All posts by Steve Stern

Looking at Ricky Gervais’s photo and thinking about racial diversity

Americana, Evolution

Mama and kittensA photo posted by Ricky Gervais’s from a Gail Cousins Facebook share

A couple of years ago, I read Before the Dawn: Recovering the Lost History of Our Ancestors by Nicholas Wade. It postulates the last fifty thousand years, or so, of human history  through what we now know about DNA. (know is a fast-moving target here). I was knocked out. So much so that I tried to get everybody I knew to read it. Now Wade has published a new book, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History – technically, I guess, he wrote it and Penguin Press published it – in which he tiptoes through the minefield of race. I have not read Inheritance although I plan to even though it is catching alot of flack.

In America, there are only two views of race. One is that the races are equal – or there is no such thing as race – and the other one is that you are a bigot. Apparently Wade is not taking the we are all equal way and that is bothering alot of people. A couple of days ago, Gail Cousins posted this picture on her Facebook page and it reminded me how much variation and unequalness there is in most animals, including us. Reasonably enough, most other animals just don’t seem to care like we do. Still, we don’t like to talk about it in any real way. It is just too emotionally loaded .

That is too bad, because we are really learning alot about how we got to be who we are and that includes race. Most of the current known evidence indicates that, before we became Homo sapiens sapiens, we were almost wiped out as a species. According to Wade, in Before the Dawn, we were down to only about 1500 not quite-yet Homo sapiens. In fact, that close call probably is why we evolved into humans. It is much easier – more likely? – for a small group to make large evolutionary leaps and we did. As an aside, this is not a large evolutionary leap in any scale but our very limited We are special scale (and, as I reread this, on a what we are doing to the planet scale).  End aside.

There are several different theories on why we were almost wiped out, ranging from a volcano near Yellowstone where there is still a super-caldera, to a massive volcano on the island of Sumatra, named Toba, but most anthropologists agree that most of the existing Homo species were wiped out by some sort of major natural catastrophe. What was left was a very small pre-human gene-pool under very stressful conditions, a perfect environment to force adaptation.

This small group, living somewhere around the horn of Africa, were our Adam and Eve. Of the 1500 humans, quoting Charles Mann, No more than a few hundred people initially migrated from Africa, if geneticists are correct. But they emerged into landscapes that by today’s standards were as rich as Eden. Cool mountains, tropical wetlands, lush forests—all were teeming with food. Fish in the sea, birds in the air, fruit on the trees: breakfast was everywhere. People moved in.

When a plant or animal moves into an ecosystem without natural predators, it flourishes. Think Scotch Broom in California, Zebra Mussels in the Great Lakes, Rabbits in Australia, and Humans anywhere outside of Africa. According to the people who know much more about this than I do, our distant ancestors crossed into what we now call Yemen. They flourished and expanded, following the coast eastwardly until they got to India. Then we just went everywhere at once.

One of the small subgroups of those Indians migrated to Europe, another to China, and another wandered through Myanmar, Thailand and Malaysia to Australia. Along the way, each traveling group was a subgroup of the larger group they left and each subgroup is a smaller DNA sample. The group with the widest DNA spectrum are the people who stayed in Africa and the narrowest is probably the last places to be colonized (most experts think that would be New Zealand and Polynesia). The range of DNA in all of Europe is much smaller than the range in Africa (I read somewhere that an average African village has a broader range of DNA than is found in all of Europe).

This means that the smartest or most athletic European is much closer to the dumbest or least athletic European than their equivalent is in Africa. In other words, as a reflection of the different DNA ranges, the ability – mental, physical, among others – ranges in Europe is narrower than the range of abilities in Africa. Another way to look at this is, if you were trying to get the smartest, most athletic, people for – say – a professional football team, you would be seeking individuals who are at the top end of the physical and mental end of the spectrum and the preponderance of them would be from Africa or of mainly African descent because the range of ability is greater in Africa. .

In the real world, about 60% of Professional Football players are of African descent even though the pool of white players is much bigger.

 

The trouble with carrying a gun.

Americana, Around home

Gun-6567

According to AZ Family, a man accidentally shot himself in the leg while at a Wal-Mart store in Phoenix on Saturday.

My first reaction on reading this was, It serves the SOB right, but my second reaction was to remember a time when I carried a weapon (carry may not be the right word, the weapon was in my briefcase and I was carrying the briefcase, not the weapon). I was 33, married with a baby at home, and how I ended up carrying a weapon is one of my favorite stories.

We had sold a house to a guy named Bob Shimbari – I’ve changed the name a little for reasons that will become obvious – and Shimbari changed his mind and wanted his deposit back. The salesperson gave him the usual forms to fill out but he refused to do so. He just wanted his money. As I recall, it was 500 bucks on a, around, 40 thousand dollar home (we always called them homes, rather than houses). The salesperson bumped Shimbari to the Sales Manager who confirmed that he had to fill out the forms.

This was the early 70s and I was the Director of Operations for Shapell of Northern California, so the Sales Manager now bumped a pissed-off Shimbari to me. Shimbari said that he wanted his money back and I sweetly said Sure..long pause…just fill out the forms (I was a much bigger smart ass then, than I like to think I am now). Shimbari went nuts, telling me that he was going to kill me if I didn’t give him the $500. I told him that he had to fill out the form before I could give him the money and he hung up.

Maybe an hour later, he called back and told me he was going to wait in the parking lot, shoot you down, and then go to your house, I know where you live, and kill your wife and kids. The fact that he said kids, led me to believe that he really didn’t know where I lived or that I only had one kid, but still, it scared the hell out of me. I went to my boss, Sam Berland, and asked him what to do. Sam, who never panicked, who was always cool,  assured me that people make threats all the time and they don’t mean anything. If I didn’t believe him – Sam said – call the police and they will tell you the same thing.

I did call the police and they did tell me the same thing. With Sam’s calm assurance of my safety and now the police’s reassurance, I was starting to calm down. However, as I started to hang up, the cop told me I had to fill out a complaint form (hummm, what a pain in the neck and how ironic, fortunately I could fill out the form over the phone). The cop asked me the threatener’s name and I told him Shimbari. The cop then said – almost yelled – Shimbari!, Bob Shimbari? When I told him yes, the cop said I should be afraid, Very afraid.

It turned out Shimbari was the local bad boy, he owned several massage parlors and was known as a dangerous hothead. The cop said I should be very careful and, now, my panic reached a new level. I went back to Sam and, after some discussion – in which, among other things,  I stubbornly refused Sam’s suggestion that I give Shimbari back his money without the forms – Sam offered to loan me his Army issue Colt .45 automatic. I was pretty good with a .45 in the Army, so I said Yes.

The next day, I had Sam’s trusty .45 and, when Shimbari called to threaten me again, I dug in my heals. But, now that I had the gun, all kinds of real, practical questions came up. Did I load the gun? I don’t mean should I put a loaded clip in?, that was obviously Yes, but should I chamber a round?  Do I take the safety off if I have a chambered round? How do I carry the gun? I decided to put in a full clip, chamber a round, and half-cock the weapon (because I had heard stories of people dropping their fully cocked .45 and having it go off). I didn’t – and in California, I am glad to say – couldn’t carry the weapon around in my hand or in a holster, so I put it in my briefcase.

As I went out in the parking lot to get into my car, I realized the problem. The sun was bright, there were cars all over the parking lot, and anyone of them could hide a shooter. In my imagination, in the shimmering light, Shimbari is over by his car and he yells at me, Hey Asshole, I want my money! I put my briefcase down on the closest car hood, struggle it open – sweating in the heat, my hands almost slipping off of the shiny, brass, latches –   and take out the .45. The .45 is cool – it has been asleep in a briefcase in an air-conditioned office all morning – the safety is off, and it is easy to fully cock  the weapon. Now! I am ready to go.

But, if this whole thing were real, if it weren’t my imagination, if Shimbari had really been hiding behind that car, I am probably already dead.

Standing in the parking lot, looking at all those cars – I recognize that one, it’s Sam’s, that’s Dan’s, but where did that black Cadillac come from and is that somebody hiding behind it ? –  I could feel the sweat running down my sides from under my armpits, I could feel how exposed I was, how vulnerable. I began to realize that a gun in a briefcase is worthless and I thought about doing this for days (for weeks maybe, depending on how persistent Shimbari is). After, maybe 10 seconds, worth of thought, I went back into the office, filled out Shimbari’s forms for him and told the Salesperson to tell him the money was in the mail.

I gave the weapon back to Sam.

As an aside, there is a postscript to this story. Several years later, Sam and I started our own company, bas homes,  and the first contract our salesperson brought in was to Bob Shimbari. When the salesperson brought in the contract, I told her that I wouldn’t sign it. An hour later, Shimbari called me screaming that he was going to sue me for discrimination and I told him that the last time, he said he was going to kill me. There was a long pause and Shimbari said See, I’ve matured. End aside.

Nina Cassian

Uncategorized

Nina Cassian

I just read that Nina Cassian died. Until I read her full-page obit in The Economist, I had no idea who she was – or even that she existed – but, after reading a couple of samples, I am loving her poetry. She was Jewish Romanian (the Jewish part is cultural not religious and, for that matter – the Romanian part is technically, I guess – only until she was granted asylum in the US in 1985 after a friend of her’s was beaten to death because of one of her poems).

Her poetry reflects that kind of Eastern European, Jewish, humor that has so informed the last 30 years of American humor (think Jerry Seinfeld or Andrei Codrescu if you listen to NPR). Typical of Cassian’s humor, and the O’Henry type twists she seems to favor, is Please Give This Seat to an Elderly or Disabled Person, a poem displayed in New York City subways by the Poetry in Motion program.

I stood during the entire journey
nobody offered me a seat
although I was at least a hundred years older than anyone else on board,
although the signs of at least three major afflictions
were visible on me:
Pride, Loneliness, and Art.

What drew my attention to her is a poem she wrote before her exile. It is a poem that I can definitely relate to. While it reflects on a meeting with the Romanian dictator, Ceausescu, it sums up what I think we all feel after a political argument that has gone nowhere.

With rational syllables
I try to clear up the occult mind
and promiscuous violence.
My linguistic protest has no power
The enemy is illiterate.

The world is a richer place because of Nina Cassian and our country, in particular, is a richer place because of Eastern European immigrants. Growing up, I was taught that the center of  Europe and by extension, the center of history was somewhere between England and France.  OK, Spain and Germany were players part of the time and it all started in Italy, but Eastern Europe was half way down the civilization ladder to Czarist Russia with its serfs. Lately I have began to think that I was taught the wrong European view. Eastern Europe was a huge influence on what we call Western civilization. I have been reading Tony Judt and reading about Oppenheimer and all the Eastern European scientists that have made our new – sometimes very scary – world.

We worship England and France, but – over the last sixty or seventy years – Eastern Europe may have had the biggest influence.

Happy Memorial Day and Thanks for your service

Americana

Memorial Day-0379

Yesterday, I watched the beginning of the Indianapolis 500 and I was appalled – maybe putoff would be a better word – by the opening ceremonies. They seemed so saccharinly patriotic – including a patriotic blessing of the race – to me and I kept getting hung up on the fact that the most flagrant flag wavers seemed like the kind of people who send kids into battle, not lead them.

I feel a little bit that way when I hear someone say Thanks for your service. Often, I am the only Veteran in the group and  Thanks for your service to a Vet – not said to me, my service was watching sunsets from a hill in Korea – has just felt hypocritical. But, after turning off the TV, I started thinking about it and concluded that Thanks for your service is the same thing as saying I’m glad you are going into the meatgrinder and it’s not me or mine. Then it makes sense. The hypocrisy drops away, all that is left is the real gratitude that somebody else is caring that burden.

So, to all the Vets out there, Thanks for your service.

It ain’t terrorism if the non-terrorist uses a gun or isn’t a Muslim

Americana, Religion

Asswipe Miller

This morning I woke up to a New York Times headline of Drive-By Attack Leaves 7 Dead in ‘Work of a Madman’.  The Times went on to say Seven people were killed and another seven injured on Friday night in a bloody drive-by shooting on the crowded streets of a small college town near Santa Barbara, as what police described as a mentally disturbed gunman methodically opened fire in a 10-minute spasm of terror. Of course he was mentally disturbed, he killed people at random; that could be one of the definitions of mentally disturbed.

A month, or so, ago, an old white man named Glenn Miller, killed three people at random. He was trying to kill Jews only because they were Jewish. The killing of people because they are all identifiable – preferably self-identifiable as well –  as a distinct group, is terrorism. Group isn’t the right word, but either is race or religion – maybe an identifiable other is the right way to put it – but terrorism is the right word. When Timothy  McVeigh killed 168 people on that April morning in 1995, only because they happened to be in Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, it was an act of terrorism.

When Miller, 73 and the founder of a Ku Klux Klan group called the White Patriot Party, killed people with a gun nobody said he did it because he is white and nobody called it an act of terrorism. McVeigh was a Roman Catholic and a Gulf War veteran. Nobody says that McVeigh’s behavior typifies Catholic behavior. When a Christian kills 168 people, he does not do it because he is a Christian, he does it because he is fucked up.

When two Muslim boys blow up a bomb, killing people in Boston, it is also terrorism. But they did not do it because they were Muslim, like McVeigh they did it because they were fucked up. It was no more about Islam than McVeigh was about Christianity.