Of underground cranes and hand movements...

"The Lost Language of Cranes" is a 1986 novel by American writer David Leavitt. It tells the story of a husband and wife and their son. In the story the son comes out to his parents as gay and the novel explores the difficulties this revelation has on the parties involved. Ordinarily this would make for bland and almost cliched storytelling, except that in the novel the caveat is that the son's coming out forces the father to confront his own supressed homosexuality. The man has created an entire life out of his feigned heterosexuality and self-loathing. The title of the novel provides better insight into the dynamics of the family relationship and human communication overall. It comes from a subplot in the novel involving a child abandoned by his ne'er-do-well mother. Left to fend for himself and with virtually no human interaction of substance, the child develops a fixation with the cranes that are visible fom his window, the site of a construction project. Thus he creates a language of sorts with these inanimate objects - which in his puerile and decelerated mind - are sentient beings, that only he comprehends. Thus the so-called language of the cranes becomes lost. The correlation with the larger story in the book is how the family has not just lost all capacity to communicate in a healthy fashion, but created their own dysfunctional language of nuance, secrets and code. At first glance I think of the allegory as far-fetched. Then I ask myself, Do we all speak to one another in a clandestine tongue of one form or another that only a few select understand? An underground network of sorts comprised of closemouthed revelations and tacit understanding? We all know what the answer is. Who really knows how the now ubiquitous LOL or OMG got afoot to common usage. The thought of someone perhaps thinking a meeting with the boss was a joke and trying to secretly express that irreverance to a co-worker by an invented "lol" is intriguing, although obviously imagined. It is what we cannot say to one another that forces us to create our coded languages. The idea that some things are best left unsaid is something of an oxymoron, for something to be declared unspoken would have to mean that at least one person cannot possibly communicate the idea to another human in some way, shape or form. So thus secrets do not truly exist, of course. It is how we maintain those confidences that give the private information its gravitas. When a group of people can truly be trusted with confidential information it becomes an almost illustrious testimony to the frailty of human nature. We see large scale examples of this in the Central Intelligence Agency or the Federal Bureau of Investigations, where information that is quite literally top secret is indeed maintained and the individuals involved do in fact keep their mouths shut. But honorable confidentiality is not confined strictly to federal agencies such as these where information leaked can mean a nuclear bomb dropping on Indianapolis, as an example. It is also found in daily life where people who know they can trust a member of the club let the cat out of the bag with no concerns of a leak. A rarity indeed. And it is, too, that vague but clearly understood facial gesture acknowledging that one fully understands. A subtle movement of the hand indicating one is in on the know. Our own language of the cranes. So covert worlds of message become necessary to hide a sexual orientation, a midnight raid on a terrorist organization's leader or who's sleeping with who. Some are better masters of this esoteric language than others. To those who just cannot maybe they are missing out on the initiation and fun of it all. But if they don't, don't say a word. It's our secret.

Yes Virginia, there is racism.

The Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman imbroglio is a racial issue. It is jarring that such a large number of people either refuse to see it as such or equate calling it for what it is a sort of reverse racism or embrace of victimhood. It is none of the latter. In our politically correct times it can be difficult for many to acknowledge the uncomfortable reality that racism still plays a role in our national culture and conversation. By now we have heard the gist of what happened that fateful night in Florida. A key scenario of contention in the incident is the role of the deceased and the man who pulled the trigger. The victim, Trayvon Martin, was a young black man, and the man who shot him to his death, whatever his motive may have been, was a white man. The shooter is briefly detained by police and quickly released on account of - all things - his word. George Zimmerman told the police he felt he was in danger and therefore shot Mr. Martin. Case closed. It is an almost statistical fact that had Trayvon Martin been the shooter he would have been jailed extensively and a full investigation would have ensued, with Martin portrayed as a young black hoodlum looking for trouble. But that of course wasn't the case. Thanks to Florida's right-wing Legislature bought and bribed by the National Rifle Association (NRA), there is the imbecile "Stand Your Ground" law, which gives extraordinary scope to the argument of self-defense. Anyone who feels they are in peril can shoot the alleged aggressor and tell authorities they believed they might have been in danger and get off scot-free, consequences be damned. It is widely regarded as one of the loosest gun laws in the nation. So thus Zimmerman was let go by Sanford, Florida police. There are two parties at fault in this drama and one or both can be tainted by racism. Did George Zimmerman profile Trayvon Martin for being black, assume he was a grave threat and shoot him, and did Sanford police treat the case with such phenomenal insouciance because the victim was black? Zimmerman's alleged racism will forever remain ambiguous, as well it should. The Sanford police department is a different story. Their utter disregard for the tragic loss of a young man is difficult to explain away without the issue of race coming into play. For years the black community has had a warranted lack of trust in the police for their lengthy record of leniant and sloppy handling of black persons' concerns and plights. To be sure, not every police department or officer is subtly influenced by racial bias, but the culprit here is the very institution itself. The mindless beating of Rodney King by an army of all white police officers in California in 1991 and those officers' acquittal by an all white jury is difficult to digest - or explain away as non-racial. Officer William Lozano shooting a speeding black driver in Miami in 1989 for what he percieved to be a threat and Lozano's acquittal of that killing is difficult to be seen as not racial. Arthur McDuffie literally beaten to death by five white police officers over a traffic violation and their acquittal by an all white, all male jury is hard to be brushed off as non-racial. And there are more. No doubt all these cases carry different circumstances and nuances that are unique to each case, but the sting of race penetrates them all. It is there and so many of us do not want to talk about it, deal with it, accept it. What is more, the notion that the president of the United States is a black man means the black community can no longer use "excuses" is asinine. I take that to mean that they are no longer allowed to isssue a grievance of racism when it is patently there and indeed worth examining. We have learned in the last few weeks that racial tensions still permeate our society and sully the justice that is due to all Americans regardless of creed. Sanford police may camouflage their racial partiality with the offspring of the all-poweful NRA, and George Zimmerman may be allowed to stand his ground on those very laws, but young Treyvon Martin is buried to the ground. And of course, none of it has to do with race.

Lost - and found!

In many regards we are all lost. There are those who have a clear sense of mission, career and path and those who are  dumbfounded by their existence. I find this a common quandary for many of my contemporaries and a common lament among the masses. Even the fabled Forrest Gump, despite all his runs through history and checkered life, had to ask his mother on her deathbed what he was here for. Her answer still offers cold comfort: "You have to figure that out yourself, Forrest". But it has occured to me that what Forrest went through is applicable to most of us. We don't realize that we are indeed creating our own histories; inventing our own misadventures; formulating our stories with their chapters and high drama. Forrest Gump went through remarkable run ins with history and pop culture without being aware of it. He waltzed through it all oblivious to the fact. I have often asked myself, perhaps in a fit of wishful thinking, if maybe I was actually going through grandiose scenarios that were being played out on an epic stage, and I would not know about it until I was a dying old man, marveling at the august story that was my life. Perhaps not. I have not jogged from one coast to the other or fought the ravages of the Vietnam War or met a litany of presidents at the Oval Office. But yet my life has stories nonetheless and they are all worth telling. They are not the ones I thought I'd be recounting  when I was twelve but they are of value nonetheless. So while the relative uneventfullness of my life brings me dissapointment I am reminded of Shakespeare's famous assertion: "All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts". Have I forgotten that I swam in the lowest point on the planet Earth, the Dead Sea? That I spent a week visting France completely by myself, not knowing a single human being there? Or that I personally checked in former president George W. Bush at a hotel, bantering with him in his suite while we both unloaded his bags as though we were buddies, with not another soul present? Yes, the things we forget. A placid life perhaps I have not lead. Is it possible Forrest Gump and I are not that different after all? I would not compare myself with the famous gentlemen from Alabama. As he would say, "That's all I have to say about that".

The Death of Journalism?

I miss journalism. Perhaps it sounds antiquated to even ask for what were once actual, proffesional journalists in the era of the Internet, Facebook and Twitter. And I write this as, ironocally enough, I sit down to write a blog. The question is ultimately, Is journalism dead?  One unsettling moment in recent memory is that of an acquaintance I knew of who is in his early twenties. We were discussing the modern media landscape and the proliferation of so-called news outlets. In the most perfunctory tone he states, "Today everyone is a journalist". I was taken aback. I'm not sure if it was due to more to the difference in age between he and I and how perhaps, just maybe, as a 38 year old man I could not understand the alleged new wave of journalism. One in which any dunce with an iPhone can  substitute men and women such as Walter Cronkite or Diane Sawyer. To even juxtapose the two seems asine and offensive. Or was it that he was right? Have we arrived at this point in society where such an anology is casually accepted as fact? I get the Internet revolution and the positive rewards that it reaps, including informing the masses of international or domestic events. What I do not get is the nonchalant approval of instantaneous Twitts, Facebook postings and quickie video recordings as sacred journalism. The truth is that such modes of comunication are in fact excellent  and quite helpful, but to a large degree they degenerate the proffessionalism that was not too long ago associated with hardscrabble research by a reporter or the erudite treatment given by a writer to a story. Doctors and lawyers must pass rigorous examinations of their chosen proffesion and become licenced to work in those fields. A journalist never had to, and understanably so as news and information are not the life and death scenarios that a physician or attorney confront. There is clearly no bar exam to be a journalist today or ever. Indeed going to college and majoring in journalism today is either non-existent or a joke. Try competing with Twitter or Facebook, bastions of true journalism of course. What we must not lose track of as we get our news from social media or search engines is that there are in fact still diligent, studied men and women who know how to construct a sentence, spell right and adhere to the ethics and legal matters that genuine news organizations hold themselves accountable to. Yes ladies and gentlemen, those standards are still practiced by the likes of the Washington Post, CNN or the Wall Street Journal; and you can get their apps on your iPhones if you'd like, btw.

Call me Colombus with an iPhone

From a very early point in my life I knew I could learn of the world through books. It is through books that I found comfort, knowledge and joy. As I have grown older (remeber, oldER,  not old) that has not changed, but what has is a fundamental need to move forward with my life and give it greater depth. I am Richard Velasquez, a 38 year old Hispanic man born, raised and living in Miami. There is not truly anything of great consequence to my biography. Decided to discontinue college after several attempts due in part to considerable trauma in grade and middle school. Sounds odd coming from a book aficionado but that will remain the subject of a much longer and complex post in the future. At 20 unconsciously chose to work long-term in the hotel industry in service but relatively well paying jobs. Officially came out in 2007 although some intimate friends knew years before. I am currently partnered with an amazing person. Started traveling in earnest in 2005, with a trip to Canada's spactacular British Columbia. My partner has an intense love for seeing the world as well and we have explored a great deal of it together, although, as I say, we've barely just begun. And , well, that's about it. I cannot speak of having climbed the corporate ladder and reached the zenith. I have not saved a person's life, for example. I do not have a college degree to brag of. I have not - thankfully, actually - gotten married, had children and lived around a white picket fence. What I strive for is to see the world  in  full, to explore unchartered waters and yes, those metaphorical undiscovered countries that await. To give my life meaning by way of the written word, and, it is my hope, to take my readers on a voyage of spiritual discovery; to learn of the world not just by means of physically visting disparate locales, but by understanding the world we live in and its complexities. Its cultures, politics, social ills, cuisines, history. Books brought the world to me as a child. As a man I wish to bring the world to you via the modern book - the blog. The trip has barely begun.