wrong when it is sitting right in front of you. Quit caring about how you come out in the local or national popularity contest and make a stand.

Abusing a New President

America Becomes Great Again

Those who proclaim “Not My President” in light of the recent Presidential election outcomes, are catching quite a bit of shit these days—and most of it coming from those who supported the winner, Donald Trump.

I’m not sure when, where, or who came up with this popular phrase, but it certainly wasn’t conceived as the election results poured in on the night of November 8, 2016.

I remember after the election of 2008 seeing newly minted bumper stickers with this phrase in my community. Now, it would be easy for me to stop here and lay the blame on the Republican, conservative-minded folk for coming up with this brand. Further, it really felt racist given how we had just elected the first Black President (even if half Black). But, I live in a heavily Republican state—so heavy that it would surely vote for a turd excreted from a Republican over a highly-qualified Democrat—and in hindsight, I suspect it was only new to me back then. Surely this same slogan was being tossed around in Democratic strongholds following the election of George W. Bush.

So, as to the origins of this phrase, it probably isn’t as new as many of us think. And like all things that become popular, wherever it truly originated, it probably didn’t get much fanfare when it was first blurted out, but over the years—with the election of each new President—it has gained some traction.

Akin to these slogans, Presidential “nicknames” have become quite popular as well. Ones that come to mind are “Slick Willie” for Clinton, “Dubya” for George W. Bush, “Obummer” for Obama, and surely something is brewing in the wings for Donald Trump—“The Donald,” “Pussy-Grabber,” and “The Dump” are surely strong contenders as I write this.

I know these phrases and nicknames are somewhat new relative to our country’s existence. There was a time when almost all people respected the President and considered him (but sadly “never her” ) their President. But those days are gone. Are we less respectful today than say, the 1840s? Perhaps. But, I would simply lay the blame on our greater connectedness and that more people have a voice today thanks to the vast and economical communication networks that are in place. Like Gutenberg’s metal moveable type invention that lead to greater literacy for the masses, the same has taken place providing a greater voice for the individual.

As far as a unified respect for the President… we may never see that again.

More Drag, Less Macho

Photo by Hananiah Aldrich

There are a lot of folk out there in my little community of Powell, Wyoming that think I dislike everything about this town, its college (Northwest College) and even the state of Wyoming. So, I’m here to declare that, “It just ain’t so (in a Wyoming accent).” I’m critical of many things that I care about, but in this day and age of thin-skinned Pollyannas, anyone who is critical about something is immediately painted as a hater or Debbie-downer.

To be honest though, there are things that go beyond my critique and thus deserve my disdain—those same Pollyannas come to mind.

Here’s what I’m talking about: I’m critical of our Wyoming culture that seems to reward and reinforce overly macho behavior. I’d like to see that toned down a bit in the near future. Besides, it’s sooooo cliché. What I dislike are those assclowns who adopt and embrace this trumped-up virile behavior—in particular those who feel the need to modify the exhaust systems of their gigantic 4x4, quad-cab diesel-powered pickup trucks while incessantly revving their engines everywhere they go. I can’t think of a better illustration of a textbook douchebag.

Contrary to all of this, I served as a drag contest judge the other night on the campus of Northwest College. It was absolutely fun, entertaining and delightful—and as I was sitting there watching men (and women) compete for the best drag contestant on campus, I thought to myself, “You know what this town needs are a few more drag queens and kings and a lot less knuckle-dragging, macho-oozing, look-at-me-because-I-drive-a-loud-diesel-pickup-truck douchebags.”

Perhaps this sentiment has to do with a little incident I had the other day when I flagged down one of these John Wayne, chest-beaters (a.k.a., assclown) as he was doing about 45 mph through the middle of campus and about to run a stop sign. When he hit his breaks and rolled down his window in bewilderment, I calmly said, “Hey man, it’s 25 mph through campus and that’s a stop sign you just went through.” In so many words he retorted that I don’t tell him what to do and after a few more exchanges the dude started to get out of his 4x4 to duke it out with me. I mean honestly, I can’t think of a better example of testosterone-induced rage.  You’re breaking the law and endangering the public, someone calls you out on it and you want to fight them… what the fuck, man?!

I’m not sure if I could have whipped him, but if it had come to that, and I ended up having the upper hand, I would have trashed his 4x4 Silverado too. I suppose if it went the other way, he probably would have done the same to my longboard.

With these thoughts in mind, I’d like to make a challenge to our little community of Powell… How about we all start calling out these hotheads in their rude and self-centered behavior when they are breaking the law, endangering others or simply being disrespectful of peace and quiet. This used to be a quiet little town, but in the past five years, it has transformed into a noisy and belligerent little town. And while we’re at it, let’s see if we can encourage enough students to enter the drag contest next year—perhaps even double its participants.

Let’s bring down the machoism a notch and lift up the drag. It’ll be good for Powell.

Meditations and Confessions of a Geezer Longboarder

“The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.” —Walter Begehot (Quote on a Good Earth tea bag)

Growing up in Akron, Ohio, it’s possible that I was the first kid with a skateboard—and if I wasn’t, certainly one of the first. My board came to me by way of California following a holiday out West in the mid-1960s. I have a hunch that few of today’s more youthful riders have ever seen a skateboard like my first one—with it’s short, narrow wooden deck, and steel wheels. Perhaps it was a sign of my fate, but even as a youngster, I learned how to slide the wheels on our smooth, sloped concrete driveway that dumped onto the rough chip-seal of Stevenson Avenue.

I don’t know what became of that skateboard, but there were others that followed and there were times in my life when there wasn’t a skateboard at all. That said, it seemed like there was always someone nearby who had a board if I was hankering for an occasional ride. To be clear, I haven’t spent my entire life on a skateboard like some, but I’ve never been far away or too out of practice to confidently jump on a board when such opportunities came along.

If you were to ask me back in the 1980s what I thought I’d be doing for fun as a 50-year-old, I probably would have answered you with something like fly-fishing, golfing, or bike touring. Surely one of the last things coming out of my mouth back then would have been anything to do with a skateboard.

• • •

My on-and-off skateboarding life continued until 2002 when a college student in need of some quick cash convinced me to purchase his Gordon & Smith 43-inch pintail longboard. Prior to that time, I had seen a few of the “giant” skateboards around, but never rode one. As it turned out, curiosity was the driving force that ultimately sealed the deal in my first longboard purchase.

For the next several years, I pushed the G&S pinner around my flat, little town of Powell, located in the high desert country of Wyoming, but unlike a true enthusiast, I never entertained the idea of taking it further.

Despite the flack directed at Original (a longboard maker) from the longboarding community (and I'm not sure why this is either), I’ll confess here that it was an Original video on YouTube that blindsided me one day and made me start thinking about that old G&S in a new light.

Not long afterwards, I started studying up on other forms of riding—freeride and downhill specifically. This line of thinking was influenced by that Original video and a geographical feature just outside of Powell called Polecat Bench.

Polecat Bench is a hybrid of mesa and plateau dominating the Powell horizon from the north to the northwest direction—rising 500-feet above the town. The “Bench” (as we call it) is the closest recreational destination for the locals—whether it’s riding an ATV or mountain bike, arrowhead or bird hunting, or just a place to look over the land in quiet solitude. It is also home to the community airport and a gas refinery beyond the airport. Connecting these operations with the community is State Route 295 (also known as “Road 9”) which includes about 1.5 miles of sloped asphalt that climbs the Bench at a five-percent grade. For the most part, there is very little traffic on this road-to-nowhere except for an occasional truck hauling crude or refined petroleum product along with the pickup trucks of those few who work at the refinery. The highway is absolutely deserted on Sunday mornings, and even when there is an occasional car or truck, you can see it coming with ample time to get out of the way.

As I contemplated the Bench and learned more about freeride and downhill longboarding, I started to realize that my Gordon & Smith FibreFlex wasn’t going to cut it on the steeper parts of the Bench. And so, not long after this epiphany, my Landyachtz Switch 40 arrived followed by a helmet, slide gloves and a set of pads for my knees and elbows.

• • •

To say that things have been “happily ever after” since the drop-deck Landyachtz arrived would be a boldface lie. To be blunt, some of my worst fails/falls have been at the slowest speeds and were attributed mostly to bad judgement rather than poor riding skills. There have been spills so embarrassing that I wouldn’t even speak of them in a confessional—let alone these pages, but I’ll humor you a bit here with a couple that I can stomach.

Before my Switch 40 ever saw an incline, it threw me off the sidewalk and into the street in the first 10 yards of my maiden voyage on it. I could say that the bushings were soft and the trucks looser than I’ve ever ridden, but as I washed the gravel out of my hands I knew it was just poor judgement on my part.

Not long after I’d been riding the lower sections of the hill, a friend of mine was in town and decided to tag along with his camera. I’d like to think my riding was no different than any other time that day, but I suppose having a bona fide camera-toting spectator along alters one’s abilities or at least perceptions of their own ability. Before we returned to town, I had managed to shred my entire forearm and slam by helmeted head into the asphalt thanks to high-siding on a toe-side carve that was reminiscent of any head-to-head collision from my youth of playing football.

Years earlier before I ever gave serious thought to downhill, I rode a traditional skateboard down a small—but very steep—hill at the local park. Prior to that I’d never, ever heard anyone speak about something called “speed wobbles.” Although it was a narrow foot path with lush grass on both sides, the wobbles threw me right into the middle of the asphalt resulting in enough road rash on my legs and arms to go through a tube of Neosporin before the week was out. I hobbled the mile distance home with the board under my bloodied arms. At the ripe age of 43, I was not only embarrassed, but convinced I’d never ride a skateboard again.

I’ve stated in many conversations that, given my age, I’m probably one bad spill away from transforming my longboards into wall art. And I’ve already taken enough big hits that left me laying stunned on the payment wondering if any bones were broken. I’ve gone through several boxes of extra large bandages thanks to road rash and landed hard enough on my ass to turn it black and blue. My shoulder has likely suffered from a couple impacts with the road and I’m pretty sure I broke a toe and cracked at least one rib. Every time I head out, I always remind myself, “You can’t afford to fall.”

I’ve also been telling everyone in my world that I’m not going to ride any faster than I can run, but the one day I clocked myself at 26 mph on one section of the Bench. I’m pretty sure I can’t run that fast.

Despite the aches and pain on my 50-some-year-old body, I’m riding more than ever these days—and not just the Landyachtz. In fact, I’m downright ashamed to lay out my quiver (of boards) to anyone at this time because—for one—I’m too old to own multiple boards, and secondly—I’m not that good.

Nevertheless, I am considerably better when it comes to riding a hill. I can carve confidently and, for the most part, I’m pretty decent at a hand-down toe-side speed check as well as a shut-down slide. My hand-down Coleman needs work, and I’m unsure if I’ll ever pull off any kind of standup slide, but I’m not ruling it out either.

When I started working the hill last spring, I set a goal for myself to ride the entire hill before the summer was over. I underestimated my eagerness to ride; on June 19th (two days before the first day of summer), I made it all the way down without incident. Since that time, it has become my longboard laboratory and a getaway from the big crowds of a town with over 5,000 residents!

I think riding alone suits me in terms of focus, concentration, and ultimately safety. And there is something about the solitude and quiet of the twenty-minute walks back up the hill to begin another run. Several times I’ve been offered rides to the top by those in vehicles passing by, but I almost always turn them down and tell them that walking back up comes with the territory of riding down. Besides, if nothing else, it is a good little aerobic exercise.

I’m unsure of a particular riding style that defines me—freeride or downhill. Not to dwell on my age, but I simply want to get down any hill without catastrophe regardless of steez (style). Perhaps the only steez I’ll ever possess is in my geriatric efforts. For now, it’s the little victories that keep me going such as marking the highway with long thane lines (polyurethane skid marks from the wheels sliding). Recently I cored (and flat-spotted) a set of wheels which was akin to receiving badge of valor. Making it all the way down a big hill without falling or bailing—no matter how much steeze I lack—is always motivation to go back up or return the next day.

Living in the country’s least populated state, people are pretty spread out. No matter who you are, what your interest or profession might be, there’s always an element of isolation and with it comes a lack of feedback from others like you. This is certainly my situation as an over-the-hill downhill longboard rider. Late this summer I met a college student who has ridden the hill and he has a few other friends that are curious about longboarding as well. It will be interesting to see if we ever evolve into a micro-community.

The other day two old guys smoking cigarettes with grizzled beards and dirty ball caps followed me in their car as I worked my way down the Bench. Upon reaching the bottom, they pulled over for a visit and I discovered we were of the same age. I wondered if they were as surprised as me upon discovering one another’s age. I’m sure there are older riders with more skills out there who have been riding longer. There’s nothing too unique to my story here, but I’m pretty sure it’s not common.

• • •

In the Autumn 2014 Issue of Concrete Wave, the following quote stopped me in my tracks:

“Skateboarding has been around for a very long time now. With very little effort, you can find skaters ranging from 5 to 55 years old ripping at almost any skate park, bombing hills, doing freestyle, or simply cruising to get somewhere.” Because I’m 54-years-old now, this harmless little statement has been haunting me in a Logan’s Run kind of way.

I know there’s not much time left for me—not like a teenager, while the likes of Patrick Switzer, Kyle Chin, or Liam Morgan needn’t worry about me stealing any of their sponsorships. Yet, these are some of the folk I look up to in making myself a better rider. With that article quote in mind, I’d like to think I have a little more than a year remaining. Nevertheless, I know my years on a board are numbered. Assuming I can stay healthy, perhaps I have another five to ten years of riding. Yet, to think I’ll still be riding that hill or one like it when I’m 65 seems utterly absurd.