We are not at war. But if we're lucky and smart, Trump might be just as good as.

War is hell. I’ll take that as a given. But humans seem to have an addiction to it. Sometimes they come close, a veteran of The War to End All Wars coming back to start the next a couple decades later, but overall in the modern era, we have a roughly 70 year loop. Why?

The American Cemetery outside Florence, for servicemen killed in WWII

If a generation is vaguely 30 years, then it’s about as soon as enough people don’t grow up with firsthand stories of how awful it was, don’t get that ingrained memory of what we’re really talking about when we rattle the sabers. It’s not politics. It’s not pride. It’s suffering of a scale and intensity most of us can’t imagine, no matter how many times we see Saving Private Ryan.

As I study history, comparing nations and centuries, I see a recurring pattern. It’s a blog so I’ll summarize:

We have a war. Then we spend the next generation and a half improving human society. Reminded of just how important peace is, of what really matters in life, and of our communal humanity, we don’t mind contributing a piece of our paycheck to create a social order that preserves us. We know that this is not only ethically right, but in our own self interest.

Cemetery in Riga, Latvia. Born in 1931 I bet that military
man understood how serious talk of war really is.

Then we forget. Those years click by and we start to see Us and Them as different, and say “They don’t deserve My time or concern or money.” Especially the money, god help us. So we clamp down, get mean, regress, let the hot momentary emotions overrule the deeper warm ones.

And so we repeat.

70 year loop? It’s been years since WWII. (The Vietnam War in all this is another post.) I look at the actions of the Trump Administration and the cheers of the people who think They Muslims don’t have a place in Our America, and I see forgetfulness. I see people who’ve forgotten what it is to be a refugee, to be vulnerable, to be threatened by guns instead of terrorized by Fox News.

The school converted to Tuol Sleng Prison in Phnom Penh.
Cambodia remembers, and does not threaten war.

So what now? Do we have to go to war? I don’t think we do. God I hope we don’t. We can remember what’s at stake, how foolish it is to respond to concerns and suspicion with aggression. That dropping bombs on one terrorist makes 10 more in his place. That turning our backs on those in need shows moral bankruptcy and reason for villification. We can realize that demonizing Islam is working with ISIS/Daesh to create an artificial religious war.

Basically, by seeing the awful policies and rhetoric of the Trump administration, if we do it right, we can relearn the lesson of what really matters in life. Without pulling a trigger.

Or we can do it the old way.

One of those days

And the bicycle goes where, exactly?

Yesterday was just one of those days. Tasks taking longer, lung-based cold draining further, nothing going forward as fast as I needed it to. (And also, of course my health insurance company messed up the automatic billing and cancelled my coverage just in time for my first doctor’s visit in two years. Why wouldn’t they?) Large scale worries and small scale misfires just sort of leached the feeling of effectiveness from my abdomen. Not a terrible day, just the kind that feels like a low slow growl.

But then! Then I was headed over to the city for Korean happy hour appetizers with three dearly beloved friends. The fresh air of bicycle motion was already soothing, though the day’s misalignment continued as every single stoplight turned red at my approach.

You can go, as long as you don't enter.

I’ve ridden from my house to BART (the subway) approximately seven quajillion times, and I well know that one stretch is the most dangerous. An American-style street of two busy lanes on the left and slanted parking spaces on the right, bikes are advised to float ten feet off the ground I guess.

After merely two mazillion passes, I’d developed an automatic habit of scanning for reverse lights to make sure none of those parked cars wanted to put a windshield between me and my destination, but the sheer normalcy of the passage, splattered with deeply-felt frustration, helped me not notice that the first parking spot was empty.

I don’t know if the driver signaled, since I was alongside them, but it doesn’t really matter. I should have been aware of the possibility of that right turn, crossing right in front of me, if not on top of me.

As it was, they pulled right, so I pulled right, and we both entered the space together, factory-shaped automobile metal somehow not impacting DNA-made me meat, with a good five inches to spare. Good five inches.

I looked at the driver, who looked back at me, both waiting to see if the other would rage and threaten. I love neither of those, so just sort of went around and back on my way.

See now the Dutch, the Dutch
know how to run a bike lane.

Air moving again, limbs still intact, I felt two tugs for interpretation. One, I could be overwhelmed with the frustration and fear of the moment and the day and the week, pour it all into a Republican-style rage of blame against another. Or, I could take that startling moment as a gentle but clear reminder from the universe to get my perspective in order. Sitting on hold while I stress at a long To Do List? Not that bad.

So on Super Tuesday, I elected to vote against anger and fear, and helped myself to a serving of gratitude and serenity after nearly going through a car window. Enjoyed time with friends, determined to take my own advice not to be in such a g’dang hurry all the time, and am happy to be blogging about it today. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have hold music to listen to. And that’s just fine.