On Stereotyping and Hypocrisy

Last night, as I was waiting for the Oscars broadcast to begin, I was casually looking at Facebook to see what people were saying.

In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that I almost never go to the movies anymore. There was a time when I did, but that was years ago. I eventually get caught up through home video or TV broadcasts, but it's been several years since I could select a favorite in an Oscar category based on firsthand knowledge.

For some reason, that has seemed especially true this year.

(I have taken to joking that this year, more than usual, I feel like Bill Murray on a Weekend Update segment on Saturday Night Live circa 1979 or 1980 when he predicted the Oscar winners based on which movies he had actually seen — and repeatedly dismissed nominees by saying "Didn't see it ... Didn't see it ... Didn't see it," punctuated by an occasional "Saw it, didn't like it.")

Since I rarely have a dog in that hunt — to use an old expression that is so Southern that, if it didn't originate here, it should have — I don't feel compelled to stay with the Oscars broadcast until all hours. And I seldom do.

But I do like pre–Oscar conversation. I know little about most of the nominees so I say little, but I am interested in what more knowledgeable (or supposedly more knowledgeable) people have to say.

I advise the student newspaper staff at the community college where I teach, and one of the staff writers authors the movie reviews. He knows quite a bit about all the nominees so I have enjoyed listening to what he has had to say in recent weeks.

(Turned out he was wrong about some of the winners, right about others.)

Anyway, the red carpet stuff doesn't really interest me so I was cruising through Facebook, as I said earlier, to read conversation threads on the Oscars.

About an hour before the actual awards broadcast began, the minister at my church (Methodist) posted this statement: "Oscar voters are 94 percent white, 77 percent male, with a median age of 62."

This set off a thread that drew comments for two hours. The minister at my church is vocal about his support for liberal causes (there was a highly publicized same–sex marriage here this weekend that had him and many others fired up) and the clear presumption of the remark was that these old white men would behave as right–wing reactionaries when casting their votes.

Within minutes of the original post, two people replied, "That explains a lot."

To make sure the point wasn't lost, another replied, "Just like the Republican Party!" (The good pastor was among half a dozen folks who liked that comment.)

Still another replied, "Are they from the south?" (The good pastor liked that one, too, but he was the only one.)

Another one asked, "How is that possible in what is reputed to be very liberal Hollywood?"

Notice that the original post only mentioned race, gender and age. I ask you: What do those characteristics by themselves have to do with political philosophy? My father would fit in all three categories, and he is a liberal Democrat.

(Remember that same–sex marriage I mentioned earlier? It was conducted by a retired minister who would easily fit in all three of the demographic groups mentioned in the original post as well — and I doubt that anyone would call him a conservative.)

To continue ...

Another person commented, "That explains why Sandra Bullock was nominated. And why 12 Years doesn't stand a chance." (The good pastor liked that one, too — and it proved to be 100% wrong in its assumption.)

Bullock did not win Best Actress. Cate Blanchett did. And "12 Years a Slave" did win Best Picture.

(Incidentally, Lupita Nyong'o of Kenya won Best Supporting Actress. And Best Supporting Actor went to Jared Leto for his portrayal of a transgender woman.)

Liberals like to tell themselves — and especially others — that they are tolerant, that they are above this sort of thing, but the fact is that no group, no matter how high–minded it believes itself to be, has a monopoly on tolerance, stereotyping or hypocrisy.

Failure to Lead

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"The validity of the public debt of the United States, authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall not be questioned."

14th Amendment, U.S. Constitution
Section 4

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Yesterday, I was talking on Facebook with a fellow I have known since we were children in Arkansas. He still lives there. I do not.

I have been in the habit, from time to time, of posting links to politically oriented articles on Facebook. If you've been reading this blog regularly, you probably have a good idea what kind of links I've been posting.

My friend is an Obama defender (a rare breed in Arkansas), and I guess he's been feeling a bit put upon lately. (As you may have noticed, many Obama defenders have been on the defensive. Some feel Obama didn't receive enough credit for the mission that took out bin Laden. Others, no doubt, have felt that the debate over the debt ceiling undermined his authority.) He took exception to my posts.

Anyway, he remarked: "We get it. You don't like Obama."

That isn't really true. I don't have anything against the man personally. In fact, in an odd kind of way, I feel about him in much the same way I did about Ronald Reagan — on a personal, not political, level.

On that personal level, I liked Reagan. I rarely agreed with him on the issues, but I liked him personally. And, on that personal level, I like Barack Obama, too. I agree with his positions on issues more than I did Reagan, but I get frustrated at his insistence on not leading.

And I have been frustrated by Obama's supporters, who have frequently accused me of being a racist when the truth is that I have disagreed with the president — or criticized his failure to lead. I challenge anyone to cite a single example where I have said something that was racist.

A presidency is not, contrary to what Karl Rove once suggested, about with whom you would rather share a beer. (OK, maybe some people treat it that way, but I don't.) When I vote in a presidential election, I am not picking a drinking buddy. I am picking the person I want to lead my country in the next four years.

And even if I don't vote for the candidate who wins (and that has happened much too frequently in my life), I still expect the winner to lead. I may not like the direction, but at least I have a clear idea where we're going.

I prefer that to a rudderless ship of state.

Obama appears to want to run for re–election on his terms. He wants to be the outsider he was in 2008, free to criticize policy. But he isn't an outsider anymore. He is an incumbent and, as such, he is part of the process now.

The policies are his.

With outsiders, voters can only rely upon their gut instincts about whether the candidate would have what it takes to lead a nation of more than 300 million people. It is mostly hypothetical.

With incumbents, voters have had many opportunities to see for themselves. It is not hypothetical.

I suppose that, because of Obama's twin messages of hope and change, a majority of voters in 2008 believed he possessed those leadership qualities, that he had a definite idea where he wanted to take America. I never felt that way. I don't know why. It was my gut reaction.

I didn't vote for Obama in 2008 (actually, I voted for Ralph Nader), but if he showed even the slightest inclination toward leadership, I would consider voting for him in 2012. To date, he has not.

And that was the gist of my response to my friend.

I didn't want to say that I think Obama is a likable guy — because that isn't what the presidency is about to me. Obama's likability is not relevant to whether he can do the job.

I think it is important to like the president, but that is secondary to someone who has the courage to stand for what he believes is best for the nation.

"He isn't leading, Paul," I replied.

Paul's response? "I figure it's pretty difficult to lead a bunch of spoiled petulant whiney–assed teabaggers who operate under a 'Scorched Earth' policy. S&P stated that it appeared that the Bush II tax cuts would not expire, therefore no increased revenue. There's only so much that can be cut from a budget."

I replied that Obama could have invoked the Fourteenth Amendment.

When most people speak of the Fourteenth Amendment, they do so in the context of its provisions for citizenship, due process and equal protection, which are important, to be sure, but the amendment also addresses the subject of public debt. It was a little–known provision of the amendment until recently.

Legal scholars disagree over the powers that the amendment gives to the president. Some have said that it gives the president the authority to raise or ignore the debt ceiling and that, if challenged in court, the ruling likely would be in the president's favor — if the court agreed to hear it at all.

Others have said the amendment does not give such power to the chief executive.

In the legal community, it is seen as an unresolved issue.

Seems to me the debt ceiling debate of 2011 would have been a good time to test it — since it has never been tested before. Both sides mentioned during that debate how many times presidents from both parties had sought to raise the debt ceiling.

I figured this would be a good time to settle it — hopefully, once and for all.

But this was Paul's response: "Congress would promptly draw up impreachment papers."

"On what grounds?" I asked.

"They'd think of something," he replied.

Ah, yes, the infamous "they." Nearly every president in my memory — and/or his defenders/supporters — has fallen back on that one, in one way or another. They are always engaged in some kind of conspiracy against the incumbent.

Richard Nixon probably was the best at that claim. He always believed someone was out to get him — which may or may not have been true. But most of his predecessors have come to believe something similar.

I guess it is a natural progression for a president, often isolated in the White House, from the adulation of the campaign trail to a feeling of persecution once in office.

But a president's supporters are not isolated. They're outside the Beltway where they can see the effects of public policy on their friends, neighbors, co–workers (if they still have their jobs).

My friend's recitation of the company line suggests to me that Obama's failure to lead is beginning to wear on his supporters, and that does not augur well for his re–election campaign, no matter how much money he has raised.

I get the sense that Obama's supporters are becoming demoralized

I had to ask my friend, "Is fear of impeachment a valid excuse for a president not to lead?" He didn't reply.

Is leadership really that important? Well, it's definitely a component of job approval, and that, I believe, is a key figure, one that a president who is seeking a second term ignores at his peril. It addresses the general feeling people have about their president — and, with the exception of the brief bounce he experienced after the killing of bin Laden in early May, Obama's approval rating has languished in the 40s almost nonstop for two years.

At a comparable point in his first term, George W. Bush enjoyed approval ratings in the 50s.

President Clinton's approval ratings, like Obama's, were in the 40s in his third year in office. He went on to win a second term, the only Democrat to do so since FDR, so he is something of a motivational figure for this White House — but there were some important differences.

In 1995, Clinton's approval numbers were slowly beginning to move in an upward trajectory — and he achieved it largely because he demonstrated presidential leadership in the face of a Congress in which both chambers were controlled by the opposition party — which was every bit as committed to removing Clinton from office then as it is to removing Obama today.

Clinton, of course, eventually faced impeachment proceedings — which may be the reason my friend is skittish about impeachment, but he needn't be. Democrats hold the majority in the Senate, which would have to convict for the president to be removed from office. Two–thirds of the Senate would have to vote for conviction, and I don't think that is likely to happen with this Senate and this president.

Maybe my friend is concerned about the prospect of the executive branch of government being preoccupied with impeachment proceedings during an election year, and the Clinton experience is fresh in his mind. I suppose that is a legitimate fear — but there is more for Obama to learn from the Clinton presidency.

Clinton knew the importance of leadership. Maybe it was his extensive experience as a state governor, experience that Obama did not bring with him to the West Wing.

Clinton said he would not have hesitated to invoke the 14th Amendment, and I think its application would have shown, at the very least, that this president is engaged, that he is thinking beyond the next election and is concerned with how he can leave the presidency better than he found it.

And sparing future presidents the ordeal to which the debt ceiling debate — and the subsequent lowering of the national credit rating — subjected the White House and the American people is a good way to do that.

Instead, I have heard more and more people lamenting the absence of leadership in this White House. That affects a president's job approval — which will, in turn, affect his vote totals.

I ask again — "Is fear of impeachment a valid excuse for a president not to lead?"

God Only Knows

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Today would have been my friend Phyllis' birthday.

Regular readers of this blog might remember when Phyllis died back in August, and I sought to use my blog as a way of coming to terms with the sense of loss I was feeling.

Well, actually, I used all three of my blogs that way. In addition to this blog, I write a blog about movies and music and books, and I write another blog about sports. My memories of Phyllis transcend topics so, at one time or another after she died, I felt compelled to mention her in each of my blogs — more extensively in some than others.

How am I doing? Well, I'm OK, I guess. I'm still having my random thoughts, my doubts about the afterlife and all that. But, while this could be said to be part of my grieving and healing process, I want to focus today on some random memories of Phyllis.

Because, no matter how I'm feeling or how I'm coping (or trying to cope) with my loss, October 16 is and always will be Phyllis' day in my mind.

• Phyllis and I met in sixth grade. In my then–small hometown, children went to one of three elementary schools, depending upon where their homes were located. Phyllis and I went to different elementary schools through the fifth grade, then the students from all three elementary schools were mixed together in the middle school melting pot, and (assuming their families remained in town) they stayed together through the end of high school.
  
  Consequently, when you advanced to middle school and started sixth grade, there were the familiar faces of people you had known since first grade and a whole bunch of unfamiliar faces, people you needed to get to know because they were likely to play important roles in your life for the next seven years.
  
  Middle school was a real change. In the first three grades, as I recall, students had the same teacher all day. In fourth and fifth grades, we had different teachers for different subjects, but we moved from one teacher to the next as a group throughout the day. The only face that differed from one class period to the next was the teacher's.
  
  In middle school, the structure was pretty much what it was for the rest of my public school life. There were hour–long class periods, and one's teachers and classmates changed from one hour to the next.
  
  I might start the day in math class, for example, but then, when first period was over, I would go to my next class, which might be history or English or science or whatever. There might be some students in that class who were with me in first period but not always — and rarely very many.
  
  I remember quite well the sea of faces that greeted me on that first day of middle school. I couldn't tell you who most of them were, but I do remember Phyllis.
  
  Now, as I wrote in August, I always think of music when I think of Phyllis and, for some reason, I think of "My Sweet Lord" when I try to remember the first time we met. Since I wrote that, though, I have been less and less certain that the song actually was playing nearby, on the radio or a stereo, when we met.
  
  I speculated a couple of months ago that that song may have been a hit on the radio when Phyllis and I started sixth grade. Maybe it was. Or maybe my mind is linking a popular song from that period to Phyllis because of her flair for music — or because of her faith in God.
  
  In short, there may be no event from my childhood that is buried in my subconscious mind that should make me think of "My Sweet Lord" — but I think of Phyllis when I hear it, anyway.
  
  God only knows why.
  
  I guess the earliest memory I have of Phyllis that is based on an actual event is from those early days of middle school, when everything was new.
  
  Our teacher — a middle–aged black woman (the first black teacher I ever had, by the way) — was going through the class roll and trying, without much success, to pronounce some of the most difficult surnames in our class. (Years later, many of those names would cause similar pronunciation problems for the folks who had to call out our names as we walked across the stage to receive our diplomas the night of our high school graduation.)
  
  Phyllis' last name was Yarbrough so, alphabetically, hers was always the last — or nearly the last — name to be called. By the time our sixth–grade teacher got to her name, she seemed to be on the verge of just giving up and looked out at the young faces in the room, seemingly searching for help, and she just said, "Phyllis ..." and sort of trailed off.
  
  Phyllis had been through that before, and, without batting an eye, she told the teacher that other teachers had had trouble pronouncing it, too. One teacher, she said, called her Phyllis Yarber. Then she told the teacher how to pronounce her name.
  
  But if the teacher got it wrong, Phyllis said, she shouldn't worry about it.
  
  "I'll answer to just about anything!" she assured the teacher, and the rest of the class laughed.
  
  As nearly as I can tell, that was the first time we met. I knew, right then and there, that I liked her. And I think the rest of the class felt the same way.
  
  I even mentioned that memory to Phyllis during one of our Facebook "chats" in the last year of her life. She didn't exactly recall the incident, which was understandable, I guess. How could one remember a single incident from one's childhood?
  
  But that memory has remained with me, and I hope it always does because — to me — it says so much about who Phyllis was.


• She was born just about six weeks before I was. One day shy of six weeks, as a matter of fact. Exactly 41 days.
  
  So, on Sept. 15, I quietly noted the fact that I had lived as long as Phyllis did. A month has now passed since that day.
  
  Even if I die in the next few minutes, I still will have lived longer than my friend. But I doubt that I have acquired as much wisdom as she did.
  
  And I really don't think my death, whenever it comes, will be as significant to as many people as hers.
  
  That isn't really a regret, just a statement of a fact, recognition of how much she meant to so many people.
  
  You know how, when you toss a pebble into a pond, it creates rings that start out small but keep expanding until they reach the shoreline — or whatever physical barrier they may encounter? That was what Phyllis' influence on people always seemed like to me. It started small, with the initial contact, and then got greater and greater.
  
  I guess most people have a similar ripple effect — for good or evil — on all the lives they touch. It is more pronounced, I suppose, with those who are at the extremes.
  
  A serial killer, for example, may leave in his wake the parents, siblings, lovers, children, friends, classmates, co–workers of his victims, and, if he is given the death sentence, few, if any, of those people will mourn his passing when it is carried out.
  
  But there are those at the other end of the spectrum, like Phyllis, who encourage the people in their lives, who lift them up and help them find their way.
  
  And, as the angel Clarence told George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," they leave a huge hole when they aren't around.
  
  Phyllis left a considerable hole in a great many lives.
  
  There was a time, back in January, when I was pursuing what appeared, at the time, to be a promising writing opportunity. Part of my "audition" — for lack of a better term — required me to submit ideas for a potential TV show that would be aimed at children in the 8–12 age range.
  
  I have never married and I have no children of my own, so I didn't have much experience upon which to draw, but, in the last couple of years, I have reconnected (through Facebook and other sources) with many old friends who have been married and who have raised children. And I sought input from many of them.
  
  To be totally honest, I was really amazed at the response I got. I didn't ask for Phyllis' input because, although she had two stepsons, she didn't raise them, but I told her about the assignment and I listened, as always, to anything that she had to say.
  
  Anyway, I remember talking to her about the response I had received from maybe two dozen of the women with whom Phyllis and I went to school. I never thought of myself as particularly popular when I was growing up, and many of the women who responded to my inquiry were the sort who struck me, when I was a teenager, as being among the elite.
  
  They were, in my eyes, the beautiful people, and, when I was a teenager, I didn't think they would want to have much to do with the likes of me.
  
  But maybe I was wrong. Or maybe (probably) attitudes changed over the years. Anyway, I was telling Phyllis about the response to my inquiries. I guess, in spite of my best efforts, some of that inner 14–year–old boy came to the surface, and she could tell how astonished I was.
  
  "Sounds like a lot of people love you," she said.
  
  That was such a typically Phyllis thing for her to say yet, in a way, it took me by surprise. If we had been sitting in the same room and we'd been having that conversation, I probably could have said it with her, word for word — and we might have laughed, the way that only people who have known each other for a long time can.
  
  That's one of the things I will always remember about Phyllis. The laughter. She was always laughing. And she never laughed at you. She laughed with you.
  
  If she ever laughed at anyone, it was herself.
  
  Anyway, I might well have anticipated — in a Radar O'Reilly kind of way — what she was going to say.
  
  But it surprised me, too, because it contradicted what I have always thought about myself and my relationships with many of the people I knew growing up.
  
  Maybe it's true that most people simply cannot see themselves as others see them.
  
  God only knows.
  
  But if anyone I ever knew was truly loved by many, it was Phyllis. I don't know if she ever knew that. I hope she did.


• For whatever reason, I've been remembering, this morning, a truly meaningless incident from our high school days. Phyllis and I were in some sort of civics class together, and one night we were attending a city council meeting for that class — perhaps as an assignment, perhaps for extra credit. We were keeping notes that we were to turn in to our teacher.
  
  Anyway, something came up during the meeting, and Phyllis and I got kind of sidetracked by it. One of us started writing a note to the other, then handed the notebook to that person, who read it and wrote a response in his/her notebook and handed it to the other one.
  
  This process was repeated over and over and over for the rest of the meeting, creating a running dialogue that balanced precariously between the two notebooks. I recall neither of us mentioning any of the agenda items that were discussed after we veered off on our tangent.
  
  I also recall that we started giggling a few times, which drew disdainful looks from some of the council members so we tried to stifle our laughs. After all, we wanted to remain in the council room.
  
  Somehow, we avoided being ejected. But the episode wasn't over.
  
  Now, for the fallout ...
  
  Our teacher, who retired several years ago and may or may not still be living, was apparently stressed to the max by trying to grade our notes/papers.
  
  I don't remember the grades (or extra credit) we received, but I do remember that she wrote identical paragraphs at the end of our notes, complaining about having to juggle our papers to keep track of the conversation!
  
  And she half–threatened to give us only half credit for attending the meeting. But Phyllis and I didn't take that seriously. We were her two best students. She wouldn't lower our grades for being silly!
  
  Looking back on it now, it wasn't a great moment in education or community government, but it was a good example of the playful nature of our friendship.
  
  As I say, totally meaningless and probably a waste of a minute or two of your time, but a memory that brings a smile to my face. It is a real pleasure, on this day, to remember that evening all those years ago.


• Even now, nearly three months since her death, Phyllis is teaching me things about life. Like how completely honest old friends can be with each other.
  
  In life and on Facebook, Phyllis rarely threw anything away. Facebook will post even the most innocuous of your activities, and Phyllis was a devotee of Facebook games like FarmVille and the like. On Facebook, you can delete anything on your "wall," but, if you visit Phyllis' page, you can find announcements about her achievements in FarmVille and other activities from a year ago — or longer.
  
  Anyway, not long ago, I was looking back at the things people wrote on her "wall" on this day last year. It was sort of like a time capsule.
  
  There were many messages that wished her a happy birthday or advised her to do something special. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.
  
  Then there was a post from Phyllis, and the birthday girl thanked her friends for their birthday wishes — and for not mentioning her age.
  
  Then there was a post from a mutual friend of ours from our high school days. "Gee, you're old," he wrote.
  
  That's the kind of thing that only an old friend can say.
  
  And it makes me regret all the more that I won't be able to enjoy the pleasure of Phyllis' company as I get older.


• Not long after Phyllis died, I pointed out that she died on the anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death.
  
  I guess that is appropriate. Phyllis, as I have said before, was a fan of old movies — and old movie stars. Her favorite was Clark Gable, who died when she was a toddler.
  
  I suppose, if Phyllis had been given a choice, she might have chosen a different star with whom to share her date of death. If she had lived another three months, she could have died on the anniversary of Gable's death.
  
  (Well, maybe August 5 was the next best thing. After all, Marilyn and Gable co–starred in what turned out to be the final movie for both.)
  
  But I only recently learned something about the day Phyllis was born. On that very day, George C. Marshall died at the age of 78.
  
  It seems fitting to me. Marshall was an accomplished man in many endeavors — a skilled military leader who helped prepare the Allied forces for the D–Day invasion (and who might have been president if he had been chosen — as was widely presumed at the time — to lead the invasion instead of Dwight Eisenhower), a humanitarian who, as secretary of state, oversaw the implementation of his Marshall Plan that played a crucial role in Europe's postwar recovery — and was rewarded with a Nobel Prize.
  
  Marshall was admired by many for his accomplishments on a worldwide stage. Phyllis' stage was considerably smaller, but her influence was no less to those whose lives she touched. She left behind many friends and admirers who will long remember her achievements.
  
  Well, Phyllis was one of those people who is hard to forget.

Most of the time these days, the memories of her life's achievements make me smile.

Those memories are made bittersweet, of course, by the knowledge that I can't share them with her. Ever again.

And there are still times when those memories bring tears to my eyes.

So, I guess, even on this day — Phyllis' day — when I want to think only of the happy times I shared with my friend, I can't entirely avoid my own conflicts.

I want to be happy for her, to be glad that the pain she experienced is over. I want to believe she is in a better place — but, while I do find personal inspiration, as I did when I was growing up, in the stories of Jesus' teachings, I can feel my faith waver on the subject of the afterlife.

And the questions have been more persistent since Phyllis died.

As I say, I'd like to believe she is in a better place. But, if I am honest with myself, I am not sure about it. I can only hope — perhaps mostly for selfish reasons — that there is an afterlife.

Because, if there is an afterlife, I can hope to someday see Phyllis again — as well as my mother and my grandparents and many other friends who are missed.

But, if there is not an afterlife, then this is all there is. Death will mean returning to the void from which I came.

I guess that wouldn't be so bad — except that it would make what happens here kind of pointless.

Well, I guess that depends on your point of view.

Phyllis was one of those people who believed that contributing in some way to an improved quality of life for those who follow is what matters, whether there is a God or not. She happened to believe that there is a God, and she felt called upon by God to do whatever she could to make things better for future generations — but, even if you could have proven to her, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that God does not exist, she still would have felt that improving the quality of life for those who follow is what is important.

That's just the way she was.

That brings to mind an exchange we had in one of our Facebook chats in the last year of her life. We were talking about the 2008 election. Phyllis, as I wrote at the time of her death, was raised a Democrat, but she became a Republican when Ronald Reagan was elected president.

Anyway, in 2008, she voted for John McCain, but she spoke in our chat of how happy she had been for her black countrymen, most of whom supported Barack Obama, on Election Night. "I was glad that it was so empowering for them," she told me.

Seldom, if ever, in my life have I heard a member of one political party speak so generously of the supporters of a victorious candidate from the other political party.

But that was Phyllis. She never mentioned whether she was particularly moved by the experience of voting for a presidential ticket that included a woman (I presume it was her first time to do that. I mean, she could have voted for the Mondale–Ferraro ticket against Reagan, but I don't think she did). She only spoke of the boost Obama's victory gave to black Americans.

Sometimes, I visit Phyllis' page on Facebook. I'm not sure why. But it seems that others do, too.

Phyllis was cremated and her ashes were scattered in a meaningful place, which is not a bad thing, but the problem is that there is no grave to visit, no place to pay one's respects.

No place to seek a semblance of closure. And I'm sure that may seem, to my longtime readers, like a strange statement to come from me. They know I'm skeptical about the concept of closure. But the crazy part is that I do feel a kind of closure when I visit that page.

Well, perhaps closure is the wrong word. I'm just not sure what the right word would be. Peace, maybe? Or calm?

I think, this must be how people who have lost loved ones at sea — or, perhaps, how the friends and relatives of many of the September 11 victims, the ones of whom no trace was found — must feel. Maybe that is why I come to Phyllis' Facebook page. It may be why others do, too.

Most may be like me — periodic visitors who just drop by to look and think, to meditate, as if one were sitting next to a babbling brook or beneath a shady tree. But a few leave messages, even though they know Phyllis can't read them.

It is sort of like lighting a candle or leaving a bouquet of flowers. Therapeutic, I suppose.

It's kind of like an emotional/psychological yardstick. Do you remember how your parents would use a yardstick to periodically measure you to see how tall you were? I kind of feel those messages for Phyllis are like that. If you're missing her more than usual, you can leave a message on her wall and come back months later and compare how you are feeling to how you had been feeling then — and measure your emotional growth.

"Missing you," wrote one.

I know that feeling. There are often times when a simple thought crosses my mind — "I miss you, Phyllis." I don't know where that thought comes from or what prompts it. Just an honest statement. It seldom comes with a context — even one as simple as "Gee, I wish you were here."

Actually, I guess, I kind of prefer the times when there is a logical context for that feeling. I just started teaching again (on an adjunct basis) after several years away from it. Phyllis was once a teacher, and there are times when I really miss the insights she could have provided — and that I expected to receive until about two weeks before the semester began.

But often — inexplicably — just that simple thought — "I miss you, Phyllis" — is what crosses my mind. Nothing else.

This isn't really new for me. I have been having that same experience since my mother died 15 years ago. There has seldom been a day in all those years when I haven't thought, at least once, of how much I miss her.

Sometimes my thought is not addressed to either Mom or Phyllis in particular but with both in mind — as if their spirits were sitting in the room, nodding knowingly and silently, barred from communicating with me directly because of some heavenly dictum.

I know all too well what it is like to miss someone who is never coming back.

Another wrote that she was "happy that you are out of pain ... sad for the rest of us who don't get to joke around with you anymore."

And I agree with that. Phyllis was in a lot of pain in the last years of her life, and I'm glad that is over for her. But still I miss her. I can't help it.

I swear, I really didn't want to write about how I'm coping. Today is supposed to be Phyllis' day.

When will I stop missing you, Phyllis? Will I ever stop missing you?

God only knows.

Mysterious Ways

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The Bible tells us that God moves in mysterious ways.

And it is not given to us humans, I have often been told, to understand those ways. We are asked to accept them — even when the logical and rational mind practically screams out, "Why?"

If you read this blog yesterday, you know that a dear friend of mine died a couple of days ago — but I didn't find out about it until yesterday. And I have been trying to make sense of it.

I guess it takes me a couple of days of putting my thoughts down — I used to do it on paper, now it's mostly on the computer screen — before I can adjust to this kind of news. My friend's name, in case you didn't read my earlier entry, was Phyllis, and she had colon cancer.

But that may not have been the cause of her death.

I've had several friends now who have died of cancer. In fact, today is the anniversary of one of those deaths. As a result, I guess you could say I never really feel that, once someone has been diagnosed with cancer, he or she is ever truly cancer–free. Some of my friends thought that they were cancer–free, only to learn their cancer had returned.

But I never say anything about that to a friend who has cancer, though. And I always hope for the best. I rejoice with my friends if they tell me that their doctors have told them they are in remission. And, in some cases, I suppose, some people I know have been cured — not temporarily but in the truest sense of the word.

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, after all, was diagnosed with colon cancer a decade ago. Last year she was treated for pancreatic cancer. But she's still around at the age of 77. I don't know if that means she has permanently beaten her cancer. But she has survived.

So there are exceptions. And I try to remember that. But I guess I've been conditioned since early in my life to regard a cancer diagnosis as a death sentence — one that may be carried out shortly or after a long, drawn–out, roller–coaster ride (both mentally and physically), but one that is, ultimately, unavoidable.

Many strides have been made in the treatment of cancer since I was a little boy. Some types of cancer have been conquered. And survival rates are, at least, better for other types of cancer than they were. So the mere mention of the word cancer in a diagnosis does not automatically mean there is no hope — as it once did.

Now, as I said yesterday, I don't know the details of Phyllis' death. At the time she went in to the hospital, I really believed she was being treated for pneumonia. And perhaps she was.

I'm not a doctor, but I figured the diagnosis of pneumonia might have complicated her cancer treatment. And that made sense to me. Maybe I misunderstood. Or perhaps Phyllis chose not to fill in all the blanks.

I can't honestly say what my rationale was. I just didn't feel her pneumonia was a threat to her life.

And that is, I guess, why I felt such a sense of shock when I heard about Phyllis' death. Maybe that's why I have felt so blindsided by this news. Perhaps if I had been there and I had been able to see her with my own two eyes, I would have seen that my friend was dying.

And I would have felt better prepared for it when it came to pass.

But there was too much physical distance between us.

Phyllis was living in our hometown of Conway, Ark., at the time of her death — although I know she lived in other places after we graduated from high school together — and I have been living in Dallas for the last 14 years. I really couldn't tell you the last time we actually saw each other, the last time we heard each other's voices, the last time we hugged. We reconnected on Facebook last year and "chatted" there from time to time.

And it was through Facebook in the last couple of months that I picked up tidbits of news — that Phyllis had been in intensive care, that she had been removed from intensive care. But I heard nothing more substantial than that until yesterday.

I gather, from what I have picked up since, that it was primarily pneumonia that ended her life. Perhaps a doctor would tell you that it was the pneumonia and the cancer combined that finished her off. I'm certainly no doctor, but I know that, even though pneumonia doesn't usually kill people in our age group, a compromised system is more vulnerable to opportunistic diseases.

So, perhaps her cancer played an indirect role. Or perhaps pneumonia was the sole cause of death. It doesn't really matter. I don't need to see the death certificate.

All I need to know is that my friend is dead — and our mutual friends and I are grieving.

It is, as I say, a place I've been before. It isn't one I have been eager to revisit.

This is eerily reminiscent — 19 years ago, when I was in north Texas, finishing my work on my master's degree, another old friend from my Arkansas days was diagnosed with cancer in the spring. He declined rapidly, then died on Wednesday, Aug. 7, 1991. A mutual friend called me that night with the news and told me his parents wanted me to be a pallbearer at the funeral in Pine Bluff that Saturday.

So I did what I had to do to get ready to drive to Little Rock after work on Friday. I would stay overnight with a friend who also was going to be a pallbearer, then we would drive to Pine Bluff for the funeral the next day.

It was a busy time for me, and the distraction was welcome. Without it, I would have spent every waking moment thinking about my friend. But, even so, I always felt that I was right on the edge of breaking down — except for a few minutes that Friday night, when I was driving along the highway that cuts through southwestern Arkansas sometime after sundown.

There wasn't much traffic, stars filled the sky and temperatures were dropping. I rolled down my window a little and switched on the radio. Immediately, I heard the Eagles singing a song I seldom heard before and even more rarely since, "My Man."

It seemed as if Mike was talking to me through the song:

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"My man's got it made
He's gone far beyond the pain
And we who must remain
Go on living just the same
We who must remain
Go on laughing just the same."

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Here I am, 19 years later, and another friend has gone far beyond the pain. And I am reminded how desperately I want to hope.

I hope the song speaks the truth. I hope Phyllis does have it made now. I hope there really is an afterlife because, if there is, I have no doubt that she is reaping her rewards for the life she lived here on earth. (I may have my doubts from time to time about whether an afterlife exists, but I have no doubt that, if it does, certain people I have known in my life are there.)

Many of those "who must remain" will be gathering in my hometown a week from Monday to remember Phyllis and celebrate her life. I wish I could be there. But I can't help feeling that, even though I can't be there, Phyllis' spirit is working some of her special magic.

And it makes me hopeful that an afterlife really does exist.

In the aftermath of her death, I have reconnected in Facebook with a mutual friend from my high school years, also named David, who is living in this area. He'll be in my hometown in the days leading up to Phyllis' memorial, working on the arrangements, then I will be starting my new job the next week, but we've agreed to get together and have a couple of Cokes about three weeks from now.

It's been a long time since we've seen each other — and, David, if you're reading this, I must warn you that my hair isn't brown anymore! — so we'll probably spend some time getting caught up. And we'll certainly reminisce about Phyllis.

It may be a good thing that some time will pass before we get together. If we were getting together today, I'm sure there would be many tears from both of us.

Three weeks probably won't be enough time to completely drain those tear ducts, though, and we were two of many who loved Phyllis so I'm sure there will be moments when one of us will say something that moves the other to tears.

That's a healthy part of the grieving process, I guess, and, if one believes in the afterlife, which Phyllis clearly did, it will be helpful to believe that she has gone beyond her pain and that now, she's got it made.

And we who must remain will go on living and laughing, even when it means laughing through the tears, because Phyllis brought a lot of laughter into all our lives. We will miss that and we will miss her.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to listen to "My Man."

Goodbye, Old Friend

I got some news today that I was not anxious to receive.

In the internet age, news travels faster than it ever has. Such speed is a mixed blessing at times. Sometimes it's wrong — and sometimes you hope it is wrong.

And today I got some news that I hoped would be wrong — but I knew, deep down, that it wasn't. When I saw the e–mail in my inbox, all I could see was a name. But I just had a sinking feeling ...

A dear friend of mine, someone I have known since the sixth grade, has passed away.

Her name was Phyllis, and she had many talents, many gifts. She was a great scholar, knowledgeable about so many subjects. She was a talented musician. I will always remember the mostly friendly rivalry she and her good friend Cindy had in academics and music, where they competed for first chair flute.

And she may have been the most devoted friend I will ever have.

We lost touch, as school chums often do, for many years, but we got reconnected on Facebook last year — and I will always be grateful for that. We got caught up, we "chatted" on occasion. Phyllis gave me a boost when I was feeling down, and I tried to do the same for her.

In fact, it was just about a year ago that I was called in for a promising job interview. Phyllis and I chatted about it online, then I felt inspired to write about my friend and my sense of optimism (which turned out to be misplaced, I guess, since I didn't get the job, but my feelings for Phyllis were genuine and definitely not misplaced).

A few days later, I felt inspired to write about her again. This time, I wrote about the love of her life. He did not come into her life until rather late, but he clearly completed her existence. He was her "other half," as the saying goes.

At one point in one of our conversations, we talked about significant others. I have never married, but Phyllis encouraged me to marry if I find someone. I told her I would even though I also told her that I think I have concluded that that isn't in the cards for me.

"I thought that about myself, too," Phyllis told me, "and then I met Hawk."

I think even Phyllis would agree that she was not a "classic beauty," but she was a beautiful person, and nearly a year ago, after we had been chatting online, I felt moved to write about beauty and Phyllis' relationship with her husband.

Here's an excerpt from that post, although I encourage you to read the whole thing:

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"My friend has had some serious health problems in recent years, and she mentioned (in what I could only imagine were tones of amazement since the conversation was written and not spoken) that her husband 'thinks I am beautiful and sexy even when I know I can't possibly be.'

"That, it seems to me, is the definition of love — an attraction based not merely on physical desire but on other, more intangible factors.

"And, with all due respect to my friend, this isn't about what she thinks of herself. It's about what her husband thinks. If he thinks she is beautiful and sexy, she is. No one else's opinion matters."

---

It was like that when we were in high school in Arkansas, too. Phyllis was an inspiration to me when I was learning the craft of writing. I believe she inspired some of the best things I have ever written.

In the future, I hope her memory will continue to inspire me.

And I will always be thankful that she found a mate with whom she shared such a bond.

There are so many things that make me think of Phyllis. A few minutes ago, I was looking idly at my bookshelf, lost in thought, and my eyes came to rest on my paperback copy of "Gone With the Wind." It was one of Phyllis' favorite books when we were in school together — and I assume it remained one of her favorites. The film was one of her favorite films — in no small part because Clark Gable was one of her favorite actors.

Will I ever be able to watch that movie or read a passage from that book without thinking of Phyllis? I hope not.

Which reminds me ...

Back in the spring — perhaps it was in the late winter — we were chatting on Facebook. "The Purple Rose of Cairo" — one of my favorite Woody Allen movies — was being shown on cable that evening, and she told me she had never seen it. I encouraged her to switch it on. She didn't, but she said she would get it through Netflix and watch it. We never discussed it again. I guess, from time to time, I'll wonder if she ever saw that movie.

More memories keep flooding back.

We were raised in what was traditionally Democratic Arkansas, but, around the time that we met, it was a rough time to be a Democrat. Richard Nixon was about to bury George McGovern all across the country but his landslide in Arkansas was particularly stout. Phyllis and I had very Democratic parents who were bucking a very pronounced state trend by supporting McGovern. We knew we were outnumbered, and we formed a rather small alliance of like–minded friends at school in what we called the "McGovern Club."

As news of Phyllis' passing has been spreading today, a friend of mine named Doug, who was one of the charter members of that club, sent me an e–mail in which he said, "The McGovern Club is down to two members now. I'm sure Phyllis would want us to carry on (or she might kick me out of the club for supporting McCain last time.)"

I told my friend that Phyllis had told me that she, too, voted for McCain last time. And I told Phyllis that I voted for Nader. She said she was proud of me for voting my convictions.

I think Phyllis became a Republican when Reagan was president. I'm not sure when Doug became a Republican. And, about seven months ago, I wrote that I now consider myself an independent.

But, technically, Doug is right, I guess. I don't recall who the other members of the club were; I just recall that there were a few others. And, while some or all of them may still be alive and kicking, Phyllis, Doug and I were the primary members, I suppose. And now there are two.

Damn.

I wish we had had more time, but I guess one always feels that way. It will have to be enough, I suppose, to be thankful for the fact that we reunited while we still could. Perhaps it will be a reminder to me in the future not to take anyone or anything for granted.

Phyllis had been suffering from colon cancer, which ultimately forced her to give up a job she loved and go on disability. And, although I don't have many details at this point, I presume it was the cancer that took her life. But it was my understanding, when she went into the hospital — what was it, several weeks? a few months? ago — that she had pneumonia.

Pneumonia is serious, of course, but it isn't generally fatal for people in our age group. So I was concerned. But I was also convinced that she would recover.

Then, a few weeks ago, I heard that she had been in the intensive care unit — and then I heard that she had been taken out of the ICU. Again, I thought she was on the mend.

But, apparently, I was wrong.

I can imagine all sorts of scenarios. And perhaps one day I will know the truth. But even if I learn the facts, it won't change the most important truth.

My friend is gone, far too soon.

Goodbye, Phyllis. I'll keep looking for my "other half."

And if I find her, my greatest regret will be that I won't be able to tell you about her.

Changing Time(s)

On the "fall back" weekend, when we get an extra hour to sleep (at least, that is how it is supposed to work — theoretically), I usually think of my mother. She taught first grade, and she used to say she liked this weekend better than any other.

This year was no exception. I was again reminded of my mother, although I had a little help. When I got up this morning, I logged on to Facebook and found the following entry from a woman who once was one of my editing students. She is now raising a 4–year–old boy.

"Extra hour of sleep? Yeah right. Nobody told my 4 year old."

I imagine that my mother would have sympathized. She raised two boys, and I suspect that she didn't look forward to the arrival of the "fall back" weekend until we were past the stage in our lives when we were prone to coming into her bedroom at the crack of dawn ready to begin the day.

I have no children of my own, but I haven't spent my adult years in a vacuum. Most of my friends are parents, and I have observed something in their children that I passed along to Laura.

"Even after they learn to tell time," I wrote, "children really only know two times of day for quite awhile — 'now' and 'not now.' "

A short time later, she reponded, "Sounds about right."

I left Facebook at that point and proceeded to the New York Times website — mostly to read its article on last night's World Series game between the Yankees and the Phillies.

But I got sidetracked by Maureen Dowd's column, which was about Barack Obama and one of the ways he distinguishes himself from his predecessor — by saluting the coffins of the casualties of war as they arrive in the United States.

"As Obama comforted families at a tragic moment, he also had to contemplate a tragic dimension of his own presidency: It's nice to talk about change, but you can't wipe away yesterday," Dowd wrote.

"Obama wants to be the cosmopolitan president of the world, and social engineer at home to improve the lives of Americans.

"But what he had in mind for renovating American society hinged on spending a lot of money on energy, education, the environment and health care. Instead, he has been trapped in the money pits of a recession and two wars.

"For now, the man who promised revolution will have to settle for managing adversity."

Just as parents would like to fast forward to the day when their children can understand the concept of time — and appreciate the value of an extra hour of sleep — I have no doubt that Obama would like to fast forward to the day when he has the freedom to focus on his higher objectives.

But that isn't how it works.

It's not that the unemployed or those who are deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan are not concerned about things like energy, education, the environment and health care. And it isn't that those things are not important.

But putting millions of Americans back to work and bringing American troops home safely are more urgent.

Maybe that sounds elementary, like things that are so basic that it should be assumed that they are priorities. But that's not the impression that is being left by the numbers; otherwise, NBC would not have devoted so much of an interview with Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner to it.

In some ways, I guess, adult Americans are like that 4–year–old boy I mentioned. They're focused on now. They may understand long–term goals. They may believe in long–term objectives. But those are concepts for many, word games for some.

It's fine to say that the recession is over — technically. But it won't be over for the unemployed until they have jobs.

And it's fine to say that America is winding down its involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. But that won't be a reality until sometime next year.

This may not be what Obama had in mind when he decided to seek the presidency. But it is what must be confronted.

Now.

Freedom of Speech

I believe in freedom of speech, the free exchange of ideas, the right to question what someone else has said or written. I do not block anyone from my blog. If someone wants to make a comment on anything I have written, that is fine.

I do not believe in freedom of abusive speech, of hateful speech, of speech that is intended to encourage violence.

When I say I believe in freedom of speech, that does not include the person or persons who recently set up a poll on Facebook asking whether the president should be killed. My guess is that he, she or they can expect a visit from the Secret Service at any time. Deservedly so.

And I agree with what Thomas Friedman writes in the New York Times. Yes, politics is a "tough business," as Friedman writes. It always has been. But, what Friedman calls a "cocktail of political and technological trends" has created a witches' brew that has spawned "a different kind of American political scene."

I have been thinking about freedom of speech today because I have been blocked from a website merely for asking a question.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will identify the site here. It is The Hinterland Gazette, formerly known as Black Political Thought. I referred to it on this blog yesterday. The item I questioned is referred to in my post.

I have been visiting the site off and on for quite awhile now — long enough to have an idea of how things are done there. And the treatment I have been given smacks of a double standard.

In the past, I have seen some really outrageous comments posted there by visitors. And I have seen the primary author of the site respond with a warning that the visitor(s) would be blocked in the future if similar comments were posted.

I have left comments on the site in the past. The author never took exception to any comments I left before.

Was yesterday's comment outrageous? I didn't think so. The post on the site suggested that the daughters of the Spanish prime minister were "secret Goths" because of the clothes they were wearing in a photograph of them with their parents and the Obamas. I left a comment and checked back later to see if there was any response. There wasn't one before I went to bed last night.

When I checked this morning, my comment had been deleted so I cannot quote it for you verbatim. But it was something like this: "Is this a fashion critique site? If it is not, why is this story important?"

I was never told that this was considered objectionable by the author or anyone affiliated with the site. I was never warned that I might be blocked from the site in the future. It was done arbitrarily. And now, whenever I try to write a comment, I get a message saying I am blocked from making comments.

Oddly enough, as of this morning, the site still includes my Freedom Writing blog on its favorite blogs list. I don't recall when this blog was added to that list, but it seems to me it has been on that list for close to a year.

So, apparently, the site encourages its readers to visit my blog. But it doesn't want me to comment on its posts.

Well, until such time as the site actually makes it impossible for me to look at its content, I will continue to do so. If I see something to which I take exception, I will say so here.

If those who run the site decide to physically block me from looking at its content, I will encourage my readers to boycott the site.

I'm being up front about my intentions here. No surprises. That is a courtesy that was never extended to me.

And I believe courtesy should go hand in hand with freedom of speech.

Ain't No Way to Hide From Pryin' Eyes

Earlier this year, an old friend of mine recommended that I sign up with Facebook. Actually, I have written about my experience, and you're welcome to read about it if you wish.

But I want to write about a different kind of experience I've been having with Facebook.

Some people have asked me about Facebook recently. If you are not familiar with Facebook, you can see limited information on just about everyone who has a Facebook account. To see more detailed information, either you or the other person must extend an invitation to be a friend on Facebook, and the other one must accept it.

You can connect with people in several different ways on Facebook, but the point is, once you have accepted each other as a friend, you then see everything the other person posts — and he/she sees everything that you post.

It's the privilege that comes with membership on Facebook.

It is possible to be friends on Facebook with people you do not know in real life. Once you become a member and you reconnect with genuine friends, Facebook will start telling you of the names of people who are friends on Facebook with people you know. Then it will be up to you whether to invite any of those people to be your friend on Facebook as well.

I assume this happens a lot because I've seen some people who have more than 1,000 friends. In fact, I have been told that there was a time when there was quite a heated competition going on among some members who were trying to accumulate these friends. Apparently, because of such competitions, Facebook established limits on how many friends one could acquire in a specific time frame.

My understanding is that these limits are really quite generous — several hundred, I think, maybe 1,000 in a month or two. I really don't know because it has been a non–issue for me. As I write this, I have 60 friends on Facebook, and only one would truly fall under the heading of "friend of a friend I have never met." I have had invitations from other people I have never met, but I decided not to respond to any more. I want my friends to be actual friends, people who were known to me before Facebook came along.

And they are. Truthfully, though, many of them might as well be strangers. Some I haven't seen since high school or college. One was a good friend in graduate school, but we probably haven't seen each other in more than 15 years.

It's a good way to get caught up with old friends, and, in some cases, it has given me the chance to become better acquainted with some of my friends' children — the next generation, which is coming of age much quicker than I would prefer.

Two are the children from my best friend's second marriage, one of whom is my goddaughter. Another is their half–brother. All three were quite young the last time I saw them, but they quickly accepted my invitation to be friends. Their mother (who has remarried) and my old friend are both my friends on Facebook, too. It is a good way to stay in touch.

However, when any of my friends posts something, I see it. Then I see the responses they receive, which tend to be from people I have never met before — and all the rest of the dialogue that ensues.

And that, essentially, is the experience I am addressing today.

Being a member of Facebook has given me the opportunity to observe all kinds of virtual exchanges. There is a strange, almost prurient fascination in this. Sometimes I sit and watch it play out. It reminds me, in an odd way, of when I was a child, and the older ladies in my world wouldn't do anything at certain times of each weekday because they didn't want to miss their "stories," as they called soap operas.

(This story thing doesn't seem to be generational. A friend of mine told me that she remembers watching soap operas with her mother and her grandmother, and they all called their soaps "my stories." Apparently, they each started doing so independently.

(I grew up in the South and, for awhile, I thought it might be a Southern thing. But many years ago, George Carlin referred to it in a routine on one of his comedy albums. Carlin grew up in New York so I figured it must not be a regional thing.)

I've never really understood why soap opera fans seemed to slip into an inconsolable depression if they missed one installment. I know it was a brand–new episode every single day, but nothing much ever seemed to happen. The most a soap opera fan might miss would be some dialogue.

I remember watching one soap opera while I was home with the flu for a few days. The show was set in a hospital, and one character was about to go in for surgery. Anyway, I got better and resumed my daily routine — and completely forgot about the soap opera for several months, until, for some reason, I found myself at home one afternoon. I switched on that soap opera — and the patient was still being prepped for surgery!

Things happen a lot faster in the Facebook world. It's like a weird parade going by. Sometimes it's like watching a car accident happen. I'm powerless to stop it, but I am compelled to watch it, anyway.

It can be kind of embarrassing. I've seen arguments being typed out on the computer screen between people I have never met. But, by the time the fight breaks out, I feel I know a lot about them. And I didn't want to know most of it.

Some of these posts — personal status updates in the Facebook world — really just seem to be silly. For example, one young man — the son of a friend — is going through the awkward pain of young love. He pines away on lonely nights when he had expected to see his lady fair but, at the last minute, the rendezvous falls through. The lovesick swain act does start to wear a bit thin, especially when I know that, the next day, the object of his affections will cook him a big meal and dote on him to make up for the previous night.

But, while she's cooking his steak, he can triumphantly post a new status update (via his cell phone) proclaiming his conquest.

Sometimes I wonder when the AMA is going to classify young love as a bipolar disorder.

As I pointed out when I wrote about "sexting," you may think that something is deleted because you delete it from your computer. But things are never really deleted in the digital world.

So my advice to my friends on Facebook — or any other social networking site — is simple. Some messages are best delivered in person. It may not be the most comfortable way to do it, but it's better than getting into virtual shouting matches that anyone can see.

If you wouldn't feel comfortable letting your mother see it, don't post it.

Profiles in Courage

(This has no real bearing on the essence of this post, I guess, but it was 100 years ago today that Joan of Arc was beatified in Rome.)

Regular readers of this blog are familiar with my recent entrée into the world of Facebook, where I have re–connected with many old friends.

Some of my friends have not signed up with Facebook, for a variety of reasons.

I have one friend, for example, who resists it because of his concerns about privacy on the internet. That's a legitimate concern, and I haven't pressed him to reverse his personal policy.

I have another friend — actually, she was my girlfriend when I was a senior in high school — who might benefit in many ways from signing up with Facebook — but her teenaged children apparently commandeer the family computer so frequently that she rarely has the opportunity to read my e–mails (which, I admit, are not as frequent as they should be — but that is certainly not a reflection on my regard for her).

Since I expect to refer to her again in this post, I will say, simply, that her name is Karen.

Now, the last thing I want is to be a shill for Facebook, but I recently became aware of something that I hope will prompt Karen to join up with it.

Karen, you see, is a breast cancer survivor. She told me about her condition a few years ago. I was saddened to hear about it, but I have been encouraged by her reports on her treatment. From what she has told me, the cancer was caught in its early stages and her treatments have done the job.

That is no guarantee, of course. There have been many cases of cancer that was thought to be in remission but returned to finish the job.

This is where Facebook comes in. I was recently made aware that Facebook is the host of a blog by actress Marcia Strassman, who has Stage IV breast cancer. Essentially, what that means is that the cancer has spread to her bones. The medical term for that is "metastasis."

Hers may not be a household name, but you would recognize her if you saw her. In the 1970s, she had a role on the TV series "M*A*S*H" in its early days, then she went on to be Julie Kotter, Gabe Kaplan's wife in the series "Welcome Back, Kotter." In the 1980s, she was Rick Moranis' wife in the surprise Disney hit, "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids."

She was diagnosed with breast cancer in March 2007, and she discussed her experience with GoodNewsBroadcast. You can watch the YouTube clip of the interview, but I warn you in advance that the sound quality is really poor. Basically, she and her gynecologist found it hard to believe that she could have breast cancer because she had passed a mammogram with flying colors only a few months before. But, lo and behold, after undergoing more tests, she did have breast cancer, and she embarked on a treatment regimen.

I tried to find her blog outside of Facebook because I wanted to pass it on to Karen, but I couldn't find it. I'm not sure what Strassman's condition is these days, but I know she has been involved in several health–related causes, and even though the audio on the YouTube clip is not especially good, I could tell that she has the kind of approach to her disease that can inspire others.

No one is ever truly out of the woods as far as cancer is concerned, I suppose. I hope Karen's cancer has been vanquished, but it may well return. If it does, she may benefit from Strassman's blog. But, if Karen doesn't sign up with Facebook, I've found many blogs that are being written by people who are living with breast cancer. And their insights may help her.

Unfortunately, it's too late for blogs to help another friend of mine.

Her name was Jane, and I met her and her future husband, Mike, when we were all students at the University of Arkansas. Mike and Jane got married a few years later and then moved to the West Coast. Their marriage ended in the mid–1990s.

Once again, Facebook enters the picture. Mike and I lost touch over the years, but I heard from mutual friends that Jane died of skin cancer a few years ago, although they weren't able to provide any details.

Anyway, Mike and I recently got back in touch through Facebook, and one of the things I asked him about right away was Jane. He didn't know many details — he remarried and fathered two sons in the years before Jane's death — but he shared with me what he knew. Apparently, she followed her dreams and was completing her Ph.D. thesis in her anthropological studies when she was diagnosed. The cancer did its damage quickly, and she died a little more than five years ago, on March 28, 2004 — the same day actor Peter Ustinov died.

Mike shared an article about Jane with me. The author concluded it by saying that Jane's life was "too short but well lived."

I could spend a lot of time and space writing about the influence both Karen and Jane had on my life. But, like other people I have known who were afflicted with cancer, their greatest influence was by example.

I don't know what the circumstances of my own death will be. Most of the time, I hope it will be quick and relatively painless. But if it turns out that I am one of those who must linger with a terminal illness, I hope I will be guided by the inspirational memories of my courageous friends.

Newspapers Matter Because Freedom Matters

When I was growing up, my grandmother carefully saved the newspapers that reported the significant events of the day.

She lived in Dallas, Texas, so, obviously, the local reports of the JFK assassination in 1963 had an importance that the major newspapers of the time — in Washington and New York — couldn't match, even if they had better and more experienced writers on their staffs.

But my grandmother also wanted to preserve those newspapers so her grandchildren — my brother and myself — could look at them in the future and better understand an event that occurred when we were too young to know what had happened.

I guess my mother picked up that habit from my grandmother, because she saved our copies of the newspapers in Arkansas that were published following historic events like the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969 and the resignation of Richard Nixon in 1974.

Those newspapers were lovingly stored in plastic bags, and I still have them, stashed away in boxes in my closet.

Books about those events give people more details than those individual newspapers did — but newspaper accounts were at the heart of the research that made those books possible. There is no better way for someone to learn what people of previous generations thought or why they did the things they did than to look at copies of old newspapers.

I recall, as a graduate student, doing a research paper on the presidential campaign of 1932. I learned more from reading the newspapers of that time than I ever did from books.

And one of the things I learned — or re-learned, rather, since both my master's degree and my bachelor's degree were in journalism — is that there is a very good reason why freedom of the press was mentioned in the First Amendment.

A free press is crucial if one is to have a free society.

It's a truth that often gets lost in the age of the internet. The belief is that people need information, but the argument that the internet empowers people to do the job themselves is dubious at best, deceptive at worst. Some people, like Eduardo Porter in the New York Times, understand the vital contribution made by newspapers and why it is important that they be preserved.

"The argument that if newspapers go bust there will be nobody covering city hall is true," Porter writes. "It's also true that corruption will rise, legislation will more easily be captured by vested interests and voter turnout will fall."

I worked in the newspaper field for many years — as a reporter, as an editor, even as an instructor of journalism for a few years. It was an article of faith that newspapers filled a vital role as watchdogs over those who held political power and controlled the public purse strings. Over and over, it was demonstrated to me and those working with me that journalists were the only ones who could keep the public informed — and reveal corruption.

But that important role may well be a casualty of the bottom line.

This year, there have been many alarming reports about the impending demise of many daily newspapers. Some newspapers, large and small, have been trying to avoid that by cutting their staffs — for example, there are reports today that the Muskogee (Okla.) Phoenix is cutting 9% of its staff.

The dire state of the newspaper is even leading to rumors about the extent of operations, to which newspapers are forced to respond. One such rumor claimed that Newsday would eliminate its Saturday edition. A newspaper spokeswoman has denied the rumor.

Regular readers of this blog probably have read my posts in recent weeks praising Facebook. One of the things people can do on the Facebook site is join causes they care about and encourage others to do the same. I had not been a member of Facebook very long before I became aware of a cause called "Don't Let Newspapers Die."

I joined the cause and began encouraging my friends to join as well. Among those I encouraged were people who were my journalism students in the 1990s. Some of them are still in the business, some of them are not. Not all of them have responded to my invitation. Some have. And I've been especially gratified by the positive response from people I know who are not involved in the newspaper business but whose lives are enriched by its existence.

But I was disappointed to receive the following response from one of my ex-students: "After exiting the newspaper industry six months ago, I just haven't been able to convince myself to join."

I understand that she has a lot going on in her life. In the years that have passed since I last saw her, she has gotten married and she has become a mother. I don't know what sort of work she does now.

But I didn't ask her to contribute money or be an activist — or do anything special that would require her to devote time to the effort at the expense of her husband or child or whatever job she may have now. I merely asked her to join the cause — in the belief that there is strength in numbers. I looked at it as kind of like asking her to sign a petition.

Her refusal made me feel that perhaps, during my days in the classroom, I had failed to impress upon her — and others — the necessity of the existence of a free press.

But I know that isn't true. I often spoke to my students of the role Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein played in uncovering the labyrinth of crimes in the Nixon White House. I even encouraged my students to attend when Bernstein came to campus and delivered a lecture, which I attended myself. And I often spoke in class about other, lesser known but just as significant instances when newspapers played important roles in uncovering corruption.

If people who were my students more than a decade ago are apathetic today about the continued existence of newspapers, it is due to something else that happened in their lives, not to any negligence on my part.

But that isn't really the point. The point is that newspapers are at risk today. If they go under, the most important barrier between a free society and a corrupt government will be removed.

Both large and small newspapers are vulnerable in these times. A lone individual can do little to increase circulation or ad revenues and, consequently, prevent the disappearance of a local newspaper. But I still believe there is strength in numbers.

And I urge all who care about freedom to support their local newspapers in any way they can.

The internet cannot do what needs to be done, in spite of the willingness of many people to believe that the internet holds the answer.

As Porter puts it, "Reporting the news in far–flung countries, spending weeks on investigations of uncertain payoff, fighting for freedom of information in court — is expensive. Virtually the only entities still doing it on the necessary scale are newspapers. Letting them go on the expectation that the internet will enable a better–informed citizenry seems like a risky bet."

I'm not willing to gamble my freedom like that. Are you?

Happy Birthday, Facebook

Every year brings new milestones. Next week, for example, America will observe the 200th anniversary of the birth of the man who is widely believed to be the greatest American president, Abraham Lincoln. As fate would have it, another man whose name lives on — Charles Darwin — was born on the very same day in the very same year.

There will be similar anniversaries all year — and not just the anniversaries of the births of famous people but also the anniversaries of deaths of famous people. In my family, this year will be the 20th anniversary of the death of my grandmother, who lived a long life before dying in her 90s. She wasn't famous, but she was loved by all and is missed by those friends and relatives who are still living.

This year will also bring milestone anniversaries of significant events — one noteworthy example is the anniversary that will come this July, when it will be 40 years since man first walked on the moon.

This is kind of a roundabout way of leading up to what I want to say, which is that today is the fifth anniversary of the founding of Facebook. I have only been a part of Facebook's online community for a few weeks, really, but it has re-connected me with so many old friends with whom I thought I had lost touch forever.

In fact, I wrote about this a couple of weeks ago. But I didn't realize at the time — in fact, I didn't realize until today — that Facebook was founded five years ago, on Feb. 4, 2004, by Mark Zuckerberg, who was a 19-year-old college student at Harvard. He is 24 now, and he is the CEO and president of Facebook, which, according to Wikipedia, has a net worth of $1.5 billion.

Wikipedia describes Facebook as an "online social network," which is probably a significant part of the reason why I resisted it. As I've said before, I tended to dismiss it as a dating and social site. One of my disappointments has been my failure to find someone to share my life with, and, when I was younger, a dating site would have had tremendous appeal for me. But, by the time Facebook came along, I had pretty much reconciled myself to the idea that I wasn't likely to find someone, and I didn't give it much thought. It seemed like something that was aimed at younger participants.

After being prodded by a friend from my college days, I decided to join last month — and I was pleasantly surprised to discover the diversity of the site. As I say, I've been re-connected with many old friends through Facebook — including a woman who, 40 years ago, used to babysit for my brother and me!

I'm not trying to shill for Facebook. I have a good friend who knows a lot about the ins and outs of computers and the internet. And, based on his experiences and his knowledge, he is suspicious — and perhaps justifiably so — of any site where personal information is gathered — even the most innocent-appearing information. He continues to resist Facebook. I respect his opinion, and I know that privacy is a genuine concern in the virtual world.

But I want to make it clear that membership in Facebook is free. It earns its income from advertising, and, to be honest, I've seen complaints about some of the ads on Facebook expressed by some of my friends who are members there.

So, like everything else in life, Facebook is not without its drawbacks. Users will have to balance any concerns they have with the potential benefits.

By the way, in the spirit of the occasion, I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that Facebook shares its birthday with many famous people who were born on this date — Charles Lindbergh (in 1902), golfer Byron Nelson (in 1912), civil rights activist Rosa Parks (in 1913), feminist Betty Friedan (in 1921), former Vice President Dan Quayle (in 1947), former pro football player Lawrence Taylor (in 1959) and Olympic gold medal-winning gymnast Carly Patterson (in 1988).

Likewise, there were famous people who died on this date. Singer Karen Carpenter died on Feb. 4, 1983. Another famous musician, Liberace, died on this date in 1987. Former House Speaker Carl Albert died on this date in 2000. And Friedan died of congestive heart failure on her 85th birthday, in 2006.

And, as a lifelong Beatles fan, I feel compelled to observe that it was one year ago today that NASA transmitted "Across the Universe" in the direction of the star Polaris, which is 431 light years from earth. It was done to mark the 40th anniversary of the recording of that song, the 45th anniversary of the Deep Space Network and the 50th anniversary of NASA.