Victim Hood

In the 1980’s there was an evil man. He blew up people mailing bombs to their places of business and homes. Over seventeen years he killed three people and injured twenty-three. I would say countless family members and friends lived in fear. The FBI called him the Unabomber. His brother identified him as Ted Kaczynski. A man in a hooded sweatshirt with a zipper.

During this same period of time, I played left wing striker (soccer, baby). My attire included a sweatshirt with a hood. Yes, consider me a trend setter, along with thousands of athletes participating in sports world-wide. After one particular game, my teammates and I headed off to Wendy’s for a burger, fries and a frosty. Ah the days of wolfing down transfats with reckless abandon. In the South most fast food places are notoriously freezing. I pulled the sweatshirt on. The hood draped over my head. Before I could remove it, someone made a comment that I looked like the Unabomber. I didn’t swagger with defiant pride with this identification. I ripped the hood off my head faster than a teen can down a cheeseburger.

Thirty years later, I own at least three such hooded sweatshirts and that is what I continue to call them. One sweatshirt was given to me by a young teen back in 1992. Today it is a little worn around the cuffs and the pull string has long disappeared. A little ratty, but fully functional. It’s functionality only includes keeping me warm when riding my scooter around Kona-town on early mornings. It doesn’t function as thug apparel when I hang with my peeps.

When I do drape the hood over my head, I’m freezing. I’m not grabbing my crotch with one hand and holding my jeans up with the other in an effort to keep them from falling below my ass. Something about swaggering down the street with a gangsta attitude seems well, first, stupid and second, intimidating even if I might be a 58 year old white Hispanic (NY Times new name for me) of some economic means (pool monitor, extraordinaire).

I’m not from some big city with hard neighborhoods. I don’t watch TV and I’m not prone to viewing culturally deprived Spike Lee movies, but I am not so sheltered that I don’t know that when I see a young black male sporting a hoodie my sense of self-preservation gets raised. Call it my Juan Williams Muslim-in-the-airport-dressed-in-a-ghutra alert. When I hike in the woods and find a tree leaning over the trail I think “widow maker.” Trust me I don’t hate trees.

You can call me racist until you run out of breath and drop dead. This is not a black and white issue. It’s a cultural issue. The hoodie symbolizes nothing but a negative image for young black males, white males, and girls. I learned this 30 years ago. Why do you think a Congressman wore one in the House of Representatives? To show his solidarity with a young black? Bullshit. Too capture his moment in the spotlight.

Let’s look at the facts. The majority of all murdered people in the United States are black. And you know who killed them? 93% of black murder victims are killed by blacks. (83% of whites murders are committed by whites.) However, young black males commit violent crimes way out of proportion to their percentage of the population. It doesn’t have anything to do with skin color. It’s culture. That is a fact. The odds that I’ll get killed by a young black male are remote, yet I won’t be found hanging with the brothers. Why? The same reason why I won’t stand under leaning trees. It isn’t the smart thing to do. And wearing a hoodie…?

The President, Congressmen and Congresswomen and black activists should be outraged, but not because a Hispanic man shot a young black male. The facts should outrage them. My apologies to the families of all the young black victims murdered by their own whose deaths have been ignored by their own. That is the outrage. But hell, we can’t make a media political stink about that can we?

From My Perceptive

The first email from my brother-in-law, Darryl, written sterilely contained no alarm, no major concern, no dire urgency. He apologized for not writing sooner. Like the scientist he is, the tone was matter of fact, as if he had just concluded an experiment and summarized his observations:

After ~1.5 weeks of diarrhea, Jen was admitted to the hospital and is fighting a nasty Clostridium difficile infection. The CT scan shows massive inflammation of the large intestine. She has a mild fever and is very uncomfortable - menses is not helping - but hopefully the i.v. metronidazole will start clearing the C diff soon. She has not slept much in over a week, so her tolerance/patience is wearing thin.

[Jen] Still beautiful, just a bit frazzled.

Not being a medical person, I googled C-diff. Went straight to the Mayo Clinic’s website. Dad had had been visiting me in Hawaii and I told him what was going on and how serious a C-diff infection can be. Even fatal. We were both very concerned. We called and that day was the last of what I would call a good day for the next week and a half. It seemed like an eternity.

There is a six hour time difference between Hawaii and the East Coast. That means lots of mile and the Pacific Ocean. Leaving Hawaii is not something you do on a whim. To compound the separation my sister, Robin, who normally is just 3 hours away from our little sister was scheduled to visit Hawaii. We discussed cancelling her trip here, but realized our little sister needed rest, not visitors.

Over the next couple of days Jen’s condition didn’t worsen, but the lack of sleep, discomfort and dehydration sapped her physically and mentally. She disengaged. When Dad and I called she was too tired to talk or unwilling. Robin had made a quick visit before flying out to Hawaii and found Jen so weak she made little effort to open her eyes.

Things like this are not suppose to happen to the youngest of five siblings. Being a God-fearing Christian I prayed. I asked my friends to pray. I prayed in private, lying in bed at night talking with God about His awesome powers and unknown plans. I asked a prayer team member at church for prayers. She prayed with Dad and me for my sister’s recovery and God’s hand to be shown to the attending doctors and nurses. At that moment I knew all would be fine. Recovery, on its way.

Although the next couple of days were dark I knew God’s healing hand was on my sister. The long days and nights were taking a toll on my brother-in-law. He tended to his wife’s most personal and intimate needs. He wrote…

I know, I know. Last night I slept. I'm headed home in a few minutes. Staying here overnight is torture. Imagine how the poor girl feels – 2.5 weeks of diarrhea - 7 days in the hospital. She hasn't had a full night's rest for 2.5 weeks. The little naps are not enough - the episodes of diarrhea and cleanup can last for hours and it just wipes her out. But she cannot lay in it. It's unacceptable to me (and should be to them) and puts her at risk to get other infections. So if I'm here and they don't come right away, I'm doing it. The problem is I can't be here all the time – I need to sleep. She kept the PCA busy all night last night. There was only one PCA on the floor today – it's not enough. I've spoken with the doctors and nurse manager about it and told them that I do not want her lying in diarrhea. I was practically crying this morning, because her bottom is so raw and sore, and they want to use a face cloth to clean her. "Here let ME wipe YOUR butt with 60 grit and see how YOU feel. And you know I'm not going to use the same gentle approach on your butt that I use on mine." You ever been sandblasted? I have. Turns you into raw hamburger. It hurt so much that I can't even remember the pain from getting blasted and from the cleaning I got at the ER. You know how they treat it? They scrub it – like road burn. Maybe it's similar to how women feel when they give birth – note "maybe". Point is it's tender; treat with care. Treat as if it was the most precious thing you ever held. Right, nobody else can do that. I'm lying in that bed, not the PCA or the RN or the MD.

I thanked God for Darryl and I thanked Darryl for being there for my sister. If he flinched we never knew it. He pulled strings. He begged. He demanded. And maybe he did cry. The only thing I wanted to do was hug him. But I was 5000 miles away.

And finally, slowly, my sister responded. She spent sixteen days in the hospital. (A week and a half on the couch before being admitted.) After two cat scans, two sets of x-rays and a sygmoidoscopy, zillions of blood samples and countless IVs for fluids, antibiotics, nutrition and drugs she was well enough to be rolled out of the hospital.

All I heard was ka-ching!

Maybe this is where I make a statement about ObamaCare and health care in the United States. Except one case, good or bad, doesn’t paint an accurate picture. What appalled me was how two intelligent individuals with good jobs and excellent health insurance had to wrangle their way through a system of understaffed nursing care. If adequate medical care staff can’t be had then no system, private or public, is going to make health care affordable. If I had been in the hospital who would have rescued me from my own filth? And I know damn well my out-of-pocket expenses would be a whole lot more than $450!

The Hawaii Republican Caucus

Today was the first time Hawaii's Republicans went to the polls to determine how the spoils of the state get divvied out. At stake are 20 delegates, of which three remain at large. It was kind of a marketing ploy among the party, but without much marketing. Granted without TV or radio I have heard very little about the caucus. Nevertheless, I managed to find the where’s and the when’s. The predicted statewide turnout was to be 6000 in a state as blue as its Pacific coastline on a sunny day.

I was excited and nervous. I've never participated in a caucus before. It made me recall the very first time I voted. The year 1972. Eighteen year olds would vote in a presidential election. Okay I voted for McGovern. Just goes to show that eighteen year olds have no business voting.

This afternoon, due to logistics with my Dad and sister’s visit, I found myself at the polling place at 5pm. Polling didn’t start until 6pm. So I was first in line, first to sign in, first to cast my vote and by 6:05pm I felt I just got ripped off.

I expected an Iowa-style caucus. Instead got a high-school style vote. Check the box on a slip of paper, fold it in half and stuff in the cardboard box. What happened to the speeches made on behalf of the candidate? The first, second, third rounds of voting? People switching candidates after each vote? Counting the ballots and announcing the winner? Or do they just do this in Iowa? Or maybe they don’t and somewhere I got the wrong impression about good old citizenry.

After all these months attention on the primaries I stood before the ballot box with a slip of paper in hand. Four options and one write-in space. The final four stared back at me. I have seen no political ads, heard no robo-calls, had no fliers stuff in my door or campaign signs staked in the ground. We are having a Presidential election right? I know this is Obama’s home state. I know only 20 delegates are up for grabs. But still.

I stepped out of the school cafeteria five minutes after I went in. I had expected to be there until 8 PM. A long line snaked through the courtyard. Yes, there was a crowd. I was the first of that crowd and that did not disappoint me.

You might hear of the results tomorrow, a small footnote after Alabama and Mississippi ignored the southern boy and went sweater vest. Mitt had been predicted to take the Aloha State. My entrance poll, discussions with people standing in line waiting to vote, indicted that wasn’t going down in Kona-town.