Red Herrings, Red Hens and Moral Equivalence

see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil

Several articles regarding the "confrontation" between Sarah Huckabee-Sanders and the staff of the Red Hen made their way into the news this past week, the writers of which seem to have grave concerns over our health and the direction our morals are heading, writing;

“Now, in a free country, business owners should be able to decide whom they wish to serve.  But the Left disagrees with that fundamental premise”. 

Providing its own brand of political perspective on the actions of Red Hen employees while comparing it to another recent issue concerning bakeries and gay couples, the National Review also contends; 

The question is why some people on the Left seem to believe that standing up against Sanders’s dinner order is laudable, but refusing to participate in a same-sex wedding ought to be punished by the government.

Well, the National Review got it partly right - they choose to stand up to Huckabee-sanders, but certainly not for the absurd reasons stated.  No one know on the left that I know would even suggest punishment by anyone, much less the government, for participation in same-sex weddings.  In fact; I think the would say it’s none of their damned business.  

One thing's for certain; this writer seems to have the left entirely misconstrued.

Surprising for me is the opinion expressed by the Washington Post Editorial Board, which seems to be saying that such behavior is not only inappropriate, but unhealthy for society.

We understand the strength of the feelings, but we don’t think the spilling is a healthy development

Really?  You think everyone should just close their eyes to the things they perceive as wrong?

Is this the same WaPo of the sixties and seventies?  The WaPo we’ve come to admire as the bastion of government watchdogs?  Or is this institutional self-righteous might exposed in the heat of the moment?

Whatever it is, I’m truly shocked.

Reason was just, well very reasonable in their reaction to the situation, coming closer to the bullseye than any of the others;

The insistence that wedding vendors be required by law to work gay weddings is often framed in terms of civility as well, with appeals to the deep emotional harm and "deprivation of personal dignity" that can come from being refused service.

I can’t speak for “the “left”, or the “right” nor do I even wish to try, as I’m just one more person with yet another opinion about this, a who's, fed up with fed a diet of stories that imply we must be either right or left.  No labels, no hyperbole, I just see this debate in a far different light.

And here is that light:

Coming to the defense of the gay patron was not an attack on the baker as an individual, rather it was protest against the institutional bigotry that played such a prominent role in society decades ago.

Likewise, the act of the employees and patrons of Red Hen politely asking Huckabee-Sanders to leave, was not because she’s Sarah Huckabee-Sanders.  It was, however, a voice of opposition to the ideology she embraces.  Not simply a representative, but a distinguishable leader of a very aggressive and oppressive institutional ideology.

The writer at National Review states “The answer, aside from tribal partisan politics, is the misapplication of the Golden Rule.”

Obviously, he’s far from having the “answer” himself.  In fact, if he thinks turning our heads, allowing bakers to degrade others and covering our eyes while Huckabee-Sanders preaches politics of hate is the answer, he not only has the answers wrong, he’s got the wrong test and is in the wrong school. The Golden Rule is not and never has been about institutionalized ideology, rather it’s about quite the opposite.  It’s about treating others fairly, period, end of story.

Ideology such as that Huckabee-Sanders is promoting attempts to redefine “kindness” to mean “kind behavior towards all, as long as that person harbors similar beliefs”.  That's the target in the actions  taken by those protesting the baker and in that of the employees at Red Hen.  IT IS NOT, as media prefers, protesting the individuals, so protest is not just acceptable, it is righteous.

Application of the Rule cannot be dependent upon one’s interpretation of faith, reality, politics, gender, skin color, culture, or other qualifiers.  Therein lies the real enemy in this battle of misconstrued moral equivalence, the institutions determining how, when and who to accept into the private club of humanity.  The very essence of what has driven revolutions across time and geography.

As the baker believes, so Huckabee-Sanders believes. They both opted to represent intolerance by singling out those who don't fit the parameters of exclusivity and exceptionalism.  So, when they receive the eire of those in opposition to their brand of self-righteous indignation, I will find no remorse in calling them out too.

Perhaps I’m personalizing it too much.  Perhaps the columnists are right and we should refrain from acting when others are wronged.  Perhaps Trump apologists, and the intolerant have it right and we should see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

Perhaps!  But, while the herd sleeps, the Tiger eats.

The Rail Monster Within Us All

Hot, humid, Oklahoma air slows the cottonwood seeds mid descent, their fall hindered by the thick air until they very nearly hover in place.  Lazily drifting past me, hundreds of white gossamer umbrellas tumble lazily to the ground like a mid-summer snow flurry.

Sitting on exposed roots of a blackjack oak poking out from under the rust-red clay that stretches for hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles in the southern plains, I’m utterly mesmerized by the white, cotton-like seeds from cottonwood trees gently floating to the ground, the white in stark contrast against the red clay.

It’s now early September and summer is stubbornly refusing to capitulate to the inevitable changing of the guards.  With the Sun now low in the sky, the muscles in my face are beginning to throb from constant squinting, the light glinting from broken glass, crystals, and even from the crowns of railroad tracks, slamming onto the retinas of my eyes like ricocheting bullets.

I’m hiding in vegetation so thick it creates a cave of twisted Johnson grass, kudzu vines and chokeberry bushes; a green cave created by the undergrowth of a hellish and almost impenetrable fortress.  And there’s good reason to hide until the time is right.

The cave is not the most comfortable of “homes”, but the heat, the constant drone of the cicadas and watching the endless parade of parachutes falling from the cottonwood trees begins to take a toll on on my eyelids.  I can’t focus and my body jerks each time I realize I’m falling asleep. I’m but a few seconds away from an involuntary nap when suddenly it arrives. 

I’ve been waiting patiently for it and it didn’t disappoint.  It edges its way towards me, closing the distance between the gnashing teeth and the wailing mourn. Like a siren luring a sailor into the black depths beneath his ship, the sound is faint, even soothing and caressing.  At first.  But then; as it draws nearer, the sorrowful, whine bellows out, loudly! 

As it approaches, the sorrowful whine is replaced by the harsh shrill of steel wheels on steel tracks and a low throbbing rumble from the .  It’s just past the edge of the forest now and I can feel the huge beast as it shakes the earth beneath my feet.

It’s in front of me now and the thick, humid air is laden with the smell of diesel.  After three gorgeous Rock Island engines and ten or fifteen freight cars pass me by I leap from my green cave and run alongside the freight car. The handles of the ladders were made blistering hot by the sun, but I dare not let go lest I become a tasty meal for the demons residing below and the screeching, clicking, hissing and gnashing from those demons are constant reminders of the pending doom, the horrendously painful death that awaits any miscue on my part.

With a leap, a quick grab of the ladder, and a pull, I’m safely on the first rung on one of hundreds of ladders, on hundreds of railcars.  Quickly making my way to the top of the boxcar, I sit facing the direction of travel and lean back on my hands and arms while the ride washes over me like a tangible dream from which I never want to wake; the cooling wind created by the motion of the train displaces the hot, still, humid summer air.

The rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the track’s expansion joints, the swaying from side to side of the car and most of all, the sheer freedom of the ride contain all elements of riding the high seas in a landlocked world.

The farms, forests and prairies pass by in a multi-dimensional panoramic video.  The animals in the pastures, oblivious to the events around, continue their routines.  The people, mouths agape, frantically point fingers and I know they’re all, children and adults alike, wishing like hell they could enjoy the freedom too. 

As I look back on these rides, they were dangerous as hell, but I never felt danger, from either the train, or the “career train-hoppers”.  The rides, from Shawnee to Earlsboro, Oklahoma, just short of nine miles, were never long enough and they sometimes resulted in a bit of a hike home, or, if I was lucky, a train-hop in the opposite direction, but one thing’s for certain; I always detested the end of the ride.