Tolerance Town

“...the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travellers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.”

                                                                       -Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

There used to be this very funny commercial.  It featured the Earl of Sandwich, holding court in his castle or mansion out in the English countryside, as if he just sat around all day thinking up sandwiches.  They had this actor made up with the blue silk clothes, white hosiery, shiny black shoes with large buckles, powdered wig, the whole getup.  The similarly dressed court would be brought to silence and he would announce a new idea for what to put between two slices of bread.  When the sandwich was presented on a silver platter he would say something like, “Peanut butter...and banana,” pronouncing banana “ba-nah-nah” and delivering the line with a flourish and maybe a lacy handkerchief in his hand.  Very clever.  Probably too clever because I have no memory of the product they were selling.

I often think of this character, or caricature, when I hear the word tolerate.  Someone sitting on a throne, bored with the little problems of the little people, and having to tolerate behavior that is obviously far beneath his station and his important time.  Like he gives a shit.

These days we are told we need to show tolerance.  We are to tolerate political views, religious beliefs, and social behavior other than those to which we subscribe.  But who am I to tolerate, or judge for that matter?  I’m not a real fan of the thinking that there are levels of people.  I’m more in the all men created equal camp.  We’re all on the same journey.  I have no business judging my equals and I could care less how they judge me.  I’m neither the fictitious Earl of Sandwich nor the Grand High Poobah of Upper Buttcrack (Thank you Stephen King from Dolores Claiborne).

Tolerate?  I’ll go you one better and ignore you all together.  

I’m from the school of if it feels good, do it.  If it makes you feel good to pray to this god or that one, if you want to follow that leader or this one, or if you want to slice banahnahs and put them on peanut butter, do it.  Read what you want, write what you want, listen to the music you want, make the music you want, marry whomever you want, make laughless movies about the bat-crazy leaders of the northern half of countries on the other side of the world.  Let your freak flag fly.  I don’t believe it’s my job to tolerate your behavior.  Knock yourself out.  I just have one request; don’t knock anyone else out.

Don’t hurt anyone.  If you hurt someone with your behavior or in the name of your beliefs, whether physically, mentally, verbally, or maybe even financially, that’s the point where you’ve forced me into Tolerance Town.  It’s a place where I now have to decide how I feel about your behavior.  It’s a place where I have no business residing.  It’s a place where I don’t like to be, like Oxnard.  It’s a place from which I will be forced to make a decision on your entitlement to my tolerance and from which I will likely find your credentials sorely lacking.  Basically, by acting the way you did, you’ve made me become the parent and now I have to pull the car over.  And we were making such good time.

So here we all are, sitting in a hot car by the only stretch of California coast that isn’t even a little bit nice, I’m pissed at you and you’re pissed at who knows what, and now no one is happy.  Way to go.  Make me the bad guy?  No, that makes you the bad guy.  You’ve gone from a “fellow traveller” to “another creature” bound to...well to I really don’t give a shit, because now I am the Earl of Sandwich or the Great Grand Poobah...you get it.  You are wrong.  No matter who you “say” you are avenging and no matter how many thousand-plus year old quotes from some long dead court reporter you present to justify your behavior.  No shit will be given from me.  Besides, you’re lying about all that stuff anyway.

Artists and writers died this week in Paris.  Intelligent people who made jokes about everyone, leaving no one safe from their satirical pens.  Had the Earl of Sandwich been around today, and had the version from the commercial not been fictitious, they would have made fun of him.  Jokes.  Just jokes. They heaped ridicule upon the powerful, which is a newspaper's job.  

They died violently and suddenly because some men found their jokes offensive to their poorly tied, twisted-knot view of divinity.  Do you know what I find offensive?  People who walk around with an air of superiority, as if they’ve been given the divine right and duty to root out all those who cast even the slightest aspersion on what they hold dear, or are mildly interested in, or pretend to be devout to in order to quench some blood lust, and then celebrate when the imaginary line only they can see is crossed and they get to kill.  

The writers and cartoonists lives were taken by men who had to exert mere ounces of pressure on a trigger to kill so many (yea guns!).  Their lives were taken by men who faced almost zero threat to their own lives for their opinions, even when they strolled into an office building (on their second attempt because they went into the wrong place at first), clinging to guns and religion, to start their slaughter (there was a police bodyguard and two other French police officers, who were outgunned and stood no chance.  Good guys with a gun easily cut to zero by bad guys with a gun).

Those artists lives were taken by men who contributed ab-so-lute-ly zero in this world and I can only hope that they will receive a reciprocal reward in the next.  But then again, about those men, I don’t give a shit.

It’s Easy Until it Isn't. It Works Until it Doesn't

When it’s easy I walk to the BART station from our place in Walnut Creek.  I move past the shops and restaurants of downtown, most of which are too pricey for me to patronize.  I navigate around the men with leaf blowers, blowing sycamore and magnolia leaves off the sidewalk and into the street where they magically disappear.  (As a side note, what has a longer shelf live than a magnolia leaf, Twinkies?)  Most mornings there are so many people getting on the train, and already on the train, that I don’t get a seat.  When I do it’s a simple pleasure, unless someone more deserving than I comes along; the elderly, a pregnant women, blind people. If an elderly, pregnant, blind woman ever boards the train she'll probably get two seats. When that creepy guy with the filthy beret who won’t stop staring at people shows up, I let him stand.  At the Civic Center Station in San Francisco where I emerge out on to Market Street, if I look over my shoulder I can see the dome of City Hall.  I have a 15 minute walk down Seventh Street past far less pricey shops and restaurants than Walnut Creek, and then I’m at my office.  On the reverse trip when I get to the Civic Center Station I go to the far end of the platform where the train cars are less crowded.  The inexperienced BART rider just gets in line at the bottom of the escalator or steps and finds himself smushed with everyone else, including the creepy beret guy.

                Yup, it’s usually easy and it usually works.  Then history happens, both bright and grim.

                The bright history was the Giants winning their third World Series in the past five years, which prompted a parade down Market Street that ended at City Hall.  The parade started at noonish and ended when the speeches in front of that beautiful dome ended.  Whereupon it was supposed that the fans would make their way to whatever transportation they used to get there.  When five o’clock rolled around and I left my office to go home that day, the speeches were winding down.  My guess was I would be heading for the Civic Center BART Station from the south side just as 100,000 fans were heading to it from the north.  It would be like walking into a tsunami of baseball jackets, caps, and panda hats. 

                When I got to the bottom of the stairs and looked across the station, it was a sea of orange and black.  My first thought was that I’d be lucky to see my front door by midnight.  So I girded my loins and pushed through to the turnstiles, fully expecting to get in a line that moved with all the enthusiasm of a school of fish but the speed of a DMV queue, but then a miracle occurred.  The majority of those in line weren’t waiting to get to the platform, they were waiting to purchase tickets.  For some reason they hadn’t thought to buy the round-trip ticket in advance.  Rookie mistake.

                After I got to the escalator, which was shut off for some reason, I walked slowly toward the platform.  At the bottom an elderly woman was being helped off the last, irregular steps and toward a waiting train.  Someone above me yelled, “Hurry the fuck up!”

                Someone below me responded, “It’s an old lady, shut the fuck up!”

                His reply, “You shut the fuck up.”

                “No, you shut the fuck up.”

                After I got to the bottom and moved to the far end of the platform, they were still volleying no-you-shut-the-fuck-ups, off in the distance.  The BART signage let me know my train, the Pittsburg/Bay Point would be there in a few minutes.

                When that train showed up a second miracle occurred. It was empty.  Not who put the milk back in the fridge with just one gulp kind of empty, but completely empty.  Not a single seat taken.  not a living soul aboard.  It’s the urban myth of the Bay Area commuter; an empty train, fresh out of its original packing, plucked from some sidetrack hidden deep in the tunnels under the city, and put into service because of the unusual circumstances of the parade.  I got on, moved to the back of my car, and – get this - sat down.  When the train left the station it was about 90% full, and about 99% orange and black, it was Halloween after all.  At the next three stations before the Trans-Bay Tunnel people smashed themselves in, stuck together like MilkDuds.  None more deserving than I came close to my seat.

When we popped up in West Oakland we were feeling pretty good until the conductor announced that the train would be taken out of service at Rock Ridge station.  Once there we all de-boarded and stood as the again empty train pulled away.  It was probably a 20 minute wait until the next, fully crowded train show up.  I rode the last few stops standing which wasn’t too bad, but filthy beret guy got a seat.  You can just throw those in the washer right?

The grim history grew out of the shooting of a man by police in the Midwest, and the decision by the grand jury there not to indict that officer for that shooting.  Protests erupted across the country and eventually got to Oakland.

On the Friday after Thanksgiving I was taking both boys to San Francisco to meet their aunt and cousin who were touring the ballpark.  We would have lunch and then come back.  It was the boys’ first ride on BART but we only got as far as Rock Ridge.  The same station where I was kicked out on Halloween.  The announcement said trains were stopped at the downtown Oakland station by civil protests.   We waited, waited, and waited. 

The Oakland protests, like other protests across the country, have been coat tailed with violence and looting, so I figured I wouldn’t ride a train with my sons through there, even if they started heading west again.  Eventually a train came from Oakland and took us back to Walnut Creek.  We ended up seeing Auntie Donna and Cousin Sarah that evening at our place and instead of eating at Super Duper Burger in San Francisco, we just got pizza.  As it turned out, the BART closure protests were marked by their peacefulness and the quiet acceptance those that were arrested displayed.  They made their point and moved on.

I do see that the justice system is not applied fairly to all races, in all places.  I fully support everyone’s right to gather, march, and cause disruptions to get their cause noticed.  I don’t support broken windows and looted businesses; people are human and flawed.  I didn’t rant and rave when our trip to the City was curtailed and I told my boy who did that sometimes things happen and we just have to accept that a small inconvenience to us is necessary for a larger point to be made by someone else.  I pointed out that it is historic and likely will not happen the next time we make that trip.

Every morning when I arrive at work I walk past the plaques for officers who have died in the line of service.  Some by accident and some by the violence of others.  The most in one year was 5 in 1906.  All while protecting their neighbors.  Are all cops paragons of virtue? Nope; two San Francisco cops just got sent to prison for theft.  Again, flawed.  Some of the people in my officer are what we call Sworns.  These are sworn police officers who just happen to work on computers and phones.  They joke around, they were bummed when Robin Williams died, and they get frustrated by train delays.

Everything is easier when it works.  Figuring out how to make it work?  Not so much.