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Thursday, July 9, 2009

29 years from now



(A father reflects on his daughter’s graduation from UC Davis)

By S L Cunningham

Friday, June 12, I flew out from Houston to Sacramento to attend my daughter’s graduation at the University of California at Davis. Shortly after arriving at my motel in Woodland, my daughter called and asked if I had arrived. We met up with each other at her apartment on campus.

After introducing me to her roommates and showing me her room, we headed for downtown Davis. First order of business was lunch at Burgers and Brew. From there, we spent the next five hours on a walking tour of the downtown area and the campus.

With most cities today, downtowns are a throwback to a bygone era. With their crumbling brick facades, boarded up windows, and a spattering of antique shops, attorney offices and banks, such places leave you wondering what they were like when “downtown” was the focal point of the community. Downtown Davis, however, is the focal point for this community: dynamic, vibrant, with hundreds of people milling about on foot and malingering in its shops, art galleries, and coffee houses. With its tree lined streets, its ambiance is what many shopping malls try to achieve but never quite get right.

While walking along with my daughter, I couldn’t help noticing all the bicycles whirring by. On the sidewalks, more bikes were parked in racks then there were cars parked on the street. Davis is sometimes referred to as the “Bicycle Capital of the United States.” The streets have designated bike lanes, and even one of the traffic lights is bicycle friendly. Instead of your typical red, yellow and green traffic light, this one uses red, yellow and green bike icons.

We visited a couple of art galleries, and then walked onto the campus that abuts the community. After walking quite a distance, I mentioned to my daughter that the area seemed much bigger than I thought. “Biggest campus in the UC system,” she said. I later learned that the campus is spread over 5,300 acres.

The highlight of my campus tour was the UC Davis Arboretum. As we stood on the knoll looking at the green hillside nudging downward to the pond, I could see why my daughter saved this particular place for last. Both a park and a garden replete with several varieties of trees, plants, flowers, and wildlife, there are several pathways to take for an easy stroll. And if you want to sit a spell to indulge in quiet contemplation, you have your choice of several benches placed underneath the boughs of the trees, in the flower gardens, and along the edge of the pond.

We spent a few moments watching a small flock of ducks chasing after a couple of students who were tossing breadcrumbs out on the grass for them. At one point a few of the ducks came over to where we were as if we might have something for them, too. My daughter then looked at me and said, “Come on. I want to show you the best part.”

She led on as I followed her through the Redwood Grove. Among the redwoods, especially along the waterway are succulents and deer grass indigenous to California. We each took a turn to lean up against one of the small giants to take a picture of each other. We capped off our excursion by walking back to Davis to where I had parked the car. Dinner that evening was at Caffe Italia.

The next morning I woke up early and headed back to Davis. First order of business was finding a place to eat for breakfast. Even though I had spent most of the previous afternoon walking the entire downtown with my daughter, I had a hard time trying to get my bearings. I kept ending up in certain sections that seemed outside of the downtown area, and not a place to eat was to be found. I walked along 5th Street, and then started walking up E Street. I saw an older lady, stopped, and asked her; “Oh, Good Morning. Ah, you wouldn’t know of any place that serves a really good full breakfast, would you?”

Café Bernardo’s if you’re looking for fresh prepared and a cup of coffee with a bit of a bite to it.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

She started to give me directions. “It’s on 2nd St. You walk up to 3rd St, take a right. . . Oh, heck, I happen to be going that way. How about if I just show you?”

She led me right to the door. I invited her to join me. "No thanks," she said; "But I appreciate the offer. Enjoy yourself in town.”

A more enjoyable recommendation could not have been made. Before sitting down to a table, you have to order at the counter first. At 8 am in the morning the line was considerable, but the wait was worth it. I had the Amaretto French Toast with almonds , served with pure maple syrup. The dining area has small tables spaced closely together. You can also eat at the tables outside on the sidewalk terrace. The atmosphere feels more European than American. If I were to return to Davis for another visit, this place would be first on my list.

I knew it would be sometime before I would eventually catch up with my daughter again. After we had had dinner last night, she spent the evening hanging out one last time with her college friends. After finishing breakfast, I spent the rest of the morning playing tourist. I explored almost every inch of downtown, browsed several of the shops and bookstore, and watched an Amtrak train pull in from Sacramento and pull out headed for San Francisco.

It was around 11 am. From the train station, I walked down 2nd St to C St and made a beeline to the Davis Farmer’s Market. California is world famous for its agriculture. There isn’t any kind of grain, fruit, or vegetable that doesn’t grow in this state, and considering the numerous vendors here this morning from local farms around the area, the abundance is quite evident. Most everything offered is organic and fresh picked. At $3.20 a pound, it was hard to say “No” to a couple of pounds of Bing cherries. I also bought a pint of blueberries for $2.75 and a pint of Santa Maria strawberries for $3.50. I spent the next hour and half sitting on a park bench gorging myself.

The park was filled with people spread out on the lawn with blankets and picnic baskets. I observed a father helping his small daughter get a kite up into the air. Other children were running around in a game of tag. Dogs were chasing after Frisbees and balls. Several small groups of people were engaged in simple conversation. And the music from the live bands playing at the market made it feel more like you were at a festival, a celebration of joining together with family, friends, and even complete strangers. This is a community that basically likes to hang out together; its people, very friendly and helpful.

Liz met up with me shortly after. She asked me if I had had anything in mind for lunch. Considering I was quite stuffed as it was, I said anything light would be fine with me. She bought a bag of pumpkin bolani bread and a small tub of orange lentil sandwich spread. We headed off to the Arboretum on campus and shared a quiet lunch together on one of the benches. Later that evening we drove to Sacramento to meet up with her mother and a friend of hers for dinner.

Graduation was Sunday morning at 9. I arrived at The Pavilion at 7:30 to make sure I got a good seat within viewing distance of the stage. Considering the cavernous size of the facility that is used mostly for athletic events, getting good pictures proved a real challenge for my digital camera. The lighting and distance made it impossible to get a clear picture of my daughter as she sat with her class waiting for the commencement to begin. Chancellor Larry N. Vanderhoef gave the Welcome speech, which did not seem very encouraging. He congratulated the students on their hard work and significant achievement, but then apologized that many of them might not be able to find jobs because of the suffering economy.

After the ceremony, her mother and I joined together with other friends who came to celebrate the occasion for picture taking with results that were much better. My daughter is at least fortunate that she will have a job as a reservations coordinator at UC Davis throughout the end of the summer. She hasn’t decided whether she wants to pursue a career in radio or TV broadcasting, but at least she has a few months to consider her options and to apply for positions.

Monday morning after getting together for coffee and bagels at Starbucks on campus, my daughter had me walk with her to work. She introduced me to her supervisor and co-workers and then showed me the small cubicle she works at. At least she has a nice window view. On her desk is a two foot high trophy. As I began to look at it to see what it was for, she said; “That was here from the last person who worked here. I thought it made a nice decoration, so I left it as it was.”

As I walked back to my car after we had said our goodbyes, it struck me how odd this journey through life can be. It was 29 years ago when I graduated from California State University Long Beach with a Bachelor’s Degree in English. Then, I did not reflect on what had transpired in the past; instead, I looked toward the future. I envisioned myself developing a career as a writer and teacher, and even dreamed of maybe teaching overseas someday. It never occurred to me, though, that I would have a daughter who would one day graduate from UC Davis.

I turned and looked at the building where my daughter was settling in for her day at work. As she shapes her dreams over the summer as to what the beginning of her next journey will be, I hope that 29 years from now she will be as amazed with the events that have transpired in her life as I am with the events that have transpired in mine.

Featured in the Culture section of Blogcritics.

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Sunday, June 28, 2009

Afghanistan’s Most Dangerous Corner

A father reflects on his
son’s deployment to the
Korengal Valley

By Scot Cunningham, August 20,
2008

Reprinted from Culture11

My son Michael, 22, is a paratrooper operating out of Firebase Restrepo, an outpost in Korengal Valley built on a treacherous mountain outcropping. It is named in honor of Pfc. Juan Restrepo, who was killed by small arms fire when the Taliban attacked his unit. Enemy fighters regularly target this base for attack, hoping to breach the bags of rock that form its walls. It is a terribly dangerous position to defend.

These facts cause me endless anxiety. In order to forget them, I sometimes take long walks under the loblolly pines in Houston’s Memorial Park, though the relief is fleeting. Few things move me as powerfully as the cause for which my son is fighting, so I am grateful for news coverage that reflects its importance. But each story from Afghanistan cannot help but remind me of the dangers that he faces, increasing my worry.

Take the recent Vanity Fair piece on the Korengal Valley. Americans ought to know that the valley is a strategic passage sought by the Taliban and Al Qaeda, that securing it would be a major victory in the War on Terrorism and that our efforts are meant to improve the lot of the Afghani people. Imagine how it feels, however, to read this description of the place where your son lives:

The Korengal is widely considered to be the most dangerous valley in northeastern Afghanistan, and Second Platoon is considered the tip of the spear for the American forces there… There is literally no safe place in the Korengal Valley. Men have been shot while asleep in their barracks tents.

The idea of combat hasn't always made me so nervous. As a young Marine, I didn't fear Vietnam – I felt some eagerness to join the fight, though the war ended before I got the chance. I remember my mother's relief. Only now, as a parent, do I fully grasp what she must have felt.

During his time in Afghanistan, Michael has been pushed physically and mentally beyond anything he ever imagined, facing a brutal enemy, harsh mountainous terrain and constant mental stress. A small example of the trials that arise concerns a stray dog taken in by 2nd Platoon. Tank was a good sized animal, muscular in stature, his medium-length brown coat marked by a white blaze on the chest and face, with a huge wolfish head. He provided comfort and companionship. He also alerted the men to Taliban lurking about.

My son loved the dog, even entertaining the idea of having him shipped back to Houston, but one day he disappeared, returning to the compound almost a week later with burns and open wounds—the enemy had tortured him. The wounds were more than the medic could treat, so Michael comforted Tank as best he could, carried him to the rear of the compound and put a bullet into his head. This act of compassion required bravery I might not have managed.

Of course, he faced physical trials too. When I wrote an e-mail asking about the frigid winter temperatures, for example, I got this matter-of-fact response:
I don't think I've ever been this cold before. It got down to -5 or so. And you know it wouldn't be the first time I've been in -degree weather; after all, it got to -30 once in Maine. But I was never like, hmm, let's go sleep outside in it.

They slept outside through three months of sub-freezing snow and ice, aided some by the community of Belfast, Maine, which sent an ample supply of tuna, beef jerky, hand warmers, arctic socks and thermal underwear—gifts inspired partly by an article Michael's grandmother wrote for the local newspaper. The outpouring, buoyed by the generosity of total strangers, sometimes made for a challenge. "You know, Dad, it's not like the UPS truck rolling up to your front door," my son wrote me. "We have to go out to where the helicopter is, gather up the boxes and beat it back to the compound without taking fire."

Having survived the winter, my son got 20 days leave this spring. At the airport, people shook his hand and thanked him for his service, a reaction he'd gotten for the whole trip. "On the plane from Dallas to Houston, everybody wanted to buy me a drink," he said.

How good it felt to see my son! Running around for whole a year carrying 80 to 100 pounds of weapons, ammo, and other equipment had put muscles on him that made young women fawn. We spent one night in Austin to take in the "blues scene," and I had just as much fun watching the young ladies clamoring around him as I did listening to the music.

It's hardly the first time I've felt proud to be his father. "Why did you enlist in the army?" I remember asking him. He said he wanted to help people, a disposition he's had since childhood, fulfilled these days by fighting bad guys. It requires a certain mindset, captured in a letter written to his grandmother:

There's no other time in your life that you will feel as alive as you do in the seconds that you are in a real firefight. There is no comparing it. Jumping out of a plane is one thing: you face the probability of death with a certainty of success. Success is not guaranteed in the Korengal. Everyone wears the same face; everyone gets the same feelings. We all are aware that every bullet has a final destination.

Spoken like a true warrior—one who has done an impressive job keeping his humanity intact. Occasionally you can catch a glimpse of my son locked in a "battle stare." But his sense of empathy and compassion toward others has not suffered much--nor has his sense of humor--and he remains optimistic about his future.

I long for the day when he is finally home, safe and sound, as do his mother and sister. I’m often the one who relates messages to everyone else since Michael rarely has an opportunity to make phone calls. In these conversations our fears are seldom articulated, but long, heavy silences make it clear that we’re all dealing with them.

I’ve felt so much fear for my son and for myself, immediate relief when he came home on leave and a weight that returned soon after he went back to the front. That’s why it’s important that I get lost in the cool shade of the woods, the mid-afternoon sun filtering down through the trees. My mind can rest here, until I walk out from under the canopy, back toward my car, the blast of hot summer air jarring me back to reality.

“He’ll be just fine,” I tell myself. “He’ll be just fine.”

Monday, November 3, 2008

Undecided

Tomorrow, November 4th, has all the makings of a truly historic, if not contentious day that promises to be one of the most memorable elections for some time to come. For awhile it appeared that Obama clearly had the momentum, and his campaign certainly has been more enthusiastic and energized than McCain’s. It hasn't been until this last week, though, that John McCain finally started to show some signs of life. If you expect to convince others of what you stand for, you have to be passionate about your beliefs.

In that regard John McCain has fallen flat, and has left it to Sarah Palin to get the crowds fired up. But these past few days, McCain has finally been saying why he wants to be the next President like he really means it. Obama, though, if the polls are any true indication, looks like he will be the declared winner. Looks like, that is unless the undecided’s truly become decided about the principles our country was founded on.

I’m not particularly crazy about McCain, and Palin, bless her heart, tends to grate on my ears with that annoying country-bumpkin twang, but in spite of the oddball political partners these two make, they do represent an idealism that is closer to what most Americans believe are the values that make this country great; liberty, of course, but also opportunity, enterprise, and responsibility.

With Obama, there are odd little curiosities that leave much to question. At the beginning of his campaign, his connection with Pastor Jeremiah Wright was subject for much nightly news fodder until Obama finally threw his long time friend under the bus. Regardless of his disassociation of Wright, one has to wonder how much of Obama’s values and beliefs have been shaped by a man who has been openly critical of Israel and has vehemently perpetuated the myth of a persecuted black in white society. As Wright has said in many sermons, “Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run… We [in the U.S.] believe in white supremacy and black inferiority and believe it more than we believe in God.”

Wright is entitled to believe what he wants, but what we certainly don’t need is a President who may harbor the same beliefs.

Another curiosity has been the symbol that features three red stripes crossing a white orb with a "sun" rising on a blue background. Obama uses this on his campaign plane, banners, and email. One can’t help wondering why he chose this particular symbol and whether it reflects any real meaning or not.

Obama, with his gift of eloquence, certainly has been effective in appealing to people’s sense of pathos. And with what we’ve experienced recently with the economic downturn in the housing market and the financial implosion on Wall Street, it is easy to be persuaded that we need a “new change.” Should Obama win, though, the change we may get may not be the “change” we expected or wanted.

By S L Cunningham