I saw a meme on social media a few minute ago that read, “Make racists afraid again.” You are so in love with hating racists that you don’t realize that they are already afraid. They would have to be to be racists. Maybe I’m asking too much to say, “Make racists realize that we are all human beings,” or even better, “Love racists and help them becomes better people, and eventually not racists at all.”
And if they did, could you forgive them? Your hate goes pretty deep. You are eager to hate non-racists for single moments of racism they showed 40 years ago.
I know most of the people who hate racists are supposed to be on my side, but hating something never made it better. Even “hate racism” misses the point. What if we tried to understand racism? Maybe if we got a handle on its causes, we could make strides toward ending it.
This was a story I wrote for my newspaper two years ago, before Open Mic Nyte disbanded. I found the files when I was cleaning out some folders on my laptop, and wanted to preserve it here.
Open Mic Nyte
by Richard R. Barron, Chief Photographer
The scent of coffee drifts through the air as Steve Brogdon gives the microphone a tug to make it a little taller. “There,” he says to me, “is that good?”
I thank him, then awkwardly clear my throat. Though I am not nervous, since I among friends, I still want to sound prepared and professional.
“Three strings walk into a coffee shop,” I say, and I can see eyes rolling from the crowd seated before me. I like to open with a joke before getting to my more serious material, and my “three strings” joke is, well, a great joke.
I pause and make eye contact. Not only do I consider uniform eye contact the mark of a good public speaker, I am happy to look at the people around me, as I have, in the past year, forged friendships with them, thanks to Open Nic Nyte.
Originally organized by Rhonda Ragsdale, who goes by the pen name Lisa M. Pyre, Open Mic is now largely run by Brogdon and Sterling Jacobs, who is a long-time area artist, poet, and, if he will accept that I am calling him this in the most flattering way, eccentric. I think I can get away with calling him that, since I feel a fair amount of eccentricity myself, and I own that and let it feed my artistic expression.
We are all eccentrics when we stand before the microphone.
Open Mic Nyte takes place on the last Monday of most months (breaking for the holidays) at Mojo’s Coffee. It is sponsored by the Happyland Music Alliance, and always has a featured artist.
You might be surprised how many painters, sculptors, charcoal drawers, graphic designers, actors, performance artists, fine art photographers, singers, dancers, conceptual artists, poets, novelists, and musicians live in the Ada area.
I feel happy to be in their midst as I tell my jokes, read from my notebooks, and show off some of my photographs. I finish and say, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” in my best Elvis impersonation voice. The crowd, sometimes just 12 or 15 of us, but sometimes nearly 30, applauds.
Jacobs takes the microphone and thanks me again. We’ve been friends for years, but Open Mic has taken that to the next level.
He next introduces my next door neighbor Jenn Nipps, who reads the next chapter in her newest novel. We all listen as she spins her story.
Since my younger days of reading Henry Miller, Albert Camus, Anaîs Nin, and Jack Kerouac, I’ve dreamed of being part of a café culture, of having a venue to share our ideas, feelings, and creations.
Timothy, who did not wish me to use his last name, is next, and to our amusement has crafted for himself a tinfoil (actually aluminum) hat. He smiles as he dons it, telling us what many of us already know, that he is a bit of a conspiracy theorist. He talks about the moon landings or the shape of the Universe. He shows us his codexes, small notebooks he’s been curating for most of his life. I can relate, since my own Open Mic kit includes some very similar notebooks.
He is welcome among us. The Vietnam veteran and his poetry are welcome among us. The guitar-playing college kid is welcome among us. The middle-aged novelist and the geriatric poet and the awkward teenage author and the pottery-making recluse and the young actor are all welcome among us. You are even welcome among us if you just want to watch and listen.
By the end of the night, nearly everyone has taken a turn at the mic.
So. Three strings walk into Mojo’s Coffee.
The first string says, “I’ll get us some coffee.”
He approaches the barista and says, “Three coffees, please.”
“Sorry, but we don’t serve strings.”
Stunned into silence, the string sits down.
The second string sees this, and defiantly approaches the barista.
Without hesitation, the barista says, “Look, I told your friend, we don’t serve strings!”
The third string is having none of this, so he bends himself into a loop, then takes out a comb and teases and rats his end.
He approaches the barista and says, “Three coffees, please!”
“Look, I told your friends, we don’t serve strings. You’re a string!”
“Why is NASA spending $1.1 million* to send a probe to Jupiter when all they have to do is open up their Bible to see how all that was created.” ~Citizen at town hall meeting, Ada, Oklahoma, August 2011
A frightening aspect of the recent political landscape is the idea that science and the educated people who wield it are an enemy of truth. At the core of this distrust is the whirlwind of climate change and all the deception it is said to involve.
You hate science, but depend on it every moment of your life. You wouldn’t be reading this sentence without science. Listening to radio without science. Television? Science. The internet? Science. Telephones? Science. Cars and trucks? Science. Food? Science. Medicine? Science. Firearms? Science. Entertainment? Science.
Finally, finally, after almost a year of rudderless leadership about the coronavirus pandemic by the current administration, President-elect Joe Biden announced a task force to fight the virus, headed by scientists.
So why do you hate science? Is it that science disagrees with your entire core of beliefs? If so, do your ever question your beliefs? To do so is incredibly difficult, but to not do so is to remain stagnant, ignorant, even a slave. A great question to honestly answer is: who told you to hate science?
I use social media, including Facebook, to stimulate interest in this web site, richardbarron.net.
The biggest reason social media is popular in the first place is that it gives Everyman a web presence, while at the same time preventing him from ruining it with his terrible taste and lack of creative talent (vis-à-vis MySpace in 2006).
Facebook also seems, it appears, to be the place for vapid, childish idiocy…
Here are some actual comments about this image…
That gives me chills all over!!!!
Lord trying to say get ready to do his work here in Eureka Springs AR.
Wow that is great! How exciting! Things are fixing to change!!!!!!
AmenIt gets you thinking, could have been an angel watching
That is beautiful I love that it is so amazing what Jesus Christ can do for his children
We were just talking about this today. Planning to come see it real soon.
I think everyone needs to share this. Let’s let this go viral!!!
I just got chills. Amazing. Amazing!!!!
these things happen.
Wow! Signs & Wonders
Wow that is awesome. I work at the play and enjoy every moment of it. I wasn’t on set for this part but that is truly amazing.
This is wonderful! What a beautiful sight, I wish I was there to see that! I have a pic of myself with several other Ladies with me, and there is an angel covering hovering over us. When I asked the Lord about it when I picked the pics up at Walgreens. He told me it was my guardian angel! I was brought to tears and awe!
Pretty neat. I shared your post.
That’s amazing and so wonderful!!
GLORY BUMPS FROM HEAD TO TOE!!
God knew we needed to see this & be reminded that he loves us & is with us !! Thank you Lord
It’s amazing and so real! I Believe
Even the real GOD loves the Great Passion Play. You should come see it for yourself. You never know you might just see the real GOD there. I know you will feel HIS Spirit there.
Nothing is impossible with God in our life
But wait is that satin in the lower corner of the picture??
Amazing I wish I had been there.
I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed for them being so stupid, angry at them for being so manipulative, or admire them for turning a brilliant false flag.
I can’t make up this stuff.
Christians, it makes you look so ignorant and silly when you believe and assert that simple optics is, “amazing and so real!” This isn’t a sophisticated extract of the possible nature of the Universe. It’s a bunch of hillbillies who think a cell phone camera captured a miracle. They are the overwhelming resonant voice of the faith.
So let’s run some stuff up the flag pole and see who salutes it…
Do Christians think that hating me will change me? Do they think hating gays will make them straight, or hating Muslims will end terrorism?
Do the Christians who commented on that photo think I will change my wicked ways when I see its testimony? That anyone will?
Answer me this: if god is real, why do you have to argue for it? Why would you even need to teach your children about god, for if god is real, would he not be completely self-evident?
So, anyway, I got an unsigned letter from a Christian. From my chair, any unsigned letter just looks like stalking. And for what it’s worth, when you send an unsigned letter, I can cherry pick and quote mine all I want.
As a blogger and reader of blogs, I was thrilled to ﬁnd the “photographer of my youth” at richardbarron.net. I began reading, observing, watching, and viewing. Then, I was saddened. I suppose in Oklahoma, we assume the friendly neighborhood photographer is a believer in God, a believer in Jesus’ death and resurrection, and heaven-bound like “the rest of us.” After all, it is Ada, America. Lesson Learned.
Yes, lesson learned. It is sad that we have religious freedom and diversity in Ada, Oklahoma.
“The rest of us” is thrown in there as part of the “appeal to popularity” logical fallacy.
Seeing many of your posts tainted with the opposite of my assumption, I knew what I had to do. After all (again), if someone had good news for me, promises that were true, and a bright future but failed to tell me, well, that would be just plain rude. I’m not rude. But I am skeptical. I’m skeptical to the extent that I sought out God. I researched for myself. I read for myself. I bypassed Sunday School lessons to ﬁgure out on my own what God said, did, promised, was, is, etc. Here’s what I found.
The use of the word “research” here is an interesting misnomer. “Research” implies looking at a number of sources for information that can be verified in some kind of an independent, scientific and logical way. Our anonymous author did none of that, of course, though we in the world of logic never find this surprising.
God sent his son, Jesus, to die for me. Why? Well, years (and I mean YEARS) ago, people of Israel had to sacriﬁce a lamb for their sins. Pretty brutal. Ugly. Angry. Jesus was the ultimate and ﬁnal “lamb.” And, just to prove that He didn’t just die for our sin, He came back to life so we could LIVE.
Ah, yes. This silly children’s story is still with us in the 21st Century. As decades of ponderance have sharpened my thoughts on this, I see more and more how so many, too many, adults think is this very troublingly childish way. Magic story. Sky daddy. Happy place for me and my kids and my dogs, unspeakable horror for everyone else. We are lambs. We are sheep.
I love this part, because, as you can see if you look up the Bible verses, none of these items is any kind of proof of anything. I find it odd that in a world of ever-increasing certainty of the nature of the world, theists still seem to cling to the thinnest fallacies, these “believe it because it sounds comforting” ideas.
Don’t take my word. Click the links, read the verse, then copy and paste the part of the verse that proves something in the comments section here.
“…but whoever listens to me will live in safety and be at ease, without fear of harm…” Proves. Nothing.
But, if you don’t believe in the Bible, then that does you no good, right? So let me say this. I’ve experienced these promises first hand. I’ve been healed. I’ve seen others healed. I’ve seen marriages saved, jobs restored, diseases cured, joy returned, and the impossible become possible. Not because I go to church (which I do) and not because every day is sunny with Barney singing a theme song.
No, it’s because I trust in the God who loved me so much that He went to a lot of trouble to prove it.
Actually, it’s quite apparent that god has gone out of his way to hide it, not prove it.
I have personally witnessed the failure of prayer: man prays with all his might for his wife, who is trapped in a vehicle after a crash. She died right then. Christians have brilliant rationalizations for when this happens: god’s will, her time, god needed another angel, blah blah. It’s so thin.
If this hits home at all, if you want to accept these promises, it’s as easy as believing & confessing something like… “Jesus, I believe you died on a cross. I believe you rose again. I believe in You and want to make you ‘King’ of my life. From this point on. Forgive the life I’ve lived without you. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.”
As always, the faithful seem to think that it’s possible to believe something that is not true or believable by simply deciding to believe it. “…it’s as easy as believing…” This might be the most damning thing of all about theists. They don’t believe things because those things are true. They believe them because they believe them. Their logic is a brilliant mirror of, “The Bible is true because The Bible says it’s true.”
Signed, well, you know I’m not going to sign it. You wouldn’t know me from Adam (ha!)
That’s the punch line, really. No signature. What is this? Ashamed of your beliefs? Afraid of them. Embarrassed by them? Afraid of me? This all points to what I think is a terrifying perception: the religious can’t actually believe what they claim. It’s too silly, too absurd, too shallow, and too fictional. Unicorns. Hobbits. Demons. Dragons.
“I truly believe” doesn’t make any of it true. The “why” of it, though, resonates repeatedly with me. Is the answer really as simple as fear? Fear of emptiness, loneliness, meaninglessness, eternity, death? Or is that too deep? Fear of not fitting in, not obeying?
So thus the name of today’s entry. That’s my name at the top of this entry, at the top of every entry. I am Richard R. Barron, and I am not afraid for you to know who I am and what I think.
Journalists are a nosy bunch, and one of my earliest nosy journalist experiences was listening to the police scanner in the newsroom. I wrote a bit about it previously, but today there are a couple of wrinkles in it.
Some of the agencies in our area have moved to digital communications, while others haven’t. Some tried it and didn’t like it, so they have returned to analog/FM communications.
I am in possession of a digital scanner, one that a previous employee had and used without much success, the Uniden BCD436HP. This radio is an interesting exercise in successful failure: it scans the bazillion services it promises, but that very feature causes the radio to miss almost all the radio communications it was meant to receive.
Public safety communications are brief and to the point, so when a local firefighter picks up a microphone and says, “I’m en route to that address,” this Uniden radio is listening to Hughes County, the State Medical Examiner, the Wildlife Service, the railroads… you get the idea.
The next step to improve use of this radio is to build a “favorites list,” which will just listen to only the services I tell it to.
The BCD436HP is meant to be the radio scanner for the digital age, but is set up in such a haphazard way, it’s hard to configure it in any useful way. Worse, the “best” way to program this box is with a Windows-based personal computer, which I don’t own, though this week I was able to borrow one.
Former Ada News intern and current Stillwater News-Press crime reporter Ashlynd Elizabeth Huffman told me recently that the purchase of a police scanner was one of the best piece of kit she bought since she’s been in Stillwater. Most Payne County communications are analog, and easily monitored with any scanner.
Finally, I am a bit of an old/vintage scanner collector, and sometimes prowl eBay to see what’s out there. An oddity in the last few months is that prices for scanners of all types have skyrocketed, and the only explanation that makes any sense is panic associated with the coronavirus pandemic.
Most of my work as a journalist has returned. School is back in session, as are athletics, though both have faced fits and starts as the pandemic spreads.
Our young photographer/writer friend Mac came by my office last week after I offered to lend her my copies of Ansel Adams’ The Camera, The Negative, and The Print, which I have been reading since I was her age.
I told her that one thing I really admire and aspire to in her writing and photography is her ability – or is it her nature? – to embrace chaos. My work seems too orderly and safe sometimes.
“It’s like you take a glass sphere,” I told her, “and throw it on the ground, then pick up the shards, while I’m in the corner polishing mine.”
“My life is like that shattered sphere,” she laughed.
Later in the week, I found this at a flower shop and bought it for my wife Abby…
In some ways, life has always been that shattered sphere, yet we felt too secure, too arrogant, too orderly.
Someone I have known for 40 years is currently dealing with her mother having Alzheimer’s disease. It’s terrifying to imagine losing your mind, but it is a reminder that all life is fleeting, that we are all going in the same direction, and that the only thing any of us has for certain is our next breath and our next thought.
Note: I have sat on this piece for nearly a year now, and in that time the entire social and romantic scene has change fundamentally because of the coronavirus pandemic. If I were single, I would have no idea how to attempt to hook up, since I don’t want to spread The Rona. Maybe The Rona just gave us the push we needed to become a society of impotent thumb-twiddlers.
Correction: to finish becoming a society of impotent thumb-twiddlers.
I was talking with a couple of friends recently. We chatted for nearly 30 minutes, and it was really fun. The topic of dating came up somehow, and the not-married one of the three of us talked about her bad experience with single men.
“Men are so insecure,” she told us.
It seemed like a valid assessment despite its obvious blunt generalization, one I was in no position to dispute, since I have have only dated my own wife since 2003, and have no idea what it’s like to court men.
I can also positively say that in my days of dating, I might have seemed insecure, since I was the butt of rejection time and again, often in favor of far lesser men. It seemed like an adjudication of my entire identity, and after a while, it wore me down.
I also really love women, and when I was single, there was nothing I wanted more, which filled me with a hunger that was hard to distinguish from insecurity.
It wish it were easier to love each other. I wish people didn’t hate other people for who they love or what they want.
I know. I wish, I wish. Whatever.
More recently, an attractive, single, female friend of mine was bemoaning the fact that married men sometimes leer at her. I told her without hesitation that my wedding ring means something to me, that it is an outward symbol of my devotion to my marriage, and something I wear proudly every day.
Connecting some of these dots for me, a good friend of mine recently told me that her best friend ghosted her, adding that this best friend who ghosted her “has a lot of insecurities.” I’d already surmised that based on her facial expressions, inability to feel empathy, and attention-seeking attire that always featured her large breasts.
So, my friends, are men and women just as insecure and in just as much turmoil as you are? It’s an odd dichotomy that we fight this fight together, but alone.
A disturbing trend in the news and on social media is to crucify someone for their long-ago misdeeds, especially if those deeds were in the bullseye of whatever is trendy to take offense about.
The message is clear: you have never been allowed to make mistakes, you are not allowed to grow and mature, and “Now I’ve got you, you son a bitch.”
How dare you have been imperfect 30 years ago. How dare you be young and foolish. How dare you fit in. How. Dare. You.
Of course, there will always be some know-it-all in the comments who will explain how wrong it was, so wrong that there can be no redemption, and their friends will rally around them.
This is all part of a bigger constellation of taking offense to everything, all the time. It comes from an angry, empty, spiritually bankrupt society. It reflects a culture of moral supremacy populated by the immoral. It is entirely one-dimensional on all fronts: you’re a sexist! You’re a racist! You’re a liberal! You’re a bully! You’re a label!
There is no redemption or forgiveness. There is only punishment.
Choke on this all of you, from the social justice warrior to the most strident Reaganist: I am all those things. I have done all those things. I made all those mistakes. I blundered through my youth, my young adulthood, my middle age, making and repeating mistakes, saying things that were cruel and petty and selfish.
“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.”
Go ahead. Cast it. Where? There is a mirror in the next room.
It’s not exactly a paradox, and it’s not exactly ironic, but it is frustrating.
How do I justify my love of exploration and photography in spectacular places like Antelope Canyon, Arches National Park, Yosemite, and White Sands, yet still feel contempt for the way these places have become desperately overcrowded?
Part of my problem with this issue is that I feel oddly outmatched by the crowds photographically, not because they have more talent, but because they have diluted the landscape so much with geotags and armchair photographers, squeezing professional photographers and naturalists into an empty corner.
On the third hand, shouldn’t Abby and I have special Delicate Arch creds, since, after all, we got married there?
Am I being whiney because I don’t want to share its specialness, or has it been made universally unspecial by its discovery and overpopulation by the Instagram crowd?
I’ve been sitting on this post for a month, yet can’t quite solidify it. Help me work this out.
I’m not pushing this one to social media for inobvious, murky reasons.
I read, and I blew.
My sister says she despises the phrase “these uncertain times” and the word “unprecedented.”
Newspapers struggle to survive, and soon we will get all our news from Snapchat. All reporters will look like puppies and baby deer.
A baby deer is called a deerling.
I despise the idea that corporate America is selling it back to me, and that our culture crashes when we can’t have the things I happen to think we don’t need at all, like indulgent entertainment and indulgent products, indulgent technology, indulgence.
Assuming you don’t have a real excuse (asthma, bronchitis, copd, ect.), you have no excuse for complaining about the mask. Can’t breathe? Look in the mirror. I’m surprised your lungs can lift all that fat off your heart.
Ouch. So cold and dismissive. Why can’t we all be perfect like Richard?
The racist name for the pandemic is “Kung Flu,” but I prefer, “Flung Pu.”
Fortunately, all covid news is fake, so we can go back to our gun shows.
If I could sneak headlines into newspaper? (Can I? Whoa. I guess I could.)…
Local dickhead steals Christmas
Oaklahoma changes name to Tinesee
Private parts now pubic (pube lick?)
Forecasters predict it will snow assholes all day
Sneeze guards added to pocket pullers
Deranged goat attacks two ex-presidents in one day
15 college girls killed in tickling accident
Renegade vegan farts on supreme court nominee
A personal look at author I. K. Malloveru
Anus management clinic to remain open
Maybe The Rona is Oxlong Penal Camp 2.0? (Now regretting letting that URL expire.) The grey jumpsuits and dusty sunglasses are just one executive order away.
I am amazed by how many people really like me, and how many people really hate me.
Explosive decompression of my colon.
A “fortice machete” if you will…
It was a mistake to trim her coochie with a fortice machete
Fortice Machete had been named in the fraud case just a month earlier
Fortice Machete was Nicarango’s fifth underground nuclear test
The wolfhound cornered a raccoon trying to steal his dog food; I chased it away with a fortice machete
Fortice. Not fartus. Although, fortis machette literally translates to “cut the fart.”
The fourth Matrix, the one that overheated all the time so they had to stop for water at every other Texaco, was coded with fortice machete
Fortice machete is a video game centered around making your opponents orgasm
The fortice integument was stronger than sea panels for bulge control
When did being monstrously racist and sexist go from funny to unacceptable? I know it did, but I never got the email announcing it.
I think most people thought the end of the world would be a lot quicker, like a nuclear war, or a lot more fun, like the zombie apocalypse.
My wife Abby and I got our hair cut today. I gave her a lift into town at lunch time. When she was done, our haircut professional, Layce, cut my hair. On the way out of the house, Abby and I grabbed the mail, which included a small padded envelope. When we saw it was from China, we excitedly ripped it open. It was a face mask I ordered way back in March when the COVID-19 crisis began. It says, “Photography is Truth.”
Is photography truth? Well, no, of course not. Truth stands above it all; above opinion, above research, above even journalism.
My photography is often the truth, but not always. For example, there is a small red spot above my left eye which a dermatologist told me is a vein very close to the surface of the skin. It’s harmless, but somehow it feels like a flaw. I use to clone tool to remove it all the time.
I recently met our de facto office mascot, a chocolate skunk named DaeDae. A day or two later I photographed Abby’s pony tail on a fluffy pillow. She immediately quipped, “I’m a caramel skunk.”
Despite the roughness of 2020 and the bad news that feeds bad news, we still remain, and try to find our way. I know, for instance, that our young friend Mac recently deactivated her Facebook profile, and I am with her all the way.
The mirrorless experiments continue, and my intuitions about it have merit. For example, the SMC Pentax-A 50mm f/1.4 lens is quite an amazing lens, especially since it got its start as a reporter’s camera at small town newspaper. A lot of those lenses were sold as newsroom pool cameras because they were so basic. The 50mm f/1.4 is at the top of any heap you’d be willing to pile; it is sharp, well-built, smooth-focusing, and delivers nothing short of spectacular bokeh. It is a sublime lens.
For much of the ongoing coronavirus pandemic crisis, I have been thinking even more than usual about human immunology. I have, over the years, read with fascination about smallpox, polio, plague, ebola, hantavirus, dengue fever, malaria, Spanish flu, tuberculosis, and on and on.
Along comes coronavirus in an age in which we should be able to handle it. Or, now that I type those words, maybe the idea of an extremely technologically sophisticated society being able to hand difficult problems is a conceit.
We all have concerns, but I have yet to talk to anyone who shares my own exact perspective. Some of scared to death of getting sick. Some think the whole thing is a scam. Others express suspicions, but are on board with measures being taken. Almost everyone seems to understand the economic and social consequences of shutting down the country again like we did in March.
In my thoughts, there is another consequence: overall immunity in humans. We build our immune systems through exposure to pathogens. Who will we be, immunologically, in six months or a year of obsessive mask-wearing and hand washing? Will we be more and more disease-naîve, until one day we will have to gown up just to survive the common cold?
Where would we be today if a less-lethal version of this virus made its way through the nursing homes and daycares three years ago, instead of being killed again and again by bubblegum-scented foaming hand sanitizer?
It is entirely possible that humanity’s difficulties with coronavirus is a consequence of obsession with not getting sick. Commerce is full of hand sanitizers and antibacterials. They interrupt the path of germs into the immune system. I would love to hear from an immunologist about this idea.
I will immediately concede that I am not a doctor or a researcher, and that I don’t have the answers, but now, nearly seven months into this crisis, no one seems to have answers.
During the recent months of the coronavirus pandemic, we have seen an increasing number of social media posts claiming that requirements to wear a mask in public to help reduce contagion are a violation of our Constitutional rights.
It got me thinking about a few years ago when I was watching a prepper’s YouTube channel. He was showing us his gear. AR mags, single-point slings, body armor, ham radio, c-rations… wait, ham radio?
If I made the mistake of chiming in (which I did once) about the fact that to use amateur radio frequencies, you need an amateur radio license, I was set upon by foul-mouthed, angry, selfish jackasses, whose entire point seemed to be that they could do whatever they want.
I’ve written on this theme many times before, but the mask thing brought it all back into focus: far too many people in our society never grow up. They are like the two year old who grabs anything he wants from the candy aisle while his mother isn’t looking, because he wants it. Fine. That’s a reasonable survival strategy for an infant.
The collision occurs when adults behave in this way. They want, and they grab, but as adults, they have a much longer reach, and since so many people are grabbing, conflict will happen.
This is the essential opposite of patriotism. “Ask not what your country can do for you,” Kennedy said.
But what can my country do for me? Feed me candy? Feed me trite tv fiction? Feed me the idea that I have rights I want, or worse, imagine the Constitution gives them to me. Oddly, the Constitution has nothing to say about facemasks. Nothing.
Let me ask it this way: why would it be an important right not to wear a disposable surgical mask in public?
Let me ask it this way: it is mostly illegal for women to bare their breasts in public. Is this harmful? In fact, no, not at all. It is not illegal to publicly expose your nose and mouth. Is this harmful? Presently, yes! (Don’t get me started on the ridiculously of decency laws.)
From a friend I was forced to unfollow on social media recently…
“I’m reading so many conflicting reports on Facebook. I’m sure that’s by design.”
“I can’t find any good news sources on Facebook.”
Smooth, “Leslie.” Very smooth.
Also, preppers: the shit is hitting the fan right now, but your guns won’t save you. The splattered mess is far less cinematic and violent than you had hoped. In your grade school dreams, you would “lock and load,” then march down to the riot and … you know what happens next. You fantasize about doing it, but meanwhile you can’t stand the site of your awful wife, and can’t even get it up to jerk off about it because you are obese and diabetic.
I read a comment on social media recently that said, “XX new coronavirus cases. It isn’t time to panic yet.” Fun fact: panic is never the correct response. Action is.
Panic is what led many in our community and our nation to hoard toilet paper.
So, no. It’s not time to panic. But is it time for action? I know that sounds like a dumb question, because if we think about it, it’s always time for action. Why? Because today is all we have. We hopefully learned a treasure of lessons from the past, and we hope our future is wise and prosperous, but today is all we have in our hands.
The next question becomes, what action do we take?
We all have things in our lives that require action. We should all have our spiritual house in order. We should all have our financial house in order. We should all have our family house in order.
What action would I recommend? I’m not a pillar of wisdom, but I can recommend some action without hesitation.
• Be kinder to each other. A subset of this would be to be wiser and less angry on the web.
• Try to realize that no one has a monopoly on wisdom. Yelling “2+2=5” doesn’t make it true, and calling someone an idiot in the comments section of their photos of the news doesn’t mean they are an idiot.
• Remember that illiterate, thoughtless, hostile and abusive comments on social media, just like in real life, reflects on the commenter, not on you. Hostility and abuse are the actions of bullies, and bullies are always cowards.
• Don’t be afraid to be courageous on social media, including being courageous enough to ignore and delete comments from bullies. You aren’t obligated to to listen to people who hate you or your ideas without justification. But we are all obligated to the truth.
There is a group of people who will read this, purse their lips, shake their heads with a huff, and mutter, “Well, he’s not talking about me.”
You might not be ready to hear what I have to say. You might go to your grave believing 2+2=5. But I know so many people who have turned away from that mindset, and have learned to listen, learned to be kind, learned to be civil and, bit by bit, wiser.
At a Juneteenth celebration Saturday, I interviewed a few people about how Donald Trump’s handling of racial issues would affect how they will vote. They all said they were already going to vote against Trump, but there was no shortage of criticism of him.
After talking to one person who repeatedly called him a racist, I turned off my recorder and said to her, “He’s a sexist, too.”
Her response surprised me.
“Yes, but racism is our issue right now.”
A bit of discourse on the right and wrong of the current narrative.
“The police should have just left George Floyd alone.” It’s important to note here that George Floyd was committing a crime when he was arrested, and the police were called to the scene by members of the public.
“George Floyd deserved what he got because he had a long felony record.” This is never how criminal justice is supposed to work. Police aren’t judges.
“George Floyd deserved what he got because he resisted arrest.” Killing a subject who is resisting arrest is a function of incompetent policing, not suspect behavior. If you and your fellow officers can’t contain a resisting subject without killing him, you shouldn’t be in the police business.
Black Lives Matter vs All Lives Matter vs Blue Lives Matter. I saw a meme that clarified this for me recently. Saying that “all lives matter” in response to “black lives matter” is like asking the fire department to hose down all the houses on the block when only one of them is on fire. Black Lives Matter addresses a crisis unique to the black community.
Cause of death: when investigators find drugs in the systems of black subjects in these situations, or that these people died from causes not related to police actions, it’s untrue, “because medical examiners and/or prosecutors are protecting the police.” This is a mish-mash of logical fallacies and wishful thinking, and is seldom asserted with evidence.
Far too many of these cases involve people who encounter police while drunk or high, and while that’s not any kind of an excuse for police abuse, it is appalling. Do we not, as human beings of any race, owe it to ourselves to be strong, upright, healthy citizens? I know, though, that it is much harder when right and wrong isn’t always obvious when you live amidst poverty, abuse, neglect, and racism. I know I am asking a lot, but I am asking the right thing: love and respect thyself.
Why “defund the police” won’t work: like it or not, the police have been protecting you every minute of every protest, and although they get out of hand sometimes, it mostly works. You can’t protect yourselves from armed robbers, drunk drivers, burglars, and a myriad of other criminals like you think you can. My response to this is rightfund the police.
So. One day it’s Black Lives Matter. One day it’s school shootings. One day it’s LGBTQ+ pride. 9/11. Animal rights. Climate change. Ebola. Poverty. Covid-19. Pollution. Overpopulation.
Every single-issue issue is temporary and destined to fail, because it disregards the wisest and calmest words we ever recited as children: “…and justice for all.” You will never succeed in building a better world until you realize that we all live in it.
I had a rather remarkable weekend, connected to the Black Lives Matter movement and a rally in our hometown, Ada, Oklahoma.
It really kicked off late Friday morning when got a report that some camo-wearing redneck-looking men were hanging out downtown, which fit the social media rhetoric about agitators and radicals bussing in protesters. I talked to them and even tried to bond with them. They interrupted my first sentence with “And you are?” despite my press pass in plain view, then declined to identify themselves, though they did say off the record that they were there to “guard” a local business. If they were armed, it was concealed.
My conclusion was that they were not from Ada, and were there as a provocation by racists. But there wasn’t really a story there. Sure, you and I know who these guys are, but what could I say? Men in a variety of clothing similar to hunting or military attire stand on a public sidewalk? Within a couple of hours, they were gone.
After talking to the camo guys and deciding they weren’t really a story, I walked next door to Gunrunners, our favorite gun store, to see if Darrel Teel, the owner, had anything to say about the situation. The guy behind the counter said, “Darrel passed away last night suddenly.”
I’d known Darrel for 15 years, and Abby had known him for 50 or more years. We liked him, and he knew his guns. Shocked and sorry to hear about this.
I went home and got lunch for Abby and me, and got a few other things done, expecting to work late.
I had some vague ideas about how our Black Lives Matter march would play out, and felt like I was prepared. In addition to my wide angle and telephoto zooms and my phone, I mounted an extra phone (from my office) on the hot shoe of my wide angle camera for video, which worked pretty well.
My Ada News video from last night's Black Lives Matter rally…
A lot of journalists have been caught up in violence connected to these recent events, and my wife and a couple of coworkers were nervous about my presence, but I could already feel in the air that it was going to be a positive, peaceful, and meaningful event.
The march started at the “whittling tree,” but as I explained this to my coworkers, they all seemed dumbfounded. Am I the “old man” who remembers stuff from back in the day? You can see the whittling tree in the early parts of the video.
How I felt once it got going really took me by surprise.
It was very hot and humid out. I wore shorts and my “The Ada News” shirt with “PRESS” on the back. As I worked, I would stop and make photos and video, then, because the march was moving at a fair pace, I would run a block and a half to catch up and get in front of it, and do the whole thing all over again. Despite the heat and being loaded with gear, including wearing a Rona mask, I was very pleased with how easy it was, and how quickly my heart rate went back to normal. I’m about to turn 57, so this is significant.
Longtime friend Christine Pappas asked on social media afterwards, “Can I nominate Richard R. Barron for a Pulitzer for this photo?”…
It’s a lovely and flattering sentiment, but the truth is that thousands of journalists like me are making great images of this bellwether moment in history just like I am, and I am honored and humbled to be a small part of it.
Thus the surprising part: at one point during the march, with thousands of human voices, many my friends, crying out in unison for justice, I felt like I was going to break down and cry. I had to take several long, keep breaths just to keep myself in the game. I was just so proud of Ada.
It was also a moment of self-doubt: am I getting to old, too emotional, too vulnerable to do the job of news photographer?
In the end, I found the experience to be one of the most moving and significant I have ever covered.
Here’s a piece of good news: I recently donated blood at the Oklahoma Blood Institute, and they will test it for coronavirus antibodies. My first -blush guest? Yes, based on my sickness in February.
Sure, I could high-five myself into a sprained rectum, but the truth is that disease moves in mysterious way. If I DID have The Rona, my blood could potentially be part of the medical process that creates a coronavirus vaccine.
My thoughts today: most people don’t have what they need and don’t need what they have. What do they need? Purpose. Goals. Love. Creativity. Truth. Purpose. What do they have? Sugar, entertainment, a distorted worldview, suffering.
And then there are things we all have that we take for granted, like blood. There is no other source of any kind for human blood but us, and I will continue to donate for the rest of my life.
At the moment, despite a fair amount of financial hardship around us, we almost all have a place to live under a roof, and enough to eat.
My garden grows, but with a mysterious development: several of my plants have just vanished. They weren’t eaten to the nub like bugs might, and I haven’t seen any animal tracks. The most recent was a nice cherry tomato plant that actually had some green fruit on it. It was 14 inches tall, so it wasn’t vulnerable seedling. Ideas? I’m halfway inclined to cite pranksters, but it’s an odd choice to steal individual plants and not trash the whole garden.
I was recently honored to once again help jury some East Central University Mass Communications students’ senior presentations, specifically those students who emphasized visuals like photography, graphic arts and design.
It got me thinking about my college days and earlier, and about what I imagined I wanted to be as an adult – “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
In 1974, I was absolutely sure I wanted to grow up to be a pilot. I had a beautiful model of a Pam Am Boeing 747-200, an aircraft known as “the queen of the skies,” that inspired a whole generation of young people. Although I never did it professionally, I became a pilot in 1993.
In sixth grade, a teacher we all liked and admired, Mrs. Gerber, asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. When no one volunteered an answer, Mrs. Gerber got out her roll call book and started calling our names in alphabetical order, so I was first. I blurted out, “Farmer,” and the class laughed and laughed. But the next kid didn’t have an answer either, and also said, “Farmer!”
Eventually we had a room full of 26 would-be farmers.
That summer, my mom got me a part-time job working for an oral surgeon for whom she worked as an office manager. My job mostly involved mopping and cleaning, but I also learned how to clean stainless steel dental instruments and sterilize them using an autoclave, so for a while I had dentistry in mind.
In 10th grade, I was fascinated with the weather, and even wrote down watches and warnings on my journal, so there was a short period when I wanted to be a meteorologist.
By 11th grade, I’d been keeping a journal for a while, and imagined I could one day be a novelist, albeit one without a plan for writing even my first novel.
As a senior in high school, I was taking pictures for yearbook, and got addicted to that. Around that same time, I started hanging out with guys who loved hi-fi stereo, so there was a period when I dreamed of working in a stereo store.
I asked my wife Abby what she wanted to be when she was young.
“I wanted to be a cowgirl when I was four,” she told me. “But not like Dale Evans. I wanted to be Roy Rogers.”
She wanted to be a mechanic, and actually did a fair amount of that kind of work as a hobby. She knows pretty much everything there is to know about internal combustion engines, even rebuilding one with her brother-in-law, Ralph Milligan, which she raced.
She played with being a math teacher, a child psychologist or a veterinarian. She worked in a veterinary clinic in the 1990s.
By my late college years, I had settled on being a photojournalist, in part because I was good at it, and in part because the equipment is pretty sexy.
“Everybody in this town knows you, and knows who you are and what you do.”
The 2020 coronavirus crisis has had a crippling impact on the entire world. Entire industries have collapsed. One that comes to mind is the airline industry. Travel has plummeted beyond crisis levels. Some airlines have parked 95% of their fleets, and laid off thousands of workers.
My profession, print journalism, has struggled for more than a decade, and the outbreak has ripped away much luxury, and even some necessity, to the craft of delivering the news.
Readers might notice that in print, I have a new title, Senior Staff Writer. The reason for this is that corporate entities don’t see a need for photographers at struggling, small-market newspapers. Our hope with this title change is that they see me as a multi-role staff member with feature writing, column writing, internet, videography and photography skills, which I absolutely am.
I don’t anticipate taking fewer photographs, and I am already writing quite a bit at my paper. It’s a move intended to do more with less.
No one in my community will think I am no longer a photographer, their photographer.
My mental health has been contaminated by the pandemic. In my head, everything is “covid.” Did you try the new covid oranges? Would you like covids with that? Look Hawken, that covid tree is covering the ground with covids. The covids are in bloom this time of year. Who’s hogging all the covid sauce? That’s a lovely covid you have on. Is that a covid in your pants, or are you just glad to see me?
Journal, March 16, 2020: What happens to a population under stress? The world implodes under the inevitability of its arrogance, its greed, its ignorance, its pride. Institution like public school, air travel, sporting events, and tourism wither in ghostly retreat because they considered themselves untouchable. No one is untouchable.
Journal, March 31, 2020: Something inside me doesn’t trust the reality of this situation. Simulation? Biowarfare? Invasion? Alien invasion?
Journal, April 11, 2020: I got my seeds in the ground today. Tend them when I am gone.
Journal, April 13, 2020: If you don’t come out of this crisis stronger and more grateful, maybe you don’t deserve to come out of it at all.
I am close to madness because my hair is getting so long.
We have all faced stress in our lives. My sister Nicole, for example, lost almost everything she owned when Hurricane Katrina destroyed New Orleans. She seemed to handle it well, and bounced back to be the first to rebuild in her neighborhood, but I know it must have taken an emotional toll beneath the surface.
I thought of this on this Easter Sunday as I watched a video from a fellow professional photographer Nic Coury (from whom I bought an 85mm last year), who came to us via Facebook live video from his henhouse with his pet chickens, encouraging us to do what we have to do to survive, but also to pay attention to our feelings and how this unprecedented situation must be effecting them.
I have always been pretty good at deferring and compartmentalizing my feelings. I do that partly so I can do my job when it gets rough (just this week, I covered a double-fatality car crash that killed a two-year-old), and as a pillar for my wife Abby, for whom I must care.
Nic’s video and the ever-increasing bad news about the pandemic got me thinking: am I just going to fall apart one of these days? I can’t just switch off compartmentalization and fully integrate my feelings; I’m not constructed that way. I guess time will tell.
I am not firstly a political writer, but sometimes I fee I must speak my mind about politics. One meme that made the rounds this week is about candy (in this case Skittles, a kind of jellybean)…
This is what we call in the real world a false equivalence. It implies that you are willing to take a small but real chance of dying in exchange for something that is essentially worthless, candy.
But alas, we live in a real world of hard choices. Does a battalion commander send his unit to capture a ridge, risking two percent of his troops, for a handful of candy? No, of course not. But his attack might save 50,000 lives. That two percent is potentially traded for something valuable.
The question is centered around the current coronavirus pandemic, and some have suggested that we need to allow, or at least accept that, two percent of everyone who gets the disease will die. People are not Skittles, of course, so the question is an absurd and overly simplistic view of a very daunting task ahead of us.
In the current pandemic climate, we are constantly hearing about shortages, mostly on social media.
There is a scene in the not-very-good 1965 epic The Battle of Bulge in which a German tank commander, played by Robert Shaw, speaks to his general.
“General, do you know what this is? It is a chocolate cake. If you look at the wrapping, you will see it is from Boston from two days ago. General, do you know what this means? It means the Americans have fuel and planes to fly cake across the Atlantic Ocean.”
One generation’s privation is another’s luxury. Think about that this week when you can only find vegetable soup or rye bread.
I have gone back and forth about this issue as more information becomes available about this disease. At first I thought I sure had it. Then a blood test indicated I did not have antibodies to it. But the news is very complex, and many of those who had the disease do not show antibodies to it. We may never know.
There is a substantial growth of conversation on social media claiming that a round of coronavirus already passed through us last winter. Yes, I know that chatter on the web is hardly scientific, but I also know that life and pathogenesis are confoundingly complicated and inconsistent.
Readers might recall that I was very ill, as ill as I have ever been as an adult, in February (here) and (here).
At the time, I saw my doctor twice. On the first occasion, he did a test for influenza that involves a nasal swab, which is read in a few seconds. It is a cheap, bottom-tier diagnostic that, in some ways, is intended to reassure patients that they know what they have and they will hopefully recover.
The second visit was four days later when I not only didn’t seem to be recovering, I could feel rales or rhonchi in my right lung. Pneumonia? He ordered a chest x-ray, my first non-dental x-ray since a car crash in 1990.
In the middle of it, I experienced a mild shortness of breath. It wasn’t difficult to breathe, but I found myself for hours on end making every breath a deep breath. My cough didn’t seem “right” either, and I noted in my journal.
Viruses are invisible and difficult for even the best scientists to understand. We tolerate them because we have no other choice. Could I have already had coronavirus in February? What are your thoughts?
I keep hearing about various organizations and companies make stuff like photographs of the cosmos or music files free while we are all hunkered down in our obedience caves. Wow. Did we really need a jump start on being spoon-fed entertainment through the internet? My wife and I already have thousands of songs, movies, apps, games, books, ebooks, old junk to sort, laundry to do, gardens to dig…
Yes, we have ton and a half things we can do while cloistered. But the one we’ve been enjoying the most … er, well, um, second most … is talking to each other.
“I’m bored.” Wow. Maybe you need to read Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder and find out what boredom might be like. You work 14 hours a day winnowing grain and maybe Pa will play his fiddle for you. If he doesn’t have smallpox.
As someone who’s had his name in print thousands of times over the years, and as someone who has always made an effort to curate something of a creative legacy, I believe it might be more important than ever to try to express our thoughts with pen and paper.
I know I’ve said this before, but it’s worth hitting again: when we write something on the page, it activates and liberates parts of our brains that are somewhat dormant when we watch television or surf the internet. Plus, writing on paper isn’t as vulnerable as other expressions like social media; your journal can’t be stolen by hackers, and no one can delete your account.
I’ve got lots of empty paper journals, and I should make more effort to put more ink in them. I’d like to see you do the same, and one fine, sunny day when society has recovered from 2020’s mess, you and I could meet at the coffee house and share.
In the midst of this pandemic , I heard from panic-stricken social medianites that potatoes were sold out everywhere. This did not encourage me to panic-buy potatoes, but it did remind me how much Abby and I love these nutritious tubers. So I went to the store to find them plentiful and cheap, and bought a reasonable amount, our usual amount in fact (five pounds of red ones, five pounds of white ones, and four sweet potatoes), for some upcoming meals.
Food for Thought
I want to know how, in just a couple of generations, we go from a society in which some people didn’t see fresh eggs or fresh fruit in a year (The Great Depression, both World Wars) to a generation that rides electric scooters in big box stores to buy 500 rolls of toilet paper. How do we go from a single 13-inch black-and-white in the living room to 20 high-definition devices in every corner of our homes? Who have we become, and what will we look like when we emerge from this crisis?
Cooking for my wife is wonderful, since she often has no appetite, worrying me that she might be malnourished, and when I can get her to eat, especially when I can get her excited about eating, I feel I am taking good care of her, which is more critical than ever right now.
Abby and I live in relative isolation most of the time. Our house sits back about 100 yards from the road, which is situated in a somewhat sparsely populated small town. I still work, and that puts me in contact with the public. As a result, I have never hated hand sanitizer more, and I am practically washing my hands off. But I am well, we are well.
I was feeling pretty grim for much of the day, weirdly motivated by caution and advice to keep my distance from my fellow humans, worried more about the social and economic consequences of our situation.
When I got home, Abby sneezed, reminding me that we both were aware that the weeds in the yard have grown pretty tall all the sudden.
I fired up my push mower, then my riding mower, then finally the power washer, and they all worked fine.
I mowed and mowed, and even had a chance to power wash a spot on the front of the house.
The smell of cut grass and weeds and dandelions and wild onions was the opposite from the rest of my day, opposite from the smell of disinfectant and surgical masks.
“No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and emotions shared by all.” ~Albert Camus, The Plague
I miss my indulgences. I want to get back to my self pity. I want to walk the wolfhound and think sweetly about my napping wife, or hear a song on my phone that brings me back to high school, or summons nostalgia about a first date or a breakup.
I want to smell the flowers in spring and think of hope.
I wonder when we will start to feel like we are walking out of this instead of walking into more of it. When can I get back to expressing myself instead of expressing myself under stress or in a crisis?