It's about 2 in the morning. I woke up from the couch downstairs and, a rarity indeed, can not go back to sleep. I picked up a book I am reading which is very good. Sad, but good. About a family in northern Ontario. In the story, there is quite a bit of talk about working land that families, for generations, had owned and worked.
Maybe that's why I started to think about James's property. Maybe other reasons, but think about the property I did.
In the mid 80s I was introduced by a mutual friend to a guy who lived on the Cape. I met him in March of 85 I think it was, maybe 86. He was and is an unreconstructed hippie. In the 70s he had bought a small house with a high school friend of his in East Harwich back when there were not too many residents in the area. The house had a bunk house on the same property. The two high school friends decided that one would live in the house and the other in the bunk house. A few years later, the guy in the main house decided to sell out to Don, the unreconstructed hippie.
So by the time I met him, Don owned both dwellings. I liked Don and still do. Good guy, extraordinarily responsible to others. We hit it off that day in 85 and a few years down the road he rented the main house to me for the summer. It was the summer of 90. And then for several more summers I would rent the house for parts of June through August.
As you looked at Don's spot from the main road, there was an empty property to your left. Further to the left there was a house on the corner that had been there forever.
One day I saw a car on the empty property. I commented on it to Don and he told me that James owned the property. James's property was impeccably groomed, but there was no house on it. I found out that James came up periodically throughout the year, slept in his car or in a tent, and then sat in a chair looking out over his land for a day or two before returning to work in Rhode Island.
Over the years, James and I became friendly. When he would be there I would go over and say hello and he often would come by himself to ask for water or use the facilities. We became chummy enough that annually in the 90s and early 2000s the three of us, Don, James, and myself would rendezvous in Providence in the winter to watch a Providence college Big East basketball game.
One year at one of these visits, James announced that he was ready to build. This was cause for a celebration. That had been the plan all along to build on the property. He had not had the resources to do so until this moment and he described to us how he had planned the funding and what the place would look like.
James then had exactly the same job I have now--his place of work at a college in Rhode Island. He too had been a professor and became an associate dean. You don't get to be Rockefeller as an educator, but he had saved enough to first buy the land and now build.
Sometime in the 2000s--I'll guess 2005--James moved into his house on the Cape. For a while he commuted the 90 miles to Rhode Island to work, staying some nights during the week at a spot he had arranged to temporarily lodge at when necessary.
Then a year or two later he announced he was going to retire and live full time on the Cape. He had just gotten remarried and the two of them were looking forward to happy ever after on the Cape.
Either December 2014 or the year before in December I got a call from Don telling me that James had died. Probably had not been in the house full time for more than three years.
James's property. Always talking about the property. Always talking about the house he was going to build on it. All those times I saw him sitting in his chair, looking out at the land without a house on it waiting to build.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Ray McClain
This is happening with greater regularity. Partly it is because of my vintage and partly because new technology is allowing us to find out about others who, otherwise, may have disappeared from our consciousness forever.
Ray McClain came to my mind about a half hour ago. Can't reconstruct now at this shaky moment why.
Ray and I were colleagues at SUNY Fredonia in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. Ray was a Sociologist and one of the good guys. He and I played basketball together on the faculty team we called, Athletes in Limbo. Ray was a forward-- a good rebounder and sure shooter from around the hoop. He snared rebounds away from kids a lot younger and did so effortlessly. I played point guard for the Athletes in Limbo. With other faculty members over the hill, we did a fair job of beating 19 year old hormone induced leapers who were surprised that we graying and balding egg heads could bounce the ball and put it in a hoop now and again. One year we went to what was called, grandly, the intramural playoffs and defeated (as in stunned) a very good team. Essentially 8 players pushing forty overcoming some talented young-uns. The Athletes in Limbo drank some beer that night.
I visited Fredonia in the late 80s after I had moved east and stopped by Ray's office. There he was, as he had been while I was at the College, in his office reading and studying away, available to students, taking some time out of his day to chat with me about this and that.
So, for whatever reason I thought of him today and decided to pop his name into google and see where he was at.
And then I saw a notice for his obit. He died just a few months ago. Peacefully, it read. He had taken a fall in October from which he never recovered and succumbed in March. Tough to imagine a guy like Ray not with us. Only 73. The accompanying photo of him in the obit showed his great easy smile.
I hadn't spoken with Ray in over 25 years. Even so, I know a little light has gone out of the universe.
Ray McClain came to my mind about a half hour ago. Can't reconstruct now at this shaky moment why.
Ray and I were colleagues at SUNY Fredonia in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. Ray was a Sociologist and one of the good guys. He and I played basketball together on the faculty team we called, Athletes in Limbo. Ray was a forward-- a good rebounder and sure shooter from around the hoop. He snared rebounds away from kids a lot younger and did so effortlessly. I played point guard for the Athletes in Limbo. With other faculty members over the hill, we did a fair job of beating 19 year old hormone induced leapers who were surprised that we graying and balding egg heads could bounce the ball and put it in a hoop now and again. One year we went to what was called, grandly, the intramural playoffs and defeated (as in stunned) a very good team. Essentially 8 players pushing forty overcoming some talented young-uns. The Athletes in Limbo drank some beer that night.
I visited Fredonia in the late 80s after I had moved east and stopped by Ray's office. There he was, as he had been while I was at the College, in his office reading and studying away, available to students, taking some time out of his day to chat with me about this and that.
So, for whatever reason I thought of him today and decided to pop his name into google and see where he was at.
And then I saw a notice for his obit. He died just a few months ago. Peacefully, it read. He had taken a fall in October from which he never recovered and succumbed in March. Tough to imagine a guy like Ray not with us. Only 73. The accompanying photo of him in the obit showed his great easy smile.
I hadn't spoken with Ray in over 25 years. Even so, I know a little light has gone out of the universe.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Case Histories
This is a terrific book.
Kate Atkinson's ability to write makes even other fine writers look like amateurs. I enjoy many other authors who write about detectives: The Peter Robinson series, the Ed McBain procedurals, the old Spenser novels and many others of the find-and-get-the-perp ilk. As good as Robinson, McBain et al are, they are minor leaguers compared to Atkinson.
Reading her feels like getting on a roller coaster. You need to buckle up. And you know it's likely that the ride will be thrilling.
The only problem with Case Histories is that the plot lines are so nuanced that you almost have to read the book in a couple of sittings. Otherwise you can forget characters who were casually introduced but later come back to be significant. Atkinson is terrific at this--essentially compelling readers to pay attention to everything. She draws the characters so carefully--even the ones you may think are inconsequential. Then boom, one hundred pages later, you have to riffle back to find a reference to so and so who may turn out to be very consequential to the story. Some of the characters are unusual, but as strange as they may be, when you are finished with the book you believe that these characters--even the true nutcases--are really out there. Even the killers.
Case Histories introduces an independent detective, Jackson Brodie. He has been hired to sleuth out issues related to three cases. The reader learns about the case histories in the first three chapters. The cases are not presented chronologically. In sequence we read that in 1970 a toddler goes missing, then in 1994 a beloved daughter assisting in her father's law office is stabbed by an assailant who disappears, then in 1979 a husband has his head split open by an axe ostensibly by his wife while their infant daughter is nearby. Now, in 2004, Brodie works on all three of these cases.
In addition Brodie is dealing with his own divorce; a daughter now living with the ex-wife and her lover; a quirky elderly cat lover whom Brodie befriends; Brodie's own painful childhood history; and his current romantic desires.
If you are a reader, and have a couple of days that you can dedicate to reading, I highly recommend Case Histories. It is the first of four Jackson Brodie novels. I had read the fourth a while back, Started Early, Took My Dog, which was not quite as good as this one. I know I will read the second one, One Good Turn, in the near future. Case Histories is special.
Kate Atkinson's ability to write makes even other fine writers look like amateurs. I enjoy many other authors who write about detectives: The Peter Robinson series, the Ed McBain procedurals, the old Spenser novels and many others of the find-and-get-the-perp ilk. As good as Robinson, McBain et al are, they are minor leaguers compared to Atkinson.
Reading her feels like getting on a roller coaster. You need to buckle up. And you know it's likely that the ride will be thrilling.
The only problem with Case Histories is that the plot lines are so nuanced that you almost have to read the book in a couple of sittings. Otherwise you can forget characters who were casually introduced but later come back to be significant. Atkinson is terrific at this--essentially compelling readers to pay attention to everything. She draws the characters so carefully--even the ones you may think are inconsequential. Then boom, one hundred pages later, you have to riffle back to find a reference to so and so who may turn out to be very consequential to the story. Some of the characters are unusual, but as strange as they may be, when you are finished with the book you believe that these characters--even the true nutcases--are really out there. Even the killers.
Case Histories introduces an independent detective, Jackson Brodie. He has been hired to sleuth out issues related to three cases. The reader learns about the case histories in the first three chapters. The cases are not presented chronologically. In sequence we read that in 1970 a toddler goes missing, then in 1994 a beloved daughter assisting in her father's law office is stabbed by an assailant who disappears, then in 1979 a husband has his head split open by an axe ostensibly by his wife while their infant daughter is nearby. Now, in 2004, Brodie works on all three of these cases.
In addition Brodie is dealing with his own divorce; a daughter now living with the ex-wife and her lover; a quirky elderly cat lover whom Brodie befriends; Brodie's own painful childhood history; and his current romantic desires.
If you are a reader, and have a couple of days that you can dedicate to reading, I highly recommend Case Histories. It is the first of four Jackson Brodie novels. I had read the fourth a while back, Started Early, Took My Dog, which was not quite as good as this one. I know I will read the second one, One Good Turn, in the near future. Case Histories is special.
Amnesia
I read up some on Bernie Sanders yesterday. I learned that he decided to study Political Science because he himself had learned about a man named Adolph Hitler whose political ascension resulted in the death of 50 million people in World War II, six million of whom were Jews, killed because they were Jews. So, Sanders figured that politics was important to study.
I am occasionally intrigued by the phenomenon of memory. What do we remember and forget--and why? I have been blessed with a remarkable long term memory, yet my short term memory has become frighteningly abysmal. I write e-mails to myself to remind myself that I took a pill--and really that is nothing. I have ceased being surprised when I see that I have already taken out the garbage when I go to take it out because I had made a mental note to take it out, but have--incredibly-forgotten that I already have done so.
But my long term memory is still good. I was unnerved recently--and did comment on this in an earlier blog (though maybe I just thought I did) about how I guffawed when I heard a story, only to be informed subsequently by the raconteur that I had similarly laughed at the same story a while back. That incident aside, I am surprised now and again when an event that happened years ago remains vivid in my mind, yet those who shared the moment have apparently forgotten about it.
I've some college cronies who use me on occasion as the go to human google for trivia about our past. I got an e-mail a week or so ago from someone who contended he had a certain role in our fraternity whilst another contemporary disputed the claim. I remembered vividly the accurate information. I'm forever being tapped at one of our reunions by someone wondering what was the name of so and so, and where we had our fraternity weekend in 1968, or who started on our high school basketball team or who dated whom. Fair enough that this is all is trivia. But how does amnesia happen when it is not trivia.
I am puzzled by the resilience of Donald Trump's candidacy. The guy steps in excrement every week and yet he is still neck and neck for the presidency of the United States. Yesterday he said that the Russians should try and hack our e-mails. Today he said he was kidding. A month or so ago, he praised Saddam Hussein because he "knew how to deal with terrorists". Uh, no. Saddam Hussein did not know how to deal with terrorists. He knew how to deal with dissidents. Hussein was a dictator and did what dictators do. They destroy those who oppose them. Is that what Trump admires?
I get the importance of political power and the need for parties to try and gain it. Yet this guy is not a Republican really. He is an independent who was able to get the nomination because people have amnesia. Even the casual high school study of the third reich, even the laziest high school student, knows that Hitler rose to power because he used a scapegoat--Jews--to get the Germans to coalesce around a foul nationalism. So Trump is not using Jews--using the Moslems and Mexicans--and sleeping with the Russians.
How do you forget the important stuff?
I am occasionally intrigued by the phenomenon of memory. What do we remember and forget--and why? I have been blessed with a remarkable long term memory, yet my short term memory has become frighteningly abysmal. I write e-mails to myself to remind myself that I took a pill--and really that is nothing. I have ceased being surprised when I see that I have already taken out the garbage when I go to take it out because I had made a mental note to take it out, but have--incredibly-forgotten that I already have done so.
But my long term memory is still good. I was unnerved recently--and did comment on this in an earlier blog (though maybe I just thought I did) about how I guffawed when I heard a story, only to be informed subsequently by the raconteur that I had similarly laughed at the same story a while back. That incident aside, I am surprised now and again when an event that happened years ago remains vivid in my mind, yet those who shared the moment have apparently forgotten about it.
I've some college cronies who use me on occasion as the go to human google for trivia about our past. I got an e-mail a week or so ago from someone who contended he had a certain role in our fraternity whilst another contemporary disputed the claim. I remembered vividly the accurate information. I'm forever being tapped at one of our reunions by someone wondering what was the name of so and so, and where we had our fraternity weekend in 1968, or who started on our high school basketball team or who dated whom. Fair enough that this is all is trivia. But how does amnesia happen when it is not trivia.
I am puzzled by the resilience of Donald Trump's candidacy. The guy steps in excrement every week and yet he is still neck and neck for the presidency of the United States. Yesterday he said that the Russians should try and hack our e-mails. Today he said he was kidding. A month or so ago, he praised Saddam Hussein because he "knew how to deal with terrorists". Uh, no. Saddam Hussein did not know how to deal with terrorists. He knew how to deal with dissidents. Hussein was a dictator and did what dictators do. They destroy those who oppose them. Is that what Trump admires?
I get the importance of political power and the need for parties to try and gain it. Yet this guy is not a Republican really. He is an independent who was able to get the nomination because people have amnesia. Even the casual high school study of the third reich, even the laziest high school student, knows that Hitler rose to power because he used a scapegoat--Jews--to get the Germans to coalesce around a foul nationalism. So Trump is not using Jews--using the Moslems and Mexicans--and sleeping with the Russians.
How do you forget the important stuff?
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Not the Last Time
The snafu that has been the talk of the day is not the last one that will surface from the Republican National Convention in Cleveland.
I know that because of how they handled the first one.
Melania Trump delivered a speech last night which contained sections that clearly and incontrovertibly had been lifted from Michelle Obama's 2008 address to the Democratic National Convention.
Instead of acknowledging the mistake, apologists for Trump denied wrongdoing and, incredibly, blamed the negative attention on Hillary Clinton. This attack is akin to saying "Donald Trump had to have a root canal today. Clinton is up to her old shenanigans."
Only a no-matter-what supporter of Trump can feel as if this, the denial, was a smart move. Others have to be feeling a little squeamish.
A campaign that is willing to suppress truth like this, takes other shortcuts. Something will happen in the next two days that will stagger dispassionate observers.
Still, you wonder if Trump will be competitive in November. He has done so many other worldly things on the campaign trail and, nevertheless, is, in some polls, neck and neck with Clinton.
I know that because of how they handled the first one.
Melania Trump delivered a speech last night which contained sections that clearly and incontrovertibly had been lifted from Michelle Obama's 2008 address to the Democratic National Convention.
Instead of acknowledging the mistake, apologists for Trump denied wrongdoing and, incredibly, blamed the negative attention on Hillary Clinton. This attack is akin to saying "Donald Trump had to have a root canal today. Clinton is up to her old shenanigans."
Only a no-matter-what supporter of Trump can feel as if this, the denial, was a smart move. Others have to be feeling a little squeamish.
A campaign that is willing to suppress truth like this, takes other shortcuts. Something will happen in the next two days that will stagger dispassionate observers.
Still, you wonder if Trump will be competitive in November. He has done so many other worldly things on the campaign trail and, nevertheless, is, in some polls, neck and neck with Clinton.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Made To Kill
I was in the library last week looking for an easy book to read. I did not feel like working too hard. Something short, enjoyable, that would compel me to turn the pages.
I saw a book billed as a combination of Science Fiction and Raymond Chandler detective story. I've never been a fan of Science Fiction and while I know there are legions who swear by fast talking Raymond Chandler yarns, I am not among them. But the book was short--only 237 pages. And when I read the first page or two in the library it looked like I could get into it. So I took a chance and took it out.
Bad choice. The book is, as advertised, a combination of Science Fiction and witty detective dialogue. Therefore, predictably for me, not my cup of tea.
You might wonder why I don't like Sci-Fi. Well,
The real world is as weird as necessary for me. I don't need something beyond this world for- "out of this world." Most stories about planet Earth are sufficiently peculiar. Also, with Sci Fi I often can't (or don't want to) get my head around the references. I don't want to know about the planet GWAMP that is 21 gazillion kilometers from its sun FLAMQUE which is comprised of the element SHVANTZ discovered in the year 2644 . I just roll my eyes at this stuff. Hey there are 118 elements in the real periodic table. Nine planets. Lots of stars. That's enough.
Why don't I like 1940s gumshoe novels?
The quick repartee of gumshoe novels does not seem real to me. Does anybody, did anybody, ever speak like that? Also, the plots typically are superficial making the yarn more about how clever the detectives speak than any story. Are there any couples that chat like, behave like, the couples in these books. I really do like the movie, Double Indemnity, (based on a novel of this ilk) but do lovers speak like that in real life?
Biased or not, the fact is I did not like Made to Kill and it took me a long time to read its 237 pages.
You may feel differently so here's the basic plot-without giving a whole lot away. (Not that there is a whole lot to give away).
Raymond is the last robot on earth. He is also a detective. Raymond the robot's speciality is killing people. A client comes to visit one day and asks Raymond to kill a Hollywood actor. She, the client, hands over a heavy bag of gold (literally) for payment. Throw in some Soviet cold war characters, radioactivity, a Russian plot, the CIA, a couple of killings, some witty dialogue, and 237 pages later you finish--and then wonder why you picked the book up in the first place.
There is, however, something I liked about the book and it will stick with me. Raymond the robot forgets everything every night, so he often is acting without information that he once had, but the next day does not. I liked this because it reminded me of many of we non-robots who often make decisions in the absence of information that we once had access to, but are now unaware of not only the information, but of the fact that we once had it. I was reminded of this recently when someone told me a joke which had me roar with laughter, only to be sobered when the jokester told me that I reacted similarly a few months earlier when the joke was first relayed.
I'd skip this book unless you like both Sci Fi and fast talking forties gumshoe stories.
I saw a book billed as a combination of Science Fiction and Raymond Chandler detective story. I've never been a fan of Science Fiction and while I know there are legions who swear by fast talking Raymond Chandler yarns, I am not among them. But the book was short--only 237 pages. And when I read the first page or two in the library it looked like I could get into it. So I took a chance and took it out.
Bad choice. The book is, as advertised, a combination of Science Fiction and witty detective dialogue. Therefore, predictably for me, not my cup of tea.
You might wonder why I don't like Sci-Fi. Well,
The real world is as weird as necessary for me. I don't need something beyond this world for- "out of this world." Most stories about planet Earth are sufficiently peculiar. Also, with Sci Fi I often can't (or don't want to) get my head around the references. I don't want to know about the planet GWAMP that is 21 gazillion kilometers from its sun FLAMQUE which is comprised of the element SHVANTZ discovered in the year 2644 . I just roll my eyes at this stuff. Hey there are 118 elements in the real periodic table. Nine planets. Lots of stars. That's enough.
Why don't I like 1940s gumshoe novels?
The quick repartee of gumshoe novels does not seem real to me. Does anybody, did anybody, ever speak like that? Also, the plots typically are superficial making the yarn more about how clever the detectives speak than any story. Are there any couples that chat like, behave like, the couples in these books. I really do like the movie, Double Indemnity, (based on a novel of this ilk) but do lovers speak like that in real life?
Biased or not, the fact is I did not like Made to Kill and it took me a long time to read its 237 pages.
You may feel differently so here's the basic plot-without giving a whole lot away. (Not that there is a whole lot to give away).
Raymond is the last robot on earth. He is also a detective. Raymond the robot's speciality is killing people. A client comes to visit one day and asks Raymond to kill a Hollywood actor. She, the client, hands over a heavy bag of gold (literally) for payment. Throw in some Soviet cold war characters, radioactivity, a Russian plot, the CIA, a couple of killings, some witty dialogue, and 237 pages later you finish--and then wonder why you picked the book up in the first place.
There is, however, something I liked about the book and it will stick with me. Raymond the robot forgets everything every night, so he often is acting without information that he once had, but the next day does not. I liked this because it reminded me of many of we non-robots who often make decisions in the absence of information that we once had access to, but are now unaware of not only the information, but of the fact that we once had it. I was reminded of this recently when someone told me a joke which had me roar with laughter, only to be sobered when the jokester told me that I reacted similarly a few months earlier when the joke was first relayed.
I'd skip this book unless you like both Sci Fi and fast talking forties gumshoe stories.
Black Lives Matter
The debate over the Black Lives Matter movement is disturbing for a number of reasons.
The first is that some people, ostensibly, do not get the meaning of the slogan. It, of course, does not mean other lives do not matter, but rather that black lives matter too. And, implied, is that there is a sufficiently large population of ethnocentric bigots who do not believe this to be the case. How tough would it be for you to identify people who fall into this population of neanderthals?
Black lives matter might as well be, Black lives matter as much as all other lives.
Who does not get this? I think there are three groups.
(1) The congenitally or developmentally obtuse. There are people who are not that swift and others who never exercised their brains such that what could be a useful component of one's anatomy is not much more than some mushy gook located between the ears. So, these folks maybe do not get what black lives matter means. Careful not to sound especially condescending here, but how long would it take you to identify five people who can fall neatly into this category of the congenitally or developmentally obtuse?
(2) The second group is composed of people who do not want to get the message because they have a political agenda. It is convenient for this cluster to pretend to be obtuse so they can claim that those marching behind the black lives matter are separatists or just not concerned with any other group than their own. Former Mayor of New York Giuliani made comments on the national news last week which made it seem that he could fall into this group. He has a political agenda, sees the black lives matter movement as an opportunity to make some debate points and deliberately does not get it. Giuliani did some wonderful things for the city of New York when he was mayor. I think of him with respect on those rare occasions that I walk in Time Square at midnight with no sense of fear--something that was out of the question in the late 60s and 70s. But on this issue he, and other members of his ilk, are not doing our society any favors. Black Lives Matter does not mean that other lives do not matter, but that black lives do. And this group knows this.
(3) The third group is made up of those who no longer want to hear about complaints from African Americans. This group feels the playing field has been leveled and point to the President, chiefs of police, and politicians as an indication. This group feels police act as they should when they suspect criminal activity. And the group contends that the black lives matter movement fuels aggressive behavior by those who otherwise would not be likely to commit crimes. They point to recent killings in Baton Rouge and Texas as evidence.
All three of these groups do not get it. All black lives matter means is that it is time that we as a society get past race as a criterion for anything.
The first is that some people, ostensibly, do not get the meaning of the slogan. It, of course, does not mean other lives do not matter, but rather that black lives matter too. And, implied, is that there is a sufficiently large population of ethnocentric bigots who do not believe this to be the case. How tough would it be for you to identify people who fall into this population of neanderthals?
Black lives matter might as well be, Black lives matter as much as all other lives.
Who does not get this? I think there are three groups.
(1) The congenitally or developmentally obtuse. There are people who are not that swift and others who never exercised their brains such that what could be a useful component of one's anatomy is not much more than some mushy gook located between the ears. So, these folks maybe do not get what black lives matter means. Careful not to sound especially condescending here, but how long would it take you to identify five people who can fall neatly into this category of the congenitally or developmentally obtuse?
(2) The second group is composed of people who do not want to get the message because they have a political agenda. It is convenient for this cluster to pretend to be obtuse so they can claim that those marching behind the black lives matter are separatists or just not concerned with any other group than their own. Former Mayor of New York Giuliani made comments on the national news last week which made it seem that he could fall into this group. He has a political agenda, sees the black lives matter movement as an opportunity to make some debate points and deliberately does not get it. Giuliani did some wonderful things for the city of New York when he was mayor. I think of him with respect on those rare occasions that I walk in Time Square at midnight with no sense of fear--something that was out of the question in the late 60s and 70s. But on this issue he, and other members of his ilk, are not doing our society any favors. Black Lives Matter does not mean that other lives do not matter, but that black lives do. And this group knows this.
(3) The third group is made up of those who no longer want to hear about complaints from African Americans. This group feels the playing field has been leveled and point to the President, chiefs of police, and politicians as an indication. This group feels police act as they should when they suspect criminal activity. And the group contends that the black lives matter movement fuels aggressive behavior by those who otherwise would not be likely to commit crimes. They point to recent killings in Baton Rouge and Texas as evidence.
All three of these groups do not get it. All black lives matter means is that it is time that we as a society get past race as a criterion for anything.
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