Danger, Will Robinson! Anticipating a Next Wave of Political Violence

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

October 3, 2023

“Hindsight is 20-20. Looking back, we should have known that would happen.” That is a common refrain for every major historical calamity, from Hitler invading Poland to the January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol. We have an entire federal agency, the Department of Homeland Security, created, in large part, to address all the indicators the intelligence community missed in the lead up to the 9/11 attacks in 2001. Will we ever have the science down that accurately predicts some calamitous event so we can prevent it?

The good news is we’re getting better at preventing bad things from happening. After the deadly 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, that killed 168 people (including 19 children), the FBI made the investigation of right-wing militia groups a priority and broke up several plots leading up to Y2K. Since 9/11, there are 44 known terrorist plots that were thwarted by government agents, including a 2012 al-Qaeda plot during the Obama administration to blow up the U.S. Capitol, and 2019 neo-Nazi plot during the Trump administration to kill numerous Democratic politicians and mainstream journalists.

These acts of mass violence are prevented for three main reasons. First, people who are close to the plotters come forward to authorities with concerns that there is some suspicious activity. “Hello, 911? I think my neighbor and his friends are building a bomb in his garage.” Second is old fashioned gumshoe detective work by law enforcement agents. “Our confidential informant in that anti-government militia group is telling us the plan of attack has been made.” But group working on this issue is the not-as-exciting work of data scientists. “The chat on Discord referencing gun training spiked 63.2% following the fourth Trump indictment.” It may be the data scientists that keep us safe at night.

Since 2021, I have been working on a federally funded project that looks for ways to reduce extremist violence across the political spectrum called Cure-PDX. The sheer scope of the attack of the January 6th attack woke up a lot of folks in both public and private sectors to the fact that the stability of our democracy might be more fragile than we ever thought. Part of this work has been utilizing data to find where the flashpoints for political violence are, and it is a sad reality that they are often school board meetings and LGTBQ events. How drag queens managed to trigger the Proud Boys would probably give Sigmund Freud a thrill, but there are real victims in these violent clashes. For example, last March, the Proud Boys and other right-wing activists attacked a crowd at a Drag Queen Story Hour in Manhattan’s West Village, a historically gay enclave of the New York City.

Focusing on the Pacific Northwest, our project has noticed more tension around these flashpoints. Much of this has been fueled by local right-wing groups, like the Portland Active Club, Patriot Front, and the Rose City Nationalists. These groups have been dubbed White Nationalists 3.0 by monitoring groups (and by the activists themselves). The violent skinheads of the 1980s and 1990s were 1.0. The keyboard racists of the “alt right” that rose under Obama and came to the mainstream under Trump were 2.0. These new 3.0 groups are not hiding behind keyboards, and are actively fashioning themselves as foot soldiers in what they believe to be an approaching race war. I was bantering with one last weekend and he was quite clear what his immediate agenda was:

Him: Be scared, buddy always be scared of the republicans lol

Me: done

Him: I’m sure

Me: I feel sorry for you and want to help you.

Him: You all could not survive three days without food

Me: Oh, lord. Let me guess. You are prepping for the race war.

Him: Absolutely and you will be the first I’m coming after

Much like in the Timothy McVeigh-era of the 1990s, there is a growing subculture of heavily armed anti-government activists who are hellbent on a second civil war in which the Confederate values of white supremacy are an organizing principles. Unlike the 90s patriot militia movement, thanks to social media and the encouragement of a certain four time indicted presidential candidate, this well-armed anti-government movement is massive. In the 1990s, it was a handful of guys building bunkers in Idaho. Now, it’s soccer moms, drunk on QAnon conspiracy theories, and suburban mixed martial art clubs training for combat with the “woke mob.”

2024 is gonna be a rough year. Gas prices aren’t coming down. LGBTQ people are not going to be shoved back into the closet, triggering Kid Rock and all his fragile boys who pretend this is the fall of the Roman Empire.  The southern border, which has always been a rolling crisis, will be shoved in our faces on the nightly news. There could well be another COVID lockdown (or whatever the next plague will be). And whether Donald Trump wins, loses, or gets thrown in jail, there are going to be some people who will be seriously pissed off.

We’re heading into a dark season and yes, we’re going to need whistleblowers and ace detectives to foil plots. But we’re also going to need an army of data scientists who are willing to scrape the data from the armpits of the internet and other electronic platforms (including CB radios!) where the enemies of civility thrive. With good data, we can plan interventions that include preventing people falling into the rabbit holes of violent extremism. It’s go time for democracy and we need science to save us.

My Lizard Brain Made Me Do It: Why We Do Stupid Things

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

September 12, 2023

“Regrets, I’ve had a few,” Sinatra once sang. We can claim to have no regrets but any thinking human has gobs of them. I’ve often joked that my epitaph should read, “He was his own worst enemy.” Better than Frank singing, “My Way,” would be Cher singing, “If I could turn back time, if I could find a way, I’d take back those words that have hurt you” (to a boatload of sailors). We’ve all been Cher.

When I was a young criminology professor, I would occasionally spend my lunch hour at the county courthouse, watching trials and hearings. The vast majority were for men who had made insanely stupid choices. Almost all offered the same defense, “It might have been me who committed that act, but it wasn’t really ME.” I remember one case of domestic violence that was particularly dramatic. The man attacked his wife after she said she was leaving him. In tears he told the judge, “I don’t know who that person was that hit her. It wasn’t me. I’m not that kind of man. It was like I was possessed.” I could tell the judge had heard that excuse many times and she booked him straight into the county clink for 90 days.

We have all done or said stupid things and wondered, who was that mad person in my body? I was commuting on my bicycle when a woman in an SUV ran a red light in front of me. I chased her down, accused her of being drunk, and spit on her window. That was 15 years ago and I still think about it with shock. (If SUV Lady is reading this, I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of man.)

Why do we do these things? Is it brief demonic possession?

There’s actually a simple answer and it has nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with our lizard brains. And fortunately, you don’t have to be a brain scientist to understand it.

Think of a lizard in the desert. It’s constantly on alert. It doesn’t sit around trying to figure out what’s funny or what’s hip. It’s constantly in survival mode. If there is a shadow on the ground, it isn’t going ponder what caused the shadow. It’s going to assume that it’s a hungry hawk and with zero pondering it is going to race under a rock or freeze and try to blend into the background.

Lizards have itty bitty brains that are primarily made up of something called the amygdala. It is quite literally prehistoric and it is the part of the brain that keeps animals alive. We think of it as the center of the fight or flight or freeze emotional response. Dinosaurs didn’t sit around wondering why the local T. Rex was hangry, they just ran or fought. The amygdala is connected to the sympathetic nervous system that turns those instantaneous brain impulse into immediate action. The lizard brain does not think. It makes a b-line for safety, fights with all its might, or freezes like a deer in headlights. The lizard brain is driven by hunger and, mostly, fear.

Humans have amygdalae. (I just learned that was the plural of amygdala.) Fortunately, millions of years of evolution have built an insanely complex structure around it that we call the “human brain.” One of the best parts of the human brain is the prefrontal cortex that gives us the ability to reason, imagine, and, yes, ponder. The prefrontal cortex regulates the lizard brain so we’re not alway freaking out every time we see a shadow on the ground. The prefrontal cortex allows us to function, otherwise we’d be overwhelmed with fear, aggression, and paralysis.

There’s an easy way to illustrate this point. Since the prefrontal cortex is the thing that makes us cognitively human, it’s the last part of our brain system to develop. Newborn babies are a lot like lizards. They just want their basic needs met. Babies don’t think, “I should wait for the sun to come up before I demand breakfast.” Babies are in survival mode all the time. Neuroscientists believe the prefrontal cortex isn’t fully formed until around age 25. So take a moment to think of all the epically stupid and impulsive things you did when you were a teenager that you would NEVER do now. It’s because your brain was like an IKEA kitchen that still had a thousand pieces to connect. Every time I go on Instagram, I see endless “reels” and “stories” of young people doing things that will make them cringe when they are older. You don’t see any 59-year-olds participating in street takeovers or skateboarding off of cliffs. Young brains can be dumb as lizards.

Side Story: When I was a 16-year-old in Stone Mountain, Georgia, one of my favorite TV shows was The Dukes of Hazzard. I would regularly borrow my dad’s 1978 Pontiac Grand Prix to “go to the store,” and end up doing donuts in the field like I was Bo and/or Luke Duke. If I happened to side-swipe a pine tree, I would tell my dad that it got hit in the parking lot. Fortunately, my father won’t read this. But if he does, I’M SORRY DAD! MY LIZARD BRAIN MADE ME DO IT!

If the human lizard brain had a motto, it would be, If it feels good do it. It is the knee jerk reaction that gets us into stupid fights, drives us to be sexual in situations where we shouldn’t, or causes us to completely shut down all normal interaction skills. Basically, our lizard brain gets us into trouble if our prefrontal cortex doesn’t regulate those very primitive impulses. Our brain (and body) gets hijacked by our amygdala. Sometimes, we need to fight or run away or freeze, but usually there’s some “context” to analyze. Bear is brown, lay down. Bear is black, fight back!

As adults, most of us develop the ability to self regulate. We know that throwing a punch ends up hurting our hands and getting the cops called. We know that sexually harassing a workmate gets a call to HR and makes us look like a serious creep. And we know that shutting down emotionally doesn’t really get us what we need, emotionally. In addition, or human brain allows us to develop empathy for others, so there is a greater benefit in centering others than just centering ourselves. But we do know that one of the things that throws the human brain into primitive lizard mode is trauma. Whether it’s something that happened when our brain was still forming, like childhood sexual abuse, or something that happened last week, like experiencing a serious car crash, trauma locks the brain into fight/flight/freeze mode. And it takes a lot of work to get the prefrontal cortex back on line to do the heavy lifting of regulation.

So we all have a lizard brain inside our heads. And we all have varying levels of ability in regulating that lizard brain. Some prefrontal cortexes are hampered by trauma, mental health issues, brain injuries, or substance abuse, but even the most sober “healthy brain” can find itself in a “road rage moment.” Something triggers us and we’re off to the races. And an hour later, we are singing that damn Cher song. “If I could turn back time…”

In my current work on political violence, we see a lot of dis-regulated lizard brains in control. The escalation of violence between protestors on the right and left in Portland is a sad example that has led to people dead on both sides. A case could be made that many of the insurgents at the January 6th riots in Washington DC never intended to storm the Capitol. They just got caught up in the mayhem and their lizard brains took over. It’s so easy to go from sane to insane when our amygdala is activated. We’ve all been there.

Fortunately, there are some well proven strategies to reign in our dino-brains and prevent the need to bust into the Cher song from the county jail (or divorce court). Here are a few:

1. Be aware of your triggers. If the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, avoid the factors that lead to escalation. If you know booze makes you more “lizardy,” moderate. If you know arguing about Trump sends you into the red zone, argue about sports instead. And if you know your crazy Uncle Ernie really likes to push your buttons, try not taking the bait.

2. Regulate when your lizard brain is activated. Uh oh, you’ve been activated and the fight/flight/freeze siren is wailing. What do you do now? You have the ability to insert your prefrontal cortex between the impulse and the action. This could be something as simple as a few deep breaths or a walk around the block. Anything to calm the lizard brain down before it gets your ass in trouble. Meditation is a great way to train your brain to become calm and see your thoughts AS thoughts, and not as orders to act.

3. Get curious. Your prefrontal cortex gave you the potential for radical empathy. That driver who cut you off or that politico who is trying to shove a nutzo conspiracy theory down your throat has a story. They are human beings with something that drives them. Instead of defaulting to fight/flee/freeze mode, get curious about their story. What makes them tick? Maybe you are more alike than different.

We live in fearful and polarizing times so it’s very easy for our lizard brains to be activated. Traffic, news stories about shootings, bizarre weather, people on TV screaming at each other, and the fact that so many of us (myself included) are walking around with scars of trauma, it’s shocking that we’re all not constantly living in fight/flight/freeze mode. But the fact we’re not reflects the triumph of our collective prefrontal cortex. We have the ability to not to be slaves to our impulses. We have the ability to calm our minds and make wise choices. We just need a little practice and thinking about how we think is a good place to start.

Not Woke:  Mauritania, where slavery exists and gay people get the death penalty

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

September 7, 2023

I was reading recently how four Republican legislators in Florida, Dennis Baxley, Keith Truenow, Taylor Yarkosky and Stan McClain, were threatening the Florida town of Mount Dora (population 14,516) with “all legislative, legal and executive options available.” Mount Dora’s offense? A city-supported program that allowed local businesses to put “Safe Space” stickers in their windows, letting local LGBTQ citizens know they have a place to turn to if they feel threatened. The letter that Baxley, Truenow, Yarkosky, and McClain (their names should be known) sent Mount Dora is part of Governor Ron DeSantis’ “war on woke,” that has amped up the institutional marginalization of queer and BIPOC folks in Florida.

Let’s put aside the fact that the vast majority (all?) of the people who are hostile to “wokeness” couldn’t tell you what wokeness is, even if you offered to pay them in Trump Steaks. I would argue that caring about diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI!) regarding historically marginalized communities is a good thing. Dismantling bigotry has generally been celebrated as a reflection of truth, justice, and the American way. But there is an army of powerful (mainly straight, white cisgender male) voices who are beating the drum, that woke is fundamentally transforming America and robbing people like them (straight, white cisgender males) of their God-given privilege. They want to make America Jm Crow again, when gay people were back in the closet, where guitarist Carlos Santana recently said they should remain.

I could give you a long lecture about how people respond to rapid social change, about internalized bias, or about how people are attracted to overly simplistic ideologies when they feel they have no personal efficacy. Instead I’d like briefly discuss a place where woke is dead as a doornail. No, it’s not in Ron DeSantis’ wet dreams. It’s in Mauritania, a country in western Africa.

First of all, anytime you start talking shit about a country in Africa, you MUST acknowledge the majority of that shit is the result of centuries of colonialism that have savaged the continent. So many of Africa’s problems are a direct result how those in the Northern Hemisphere have carved up the 12 million square miles and pillaged the land and exploited its people. Having said that, Mauritania has banished woke and become one of the planet’s most violent human rights abusers.

America is finally celebrating Juneteen (well, some of us are) to commemorate June 19, 1865, when the last slaves were finally freed. We can save the discussion for the loophole in the 13th amendment that allows for slavery in prison, but we generally agree that slavery in the United States ended 158 years ago. Slavery is alive and well in Mauritania.

Mauritania was the last country on earth to ban the practice (1981) and didn’t actually criminalize slave ownership until 2007, but the practice is still widespread. Contemporary slavery is rooted in the racist ideology learned from its European colonizers, with “white Moors” enslaving thousands of “black Moors,” as ethnic groups are ranked by skin tone and ethnic affiliation. The social caste system has led to between 10 and 20% of population living and working as slaves, according to a 2013 report. (About 10.3% of Americans were enslaved in 1860.) Now let’s talk about the Confederate flags flying in Florida.

On top of that, Mauritania is one of four African countries (along with Nigeria, Uganda, and Somalia) where being an LGBTQ person warrants the death penalty. (Several other African nations give long/life prison sentences for being queer.) Penalties for homosexuality are based on a strict interpretation of Sharia law, as religion is the primary weapon in the oppression of LGBTQ people in both Mauritania and the United States. While there have been no recent reports of gay or trans people being stoned to death in the African nation, there was a widely circulated 2020 story about 8 men who were arrested at a birthday party and imprisoned for “acting like women.” 

In 2023, the president of Uganda. Yoweri Museveni, signed the Anti-Homosexuality Act that mandates the death penalty for homosexuals. It should be mentioned that Texas Republican Senator Ted Cruz condemned the act, saying “Any law criminalizing homosexuality or imposing the death penalty for ‘aggravated homosexuality’ is grotesque and an abomination. ALL civilized nations should join together in condemning this human rights abuse.” There have been many cases of gay men being executed for engaging in homosexual sex in Saudi Arabia, a country controlled by the same religious law as Mauritania.

The arrest, imprisonment, and torture of political opponents has made Mauritania one of the world’s great human rights offenders. The sadistic abuse of those who have opposed the national government have been well documented by Amnesty International (2008), the U.S. Department of State (2014), and the United Nations (2016). Not dissimilar from the book banning happening in Florida, citizens in Mauritania are prohibited from accessing literature that counters state doctrine. Gender-based violence is also viewed as a cultural norm in Mauritania. (The domestic violence rate in Florida is 37.9%, compared to the national average of 29%.)

When A Handmaid’s Tale was published in 1985, author Margaret Attwood said that her fictional novel was based on the reality of events under religious and authoritarian regimes. “I didn’t put in anything that we haven’t already done, we’re not already doing, we’re seriously trying to do, coupled with trends that are already in progress… So all of those things are real, and therefore the amount of pure invention is close to nil,” she said. In one form, Attwood’s fictional Gilead exists in Mauritania. Is it coming to America (or at least Florida)?

Watching the “war on woke” that seeks to make Florida (and America) more like Mauritania (and Gilead) should shake every freedom-loving American who cares about all off us, not just the exalted straight, white cis-gender men in the nation. In Florida, women have less rights they did two years ago (before Dobbs). Seeing DEI programs, rainbow flags, and black history classes being banned in the state may be DeSantis’s agenda to make Florida 1950 again, but I have to think that the majority of Americans are awake to what that looks like. If not, there are some gay black Moors in Mauritania that can wake them up. And for those who are so emphatic that “wokeism” must be stopped, I would beg you to stop and clearly define what you mean by “woke.” Woke might be something you actually believe in.

Either way, you know the establishment in Mauritania, who supports the death penalty for queer people and allows slavery continue, sees the “war on woke” as a vindication of their values. And, without a doubt, both Florida and Mauritania have redeeming qualities. Sandy beaches? But they don’t reflect the basic value of respecting the whole person and that’s the slippery slope.

Note: If you interested in helping LGBTQ people get the F out of Mauritania and other countries where they face state repression, please support the Rainbow Underground. Bring them here, where they are free to buy Bud Light at Target.  For more information, CLICK HERE.

Jacksonville is America and America is Sick: Can We Cure White Supremacist Violence?

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

August 29, 2023

You hate to say it’s textbook, but Saturday’s mass shooting in Jacksonville, Florida, that killed three innocent African-American people at a Dollar General store, fits a now familiar pattern. A young white man, living at home, with swastikas drawn on legally purchased guns, travels to an area associated with a minority community with the specific intent to kill non-white people. Terrorism experts, like Tim Clancy, refer to his method as a template.

The shooter, Ryan Palmeter, 21, penned lengthy a racist manifesto, alerting the authorities (and his parents) to his murderous intentions, and scrawled racist messages in white on his weapons. This is now the template, seen in Christchurch, New Zealand (2019, 51 killed), El Paso, Texas (2019, 23 killed), Buffalo, New York (2022, 10 killed), and other racist attacks. Brenton Tarrant, the New Zealand gunman, has become a role model for disaffected white males in America who see “their” country being “stolen” by the “woke mob” and their only recourse is mass violence.

But is it?

Much of will be made that this attack happened in Florida, a state framed by policies hostile to civil rights, critical race theory, DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) efforts, black history, and a particular practice of disproportionately incarcerating its black population. African-Americans make up 14 percent of Florida’s population but 48 percent of its prison population. (African-Americans represent 12 percent of the U.S. population and about a third of the prison population.) Black Floridians are five times more likely to be locked up than white Floridians but offending is relatively equal across races. Florida is not a good place to be black.

On May 20, 2023 the NAACP issued a rare “travel advisory” for black people thinking of visiting the Sunshine State: “Florida is openly hostile toward African Americans, people of color and LGBTQ+ individuals. Before traveling to Florida, please understand that the state of Florida devalues and marginalizes the contributions of, and the challenges faced by African Americans and other communities of color.” 

But the assertions made about the imbedded nature of racism in Florida could be made in every state in this country, included here in the “woke” (whatever that means) Pacific Northwest. This happened in Florida but it could just have easily happened here in Oregon. As someone who is wrestling with a family a member with cancer, I recognize that denial is the first obstacle in solving deeply systemic problems. My brother is in denial that his Stage 4 rectal cancer is in multiple parts of his body and will likely be the cause of his death. Similarly, America in denial that white supremacy has metastasized and is present throughout our society.

It’s 2023 and America has a serious white supremacy problem. In 1992, during the Rodney King riots, a white student raised his hand to tell me, “Racism ended in the sixties. Black people are just complaining now.” I responded, “What day? What day racism end? Shouldn’t we mark such an important day with a holiday, or at least a  comparative plate that says, ‘The Day Racism Ended and Black People Just Started Complaining’?” He had no response because racism never ended. It evolved.

Diagnosis 

So dealing with the denial allows us to get to the diagnosis; America has a white supremacy problem in 2023 and it’s not just the criminal justice system. Like a cancer run wild, it is in every aspect of our society. Every system in this county, from schools to health care, is infected with white supremacist norms. There is still a “death gap” between black and white life expectancies in America. The extra 4 years that whites get has nothing to do with gun violence and everything to do with access to health care. But it’s also in all of us. The most progressive liberal Barbie-loving, Bud Light-drinking American, white, black, or otherwise, internalizes white supremacist ideas. I’ve seen it in my young daughter and in myself. Racism is a cancer.

The good news is many of us are treating it. We’re reading, learning, and talking, and acknowledging our mistakes, and building our resistance with healthy doses of antiracist ideologies. We’re exercising our antiracist muscles in hopes of exorcising the racist demons inside us. But a whole bunch of people aren’t. And they are ripe for body crushing tumors.

The treatment

I don’t know if there will ever be a cure for cancer. It’s a slippery thing. There are a bunch of treatments, including surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. My brother is in chemo but he thinks buying pills advertised on InfoWars will save him. Who knows? He might be right. Racism is much the same. We know education and interaction with different populations can serve as a good inoculation, like sticking to a solid Mediterranean diet (olives!), but it’s not perfect. Greeks die of cancer and white people in diverse Florida get infected with Stage 4 racism.

So, like investments, you want to diversify your treatment options (to mix metaphors). My brother can stick with chemo and put his hopes in turmeric. When treating (not curing) racism we need a number of options for different stages of sickness.

So let’s come back to Jacksonville. We should not go any farther in this discussion without acknowledging the incredible trauma that the August 26 attack inflicted on black people across the country. To be black in America is to be constantly reminded that there are people who want to kill you for being black in America. I am writing this in a bar in Northeast Portland and I happened to open my laptop next to a young African-American man who noticed me writing.

Him: What are you working on?

Me: I’m writing a piece about what happened in Jacksonville on Saturday.

Him: They will never stop killing us just for existing.

I didn’t have to tell him what happened in Jacksonville. He’s black. He knew. And he didn’t say “They will never stop trying to kill us,” because we white people are killing them, and not just in discount stores.

So doctors who view black pain differently than white pain (and recent research shows they do), might need a different treatment plan than neo-Nazis who draw swastikas on their AR-15s.

Could Ryan Palmeter have been treated?

Ryan Palmeter, the Jacksonville shooter, is dead. His racism killed him, along with three innocent people who he took out on the way. He initially wanted his killing field to be the halls of Edward Waters University, a historically black college, but he was turned away at the gate. He is not here to answer for his crime. He has ceased to exist. But we are left wondering what could have been done to prevent this wounding of America.

According to the FBI, 80 percent of terrorist plots that are thwarted are stopped because someone close to terrorist came forward. They contacted law enforcement with concerns or talked the potential terrorist into turning themselves in. That’s a lot of carnage that didn’t happen because someone acted. Palmeter lived with his parents and in the days to come we might learn why his parents did not intervene. (Palmeter had come to the attention of authorities in the past.) But what if others had done so?

We will likely get a glimpse of Palmeter’s manifesto, what Jacksonville Sheriff TK Waters called a “diary of a madmen.” And we will learn that Palmeter had been building to this attack over a long period of time. He didn’t suddenly become angry at blacks on Friday and go on a killing spree on Saturday. There will be a long trail of red flags that pointed to his escalation towards terrorism. Obviously, he had been studying previous attacks, including Christchurch, Buffalo, and others. What if someone had seen this young man’s obsession with violent racism and stepped in to divert his path to death?

All of us are credible messengers to someone. There is at least one person on this planet who cares about what we have to say. What if some of those people in Ryan Palmeter’s circle had said, “Dude, what’s going on? I’m worried you’re going down some black hole that you’re not going to come out of.” And if had replied, “Well, black people blah, blah, blah….” And then his credible messengers could have said, “Are you 100% sure that’s true? Where did you learn that? And if it is 100% true, what’s the most effective way to do something about it? It’s probably not violence. Let’s look at other options.”

Violence has become an unacceptable norm in this country. It’s too easy to utilize gun violence as a form of expression. “I’m angry at the world, so I want the world to suffer.” But we’re all angry about something. I’m angry that CenturyLink charged me for three months of wifi after I had their router unplugged. I could go shoot up a CenturyLink kiosk at the mall or I could try to be better about keeping track of my bills. Grievances can be incredibly emotional but we have choices about what to do about them. Sometimes we need a little help figuring that out, especially if we are young men with access to high powered weapons.

Treating Stage 4 racism

In my line of work I encounter a lot of angry white men. They have been told that all of their problems are because of “them.” And the scapegoating comes from the hills to the ivory halls. They haven’t learned that for every problem they’ve got, people of color have 99. They think “their” country is being stolen. But it’s never been their country. It’s only ever been our country. If we can empower the credible messengers among us to have those hard conversations, things may sink in with those angry people. That includes some kid who has been hanging out on fringe websites, like 4chan, and drafting his manifesto. “Yeah, I never thought of it that way. Killing people is probably a stupid idea.”

We’re not going to “cure” every racist mass murderer, like the one who put Jacksonville in the news on Saturday, but there is a chance that this treatment changes the culture, making it more resistant to racism, like getting Americans to eat more Mediterranean food. And that these intervening conversations may help to de-escalate situations that might otherwise add to America’s long national nightmare of hate crime. For those who suffer from the trauma of our past inaction, it’s worth the effort.

Conversations About Death: Confronting End of Life Decisions

~ Randy Blazak ~ 5 Comments

August 23, 2023

My brother delayed his cancer treatment for over a year. He was convinced his stomach problems were the work of parasites, the result of living in the Georgia woods. It was anal cancer. So it wasn’t much of a shock to either of us when his Portland oncologist said that his cancer was Stage 4, having metastasized into other parts of his body. Unfortunately, Ron still believes that it is possible to shrink his tumor and cut it out. His entire body is now the tumor.

I’ve been split into multiple roles since bringing my brother back to Oregon. One is to help him get the medical care he needs to fight his cancer. But another is to try to get him to be realistic about the prognosis. The doctors get paid to treat so that’s what they want to do. His doctors want to fight the cancer to the bitter end, and this end is very bitter. Last week his palliative care nurse was finally honest with him. That, at best, he had “several weeks” before the cancer takes him. A hospice social worker told me yesterday that, because Ron is severely underweight, “he will live longer off the chemo than on it.” I write this while he is sitting in the OHSU Knight Cancer Institute receiving his second chemotherapy treatment, knowing this cure may kill him.

I 100% get where my brother is coming from. If someone in the medical field told me, “You’ll be dead by Halloween,” I’d say, “Well, we’ll just see about that!” And then I’d throw my spinach smoothie in their face. Ron wants to fight and that’s a good thing. But it’s also time to talk about the endgame and how going out on his own terms might, just might, be better than barfing up endless chemo treatments, praying for it all to end, on the outside chance that a few more months of misery is worth it. This has to be his choice, but my brother doesn’t have a very good track record for making good choices.

So we’ve begun talking about hospice care. The word “hospice” has a specific connotation for a lot of people. Images of terminally ill elderly people on deathwatch, being pumped full of so many narcotics that they don’t know who they are. Hospice care has evolved greatly over the last few decades and is now all about quality of life, not just managing pain. Ron’s already on Methadone and Oxycodine, so he’s got the narcotics covered. But the chemo is not adding any quality to his life. The poison is stealing it from him. Medicaid in Oregon gives you the choice – chemo or hospice. If you want to bail on the chemo, the state makes sure you are taken care of. But you can’t do both.

So this is my brother’s conundrum, to receive the full care that comes from hospice, he has to give up on the (extremely slim) chance that chemo will “cure” him. He tells me he thinks that chemo will get the tumor (again, the cancer is now in several parts of his body) to a size where his cancer will be “manageable,” and I ask him what manageable means to him. His response is that then he can treat it with good diet and live a long life in a cabin in Tennessee. He then accuses me of wanting to “kill him off” so he won’t be a burden anymore.

In the abstract, conversations about death are hard. In the practical, they are nearly impossible. We believe we will exist, in some form, for as long as time itself exists. But we also want to be here now for as long as possible. I’m not ready to die. Are you? But we all do. All of us. There will even be moments when Donald Trump, LeBron James, and Taylor Swift cease to exist. (I’ve got $100 bucks on Trump, massive coronary, DC courtroom, March 2024.) We’re all just sacks of meat with an expiration date. But when that date starts getting close, I get why people try to renegotiate their deadlines.

I want my brother to choose hospice care. I want him to get off the torture train of chemo. I want to take him to the Oregon coast. (He’s never seen the Pacific Ocean.) I want the next weeks to be spent listening to music and laughing about the stupid stuff we did when we were kids in Stone Mountain. But I come off as the Grim Reaper for suggesting this might be the best choice given the bad hand he’s been dealt. He just wants to fight and I’m glad he’s not ready to give up. Sometimes hope can win over science. It’s his choice, but the clock is ticking.

If you want to help with Ron’s care, we are still taking donations at his GoFundMe. Maybe we’ll get to take him to the Oregon coast.  CLICK HERE

Why Are Conservative Boys So Triggered By Barbie?

~ Randy Blazak ~ 4 Comments

August 6, 2023

I haven’t always had the best relationship with Mattel’s Barbie Doll. As a boy, the dolls we played with were called “action figures” and had “Kung Fu Grip,” not endless accessories. I’m sure my GI Joe took a few rifle scopes on the Barbies that lived across the street. I do remember my Evel Knievel doll driving his motorcycle at full speed into Barbie’s Malibu Dream House, causing screams of horror and delight. There was one boy in my small town that was known for beheading Barbies and hiding their heads on the “trail” behind our houses. As far as I know, he’s still trying that in a small town.

When I became a feminist sociologist, my war on the doll became more academic. She was a perfect example of gender socialization. Barbie was an early teacher of girls that their looks were their most important asset. Yeah, they could become doctors or astronauts, as long as they stayed skinny and their feet were forever contorted for high heels. When Talking Barbie appeared in the early 90s, with lines like, “Math is hard!” it made my point for me. I delighted my students with stories about the BLO (Barbie Liberation Organization) that secretly swapped the voice boxes of Barbies and G.I. Joe’s, so Joe said things like, “Let’s go shopping,” while Barbie now said, “Vengeance is mine!” 

When it became clear that our neighborhood in Portland was generating more female babies than boys, in a very Portland way, we declared it a “Barbie Free Zone.” My daughter, Cozy, has never had or wanted a Barbie and I take that as a win.

So I figured the MAGA boys would be thrilled with a movie that encouraged their wives and little girls to become anorexic and worry more about shoes than votes. Lord, was I wrong about that.

The Barbie movie has now passed the one billion dollar mark (after only 17 days in theaters) by taking what Barbie was and turning it on its head. Director Greta Gerwig turned the “problematic” doll into an epic feminist dissection of patriarchy that actually names patriarchy, and, boy, are the boys triggered. I’m waiting for Kid Rock to blow away some Barbie dolls with his AR-15 and Jason Aldean to write as song called “Try That In a Small Town, Girls.” But why are these men so aggrieved by a movie about a doll?

First, let’s get his out of the way. “The go woke or go broke” chant from the bigots on the right was just revealed as a great lie. Barbie is one of the biggest movies on earth and is the biggest movie on earth directed by a woman. I took my daughter to a sold out screening on a WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON. Woman and girls applauded at the end and hugged each other. “I finally feel seen,” said a woman in the row in front of us. The MAGA cult can brag about how many Bud Light workers have been laid off because of their hissy fit, but the amount of money Barbie will make is a tsunami compared to the ripple Cleatus caused at Anheuser-Busch because he traded in one shitty beer for another shitty beer.

So this feminist sociologist has a two-part answer.

The first is that gender socialization starts before we are even born. There’s a reason female babies are aborted at a higher rate than male babies. (Just ask China and India where all their women went.) A person’s value is (still) based on their sex. Patriarchy begins in the womb. And that socialization is non-stop through our lives. Even the most radical feminist has internalized male supremacy. Ask yourself, are there any empowered women in congress who dare to fly their grey hair? I mean, how old is Nancy Pelosi? She’s like Methuselah. But she’s gotta dye that hair because there’s a different standard for women. We get the message that men and women are “opposites” and that “It’s a man’s world” from our family, our schools, our religion, our peers, and the media. Constantly. God is a man. Eve was created for Adam. Father knows best. Becky is a slut. And on and on and on. Life in plastic, it’s fantastic.

No wonder patriarchy feels natural.

In the 1990s, I did an experiment with my students to convey the “natural” feeling socialization gives us. I’d ask them to spend a day wearing their watch on the other wrist. They’d report being disoriented all day long. Now that no-one wears watches, I ask the students to leave their homes for one hour without their phones. Those that actually dare do it, describe going into convulsions, not being able to function, fearing they might miss a text or the opportunity to take a selfie. That’s how patriarchy works. A fish doesn’t know it’s in water until you take it out of the water. Then it gurgles, “WHAT THE FUCK!!!!”

All the Barbie movie does is take Barbie and Ken out of the non-patriarchal Barbieland and plop them into very patriarchal America. The difference is immediately clear to Barbie. Ken is thrilled that everyone is looking at him. But for Barbie, it feels more like, well, violence. Later, she says of her brief time in reality, “Men look at me like I’m an object, girls hate me.”

The film does an excellent job of doing the opposite for the audience. With humor and pathos, it holds a mirror up to us and our persistent power dynamic. Every girl and woman, whether or not she calls herself a feminist, understands the countless ways this power dynamic plays out in their daily lives, but for men it must be shocking. Like when Toto pulls away the screen revealing the real “wizard” of Oz, Barbie pulls away the screen that women have any meaningful equality in 2023. America Ferrera’s rousing “It’s literally impossible to be a woman” speech has resonated with women and girls across the political spectrum, but for many men, it must sound like an indictment. And watch them fall into the ludicrous “Feminism is about hating men” trope.

Holding the reality of patriarchy up to men (conservative and otherwise) is like asking them to leave their homes without their phones. It’s a full body reaction. Seeing females as just as human and entitled as they are is contrary to the messages about gender that we are told from the womb. They can’t handle it on a cellular level. And the anti-woke mob wants to declare the planet (not just America) a Barbie Free Zone for much different reasons than my little parent group. The men on Fox News and the men on TikTok are bashing Barbie’s messages of equality. But all those men came from a woman’s womb, so they better take a deep breath.

So the first reason is the emotional shock a glimmer of truth about patriarchy gives to the fragile male ego. They imagine themselves becoming a dickless Ken in a world where their demands for attention go ignored.

The second explanation for the Barbie Backlash is just the cultural shift we are in right now. America is changing. There are more women working than men in the current economy. And there are more people of color moving into the white enclaves of suburbia. The Father Knows Best ethic of the 20th century is fading, but it’s not going down without a fight. Ron DeSantis’ war on DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) is a perfect example of the new Jim Crow. As Susan Faludi outlined in her brilliant 1993 text, Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women, throughout history, every time women have made gains towards equality, there is a sustained cultural push to put them back in their subordinate role. And we’ve been in a hell of a backlash. It includes incels, ending legal abortion, and Donald “Grab ‘em by the pussy” Trump.

The chorus of men who are so challenged by a doll are the same men who were freaked out by Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” zooming up to #1 on the pop charts in 1972. “What will happen to us if women have all the same privileges we have?” they quaver. “It won’t be privilege anymore!” This is a cultural moment where straight white cis-gender men feel like their “natural” authority is being challenged (it is) and is evaporating (it’s not), so they are rushing to the barricades, hoping to make America 1953 again. As Gloria Steinem once told me of this moment, the abusive husband might win. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll finally break free.

The oxymoron of “conservative women” has always vexed me. Why would any woman participate in an ideology that sees her as a less autonomous version of men? Of course, the answer is we reward them for doing so. They are tools of the status quo, so you will hear some women complain about “woke Barbie.” But a lot of those Trump-voting women are sitting in packed movie houses right now feeling very validated by the very simple effort Barbie attempts in just trying to humanize girls and women. That theme of humanization is central to the film and the long historical arc to smash patriarchy.

Feminism is the radical idea that women are human beings and are entitled to all the basic rights and privileges that men humans have been afford through time. The final scene in Barbie makes that point in a very simple (and hilarious) way. The massive success of Barbie might not mark the end of patriarchy, but is a sign the that women and girls of Gen Z, including my daughter, are not going to be put in any pink toy box so easily. And there will be plenty of their male peers who will see the great benefit of that. As Ken says at the end of the film, “To be honest, when I found out the patriarchy wasn’t about horses I lost interest.”

The Soul Crushing Death of Sinéad O’Connor, Who I Should Have Helped

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

July 26, 2023

Sinéad and I had been out dancing at a Dublin disco called The Pink Elephant. It was our first date. I remember how she laughed when we saw the heavy metal band Def Leppard in a corner booth. Word was they were living in Ireland as tax dodge. Dublin was not very metal in 1985 and they were delighted that someone recognized them. “Def Leppard?” I burst out with my big American voice. “You guys are my little brother’s favorite band!” They all looked immediately deflated. Sinéad let out a big laugh. “Jesus, you’re vicious,” she said.

With the news of the passing of Sinéad O’Connor, so many memories of our time together have come flooding back. Her pain is well known to the world, but her impish humor less so. I’m both unsurprised by the news and crushed beyond repair. So much that I can barely write this. Hers was a life of pain that seeped into her music and now that pain and music are silent.

I spent a large part of the summer of 1983 living in a squat in Brixton, England, on the south side of London. Thanks to an Atlanta connection, I was rooming with an Irish violinist named Steve Wickham, who had most famously played on U2’s War album. When he headed back to Dublin to play a U2 show in Phoenix Park (with The Eurythmics, Big Country, and Steel Pulse) I tagged along and fell in love with the emerald isle. The summer of 1984 was dedicated to becoming a Dubliner (with short trips to London and Paris). This included supporting his band, In Tua Nua, who was recording a song by a very young Sinéad O’Connor. I was their roadie when they opened for Bob Dylan at Slane Castle and was there when they signed their deal with Island Records in London. I was firmly in Sinéad’s world but it wasn’t until the following summer that we would meet.

Back in Dublin for the summer of 1985, my calendar was structured around some big concerts. First was U2 at Croke Park (29 June) with In Tua Nua and R.E.M. (and Squeeze) opening, and then the show of all shows, Live Aid at Wembley Stadium (13 July). I was camped out, as had become custom, with Steve Wickham and his American wife, Babs, now living in the Ranelagh neighborhood of Dublin. That’s where I met Sinéad. She would come over to work on songs with Steve in his kitchen, her singing to his fiddle. In fact there’s a recording in my cassette stash of her singing to the sound of me washing dishes in the background.

She was small but gruff, her voice often at some frequency unreachable by my American ears. But when she sang, everything stopped. People have written lengthy tomes about that voice, so I’ll just say that once she started singing, everything else in the world, even dish washing, seemed pointless. Her big penetrating eyes were easy to fall into as well. At the time she was working doing singing telegrams and would occasionally show up at Steve’s in a French maid costume. The juxtaposition was jarring, stockings and combat boots.

Steve and Bab’s roommate, Clodagh, whispered that Sinéad fancied a pint with me. For the first time, I had an actual girlfriend back home, a fellow Emory student named Starla. But I was so enchanted with Sinéad’s talent, I just wanted to know more about her. So Sinéad and I went to the movies. Eager to share “my culture” with her, I took her to see The Breakfast Club at the local cinema. She didn’t get it. Afterwards, we walked down to An Lar (the City Center) to see what would happen. Besides dancing to Pet Shop Boys and Frankie Goes to Hollywood at the Pink Elephant (and our encounter with Def Leppard), we immediately got into some very deep conversations. I had just graduate from Emory and was on my way to grad school, so I was anxious to get her take on the role of the Catholic Church in Irish culture. I had gotten some amusing anecdotes from Bono, so I was curious what the singing maid had to say.

At this point there had been murmurings about the abuse of children by Catholic priests but I got a first hand testimony of the reality of that sick norm for Irish families from Sinéad herself, just 20 years old at that moment. I won’t go into detail, but it was clear that she had a legitimate anger rooted in very real trauma. And her emphatic point was that her experience was widespread in her homeland. She told me about the Magdalene Laundries and the role the Pope, John Paul II, played in protecting pedophile priests. It was heavy, so the Guinness and dancing helped to keep our heads above water.

We stumbled out to Grafton Street and headed up Rathmines Road to my kip at Steve’s. She then, in her long low rumble Irish voice, asked if she could kiss me. I remember not being sure I heard her correctly and asked her to repeat herself. That was our first kiss and I’ve revisited it a thousand times. If I had followed her lead, how different both our lives might have been. Maybe she would be here now. I felt even in those first moments, she was asking to be rescued from her pain. I wish I was the person I am now when I was 21. I would have said let’s go far away from this place.

We had more of those conversations on Grafton Street and at Steve’s. She was at Steve’s one day when my mother called asking where I was and Sinéad did me a favor by lying that I was just “out.” I was up in Belfast, Northern Ireland and had been detained during a riot and missed my train back to Dublin. She showed kindness to my worrying mother when her mother had shown her only anger. Shortly after that, Sinéad moved to London, to advance her singing career. I followed a few weeks later for an In Tua Nua show and to stay for the epic Live Aid concert. The day after Live Aid, Sinéad and I met up for a day of shopping on Carnaby Street. She was full of confidence about the direction her career was going. The world was paying attention to the music coming from Dublin and she was on the cusp of finding an audience.

In the fall I headed home to start my work as a graduate student in Atlanta, and build a relationship with Starla. Sinéad stayed in touch and there are a box of letters somewhere full of chatter about Latin American politics and her work with The Edge on the soundtrack of Captive, a British film about a terrorist gang. 

I returned to Dublin the summer of 1986, after Steve had left In Tua Nua to join the Waterboys, who had begun work on their sprawling Fisherman’s Blues album. I had spent the first part of the summer in Copenhagen, staying with Starla’s uncle, but doubled back to London to see Sinéad. She had just shaved off her short cropped haircut and was completely bald. It was striking. I was starting to pay attention to the rise of the racist skinheads in the United States and was considering making that subject of my Master’s Thesis. “Are you going to study me?” she asked. Her intensity on social issues was undermined by her darting eyes which rarely made contact, which I now recognize as a marker of lifelong trauma.

Since it was our thing, we went to the movies. This time it was Return to Oz at theatre in Leicester Square. That filmed she loved, because Dorothy escapes a sanatorium to the magical realm of OZ. I think she felt London was her Oz. Later we went to a Russian restaurant with her roommates Spike and Clodagh. (I had to send my undercooked Chicken Kiev back – the things one remembers.) And then we headed up to their apartment, with Bob Marley pictures tacked on every wall. They smoked massive amounts of hash, while I listened to the Black Uhuru and Aswad records and watched Sinéad’s transformation in this London Bohemia. Things were coming her way.

We reconnected again in London in 1987. I was again in Dublin, after some time wandering the south of France and Italy. Sinéad let me use her London apartment as a crash pad. She had finally landed a major label record deal with Ensign and was starting the work on her debut album, The Lion and the Cobra. We stayed up all night talking and listening to Joni Mitchell albums. There was a joy in her voice that was new. She was about to finally be heard and heard on her terms. This wasn’t the shy girl dressed as a French maid singing, “Happy Birthday.” This was a fully developed artist who was about to share the thing that made her her with the world. And that included her righteous anger. I remember falling asleep in her bed while she danced to the music on her stereo. I woke up the following morning and she was already up, dancing to the music. She grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of me wondering who this new Sinéad was. What I didn’t know was she was pregnant with her first child.

That album, and the follow up, I Don’t Want What I Haven’t Got, of course set the world on fire. The next time I saw her was in May 1990 when she had a concert in Atlanta at the Fox Theater. We hung out in her downtown hotel room, ordered room service, and she showed my pictures of her son, Jake. My skinhead study was fully underway, so we talked more about fascism than music, but I shared with her some of the music of the Atlanta band that I had managed, Drivin n’ Cryin, who were signed to Island Records, U2’s label. She seemed good. Stable and confident, but lonely. Neither of us had been good at sustaining long term relationships. But her voice had opened up a door of adoration and she accepted it cautiously, like the love of an abusive mother who could turn on you in a flash.

And that’s what happened in 1992 when she tore up a picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live. I knew exactly what it was about. I immediately remembered our conversations in Dublin about John Paul II’s role in protecting child abusing priests. But the larger public flipped out, seeing it as some type anti-Catholic action. It got ugly fast. Two weeks later I saw the audience at Madison Square Garden boo her off the stage at the Bob Dylan tribute concert, (I was watching it on Pay-Per-View.) and my heart broke watching this crowd, who was there to honor that greatest protest singer, scream their hatred at this young female protest singer. Maybe it was because she was bald.

By that time, Sinéad and I were on opposite paths and never met again. I bought her records and followed her ups and downs. A few years ago, when she was being very public with her mental health challenges, I reached out to her on Twitter and we reconnected. I told her that I had work through my own issues with suicide and wrote a book about how to climb out of that black hole. But she seemed to be slipping farther into that abyss and the death of her son last year was more than she could bear.

Now that she’s gone all of us that knew her are left with the sinking feeling that we could have done more. Yes, her brilliant music will live on, but so will the ache of guilt. As we focused on our own journeys, we assumed those around us would be fine when, in fact, they desperately needed us. I am far removed from the 20-year lass I met in a Dublin kitchen, but I can’t shake the feeling I could have been a better friend. I’m sorry, Sinéad. I will do better next time.

From Big Brother to Cancer Care Giver

~ Randy Blazak ~ 7 Comments

July 23, 2023

What’s the John Lennon line about how life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans? I had this vision of flying into Georgia (on my father’s dime), rescuing my brother from his shithole hobo camp, and delivering him to a Portland cancer treatment facility, then watching his recovery from a safe distance. It didn’t quite turn out like that. 

When I got to my dad’s after landing in Atlanta, my brother, Ronnie, was on the phone, telling me I had wasted my time and that he wasn’t going to leave his camp in Cartersville, Georgia. I could tell he was afraid of the incredible change he was facing. Instead of suffering from his rectal cancer in a hell he knew, he was looking at relocating in a place far away from the Georgia piedmont. And he had never even been on a plane. I told him I wasn’t going to force him to do anything, I was just headed to come hang out with him for a bit. He’d been held up in a Quality Inn for a few nights because his pain was so great. He was convinced he was on death’s doorstep and just wanted to be left alone. This would have to be his choice.

Finally seeing him after two years was a bit rough. I thought about the last days of Howard Hughes but without the billions. His hotel door was propped up open so the Georgia heat and flies could come in as he lay in the bed. I went into operational mode. Food, coffee, and whatever else he needed. Gradually he realized he would be better off in Portland. He wasn’t ready to die just yet. I got a room next to him and we made plans to strike his camp later in the day.

He had been living on a hill behind the Cartersville IHOP for seven years. How he survived, I’ll never fully understand. Another blistering summer in rapidly evaporating Georgia would have killed him. His camp was a tent, full of spiders, and a year of garbage hidden under tarps, and a dozen gallon jugs of urine that served as his bedpans when he was immobilized by pain. It wasn’t pleasant but that thought that there was something better waiting motivated us to clear the camp and head to Atlanta to catch a flight to the land of Obamacare. 

The journey home was a challenge. Whatever you do, don’t fly Frontier Airlines. It’s the nightmare airlines. Just getting a wheelchair to get Ronnie to the gate at Atlanta Jackson Hartsfield Airport was an ordeal. Then, because of cancelled flights, I had to race him to another gate on another concourse and hope that delayed flight would get us to our connecting flight in Las Vegas. The Las Vegas to Portland flight was cancelled and they told us they could get us on another flight home three days later. I told them he was a cancer patient who had an important oncology appointment the following day and Frontier Airlines ticketing agent just shrugged her shoulders. So we headed to another terminal (Ron still in a wheelchair) and bought a ticket for that night on Spirit Airlines. (I never thought I’d say this, but Frontier makes Spirit look like Delta.) We finally made it to Portland, but Ronnie’s backpack didn’t arrive until six days later, with all his electronic items stolen from the bag. Frontier sucks.

After a day of adjusting to West Coast time, my job driving my brother around began. First to an oncologist in Tualatin, south of Portland, where we found out his cancer was Stage 4. Then to a residential facility I was hoping to move him into, where they told us it would be a few weeks. This was happening the week I was driving Cozy to and from art camp, way out in the traffic hell of Beaverton. Endless calls to Medicaid to get his long term care interview moved up from late August, making CT scan appointments, preparing meals, and administering pain meds every two hours.

Suddenly, I’d become an in home care nurse.

It just seemed really clear that this was the obvious role to step into. What else should I do? My brother is battling anal cancer. He was doing it alone in the Georgia woods, and now he’s doing it on my couch in a state that has legal weed. 

The legal weed bit has blown his mind. It’s been hugely helpful with his pain and appetite (although it wasn’t helpful with the Taylor Swift video I tried to make after we got high and watched Yellow Submarine.) In the conservative state of Georgia, possession of less than an ounce of pot is an automatic year in prison, on the taxpayers’ dime. In the liberal state of Oregon, an ounce of weed just means you’re running low on weed.

Once the pot and narcotic pain meds started to work, Ronnie started to feel human again. He’s got an amazing oncologist at OHSU’s Knight Cancer Center and wonderful palliative care coming. We’re still trying to find housing for him. Going through chemo on my couch is not an option. Keeping him in colostomy bags and diapers with an 8-year-old running around is a less than an ideal setting for him and my family, but he’s, literally, out of the woods. Sitting on our porch in the cool Portland night air (the opposite of Georgia), has allowed us to connect in a way we never did when we were kids. It started to feel like this experience was healing me as much as it was intended to heal him. 

It’s certainly a left turn from my normal summer, teaching on line and working on my side projects, but the support of Cozy, Andi, and Jaime makes it work. Watching Cozy and her uncle bond has been a thrill (Cozy is ferocious on the board games), and Andi has helped me remember how important this effort is. The moments I can escape with Jaime for a bit have kept my battery charged and her concern for my brother just fills my heart. And I’ve been able to show Ronnie some of the joys of my little town, like green tea at the Chinese Garden and way too much sugar at Voodoo Donuts.

Fifty years ago, everything was a constant fight between us. I never would have thought of trying to comfort him. Now my hand is on his back as the doctor tells him that his cancer has spread from his rectum to his lymph nodes and lungs. I don’t put him down for his assertion that he can “shred” his tumor with turmeric and sound waves. I just encourage him to listen to his doctors, who are among the best in America. This isn’t Georgia. Under Oregon’s expanded Medicaid, even the poorest among us have access to be best care.

Part of employing empathy is seeing this through my brother’s eyes. He has to be scarred shitless about this diagnosis, that is close to a death sentence, with a treatment option that will be a true test of his mettle. He’s lived as a hermit in the Georgia woods for ten years and now he’s in the hipster metropolis of Portland (Just the number of people walking around has shocked him. Nobody walks down the street in Cartersville, Georgia.), and, on top of all that, he has to trust a brother that has showed him more hostility than love in his life. I can’t imagine what’s going on in his brain. Thank God (Oregon voters) for legal weed.

Ronnie has been incredibly appreciative and acknowledges turning my living room into a cancer ward has been an imposition. But I thank him. This opportunity to help him has been good my for soul. If I can expunge a lifetime at anger towards him, I can deal with my anger issues for good. The other day he reminded of me when I knocked him out for calling me a “baby killer” in front of my girlfriend who had just had an abortion. He’s not the same person, and now I have a chance to be different.

Healing can take many forms. For my brother, it’s going to be regular radiation and chemo treatments, a bunch of pot, and hopefully a bed of his own. For me, just being here for him is the healing I needed.

Ron’s GoFundMe campaign: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-house-my-brother-for-cancer-treatment?utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link_all&utm_source=customer

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Little Brother

~ Randy Blazak ~ 2 Comments

July 7, 2023

My little brother, Ronnie, and I took sibling rivalry to a new level. In fact, I’m quite sure we sent each other to the Emergency Room when we were kids. Our constant fighting must’ve driven our parents crazy. I know it did for me. It was the cause of some desperation, at age 16, when I first thought about throwing myself into a lake and drowning. (To be clear, the lake was a Stone Mountain, Georgia pond that was maybe three feet deep.) As an adult, I stopped talking to him for 17 years after he threatened to kill our mother. He did some time for that one.

Things have changed with my brother.

We started to reconnect in 2012, when I was back in Georgia. We visited some of our old stomping grounds in Stone Mountain and I learned how to talk to him in a non-antagonistic way. Ronnie has had a challenging life and I think our sibling dynamic played a roll. I wasn’t exactly the best big brother. I think Ronnie was the first target of my rolling anger that was the result of my abuse. I relished in the fight as that was my standard mode. When I could have been protective and nurturing, I was combative and cruel. So the reconnect was a chance for repair, especially when my bother fell into homelessness.

For the last few years, my brother has lived in the woods in Cartersville, Georgia, north of Atlanta. Cozy and I had lunch with him and my father in 2021 at the IHOP near his camp and he was skin and bones. We didn’t know it at the time, but he had cancer. We didn’t talk for 17 years, but we talk pretty much every day now, unless he can’t make it down to Kroger to charge his phone.

Trying to find Ronnie adequate cancer care in a backwards red state like Georgia has been next to impossible. Dissertations have been written on how the Republican Party has conned poor and working people to vote against their interests to pad the pockets of elites, but suffice it to say, being sick and poor in Georgia is a death sentence.

So I’m bringing my brother to Oregon.

The assumption in Georgia is that every poor person who claims to be sick is only after OxyContin, so the insane amount of bureaucratic bullshit that is required to even see a doctor guarantees poor and homeless people are cut out of the health care system. Ronnie’s cancer doctor was 46 miles away at Emory University and he was routinely too sick to even organize a ride to the city. Tired of missed appointments, they dropped him from their patient roll, a cost cutting measure that shortened my brother’s life expectancy. Social scientists know we can predict your life span by the zip code you live in and the death gap for Cartersville, Georgia is as wide as the Tallulah Gorge.

Oregon, on the other hand, expanded Medicaid under Obamacare, making sure low income people have first rate health and dental coverage. It took a matter of minutes to get Ronnie signed up to the Oregon Health Plan and get him space in a residential facility and an oncologist to start his cancer treatment. My mother was dumbfounded by how easy it was to get my brother the services he desperately needed. “Well, I live in a blue state, Mom,” I told her. Now I just have to get him here.

Early tomorrow morning, I’m catching a flight to Atlanta (paid for my father) to collect my little brother. The nature of his cancer is among the ugliest, anal cancer. He hasn’t been able to access the health supplies he needs so he’s often sleeping in his own waste. I’ve been Amazoning him colostomy bags, but he needs so much more, including diapers and clean clothes.  Getting him in shape to fly back across the country is going to take some work. He’s in great pain, without access to any sensible pain medicine, often sure he’s not going to live through the night. I assure him Oregon also has legal weed to help him through those nights. I would bring a bag of THC gummies with me from the corner pot shop, but in Georgia that would get you a one way trip to prison. (The penalty for possessing less than one ounce of marijuana is up to one year in prison and up to a $1,000 fine.) Did I mention that Georgia sucks?

These may be his last days or the wonderful care given to low income people in Oregon may extend his life considerably. Anything is better than being poor and sick in the South. I’m banking on him being alive when I get to Cartersville and being in good enough shape to get on the plane. I’m looking forward to our cross country trip and getting to know the guy I didn’t have time for when I was a kid.

DWM: Dating While Married

~ Randy Blazak ~ 5 Comments

June 30, 2023

What are the rules of being separated? Nobody sent me the manual. Also, is there a handy guidebook to diagram the complexity of romantic love? I’m in the weeds out here.

The day A moved out the fall of 2021, I thought it would be a short term break while I figured my shit out. I was just at the beginning of understanding how my experience of childhood abuse had been controlling my brain. Therapy, some good reading, and quiet reflection, and we’d be fixed in a few months. A week after she moved out she told me she was “dating” someone (well, that wasn’t exactly the word she used) and that person quickly became her boyfriend, which didn’t help my intention to calmly become a better person.

In fact, it did the opposite. It unleashed my inner redneck. I’d go the bar that he frequented, order a double bourbon and imagine kicking his ass. Not exactly the practice of someone who leads workshops on mindfulness. Gradually, I came to accept her choice and focused back on my own work. If she’s happy, I’m happy. Blah, blah, blah. We were talking about divorce, but it always seemed to be on the back burner. And every time she’d breakup with this guy, she was back in my arms.

But by the end of 2022, I thought I should try this dating thing. I missed having a partner in crime. Someone to get out of the house with. Also, I was still angry my wife was spending all her free time with this guy. A friend suggested I go on the Bumble dating site. So I set up a profile and met some really great women; a flight attendant, an artist, and a movie producer, who I went to NYC to stay with for a week and is one of the most accomplished women I’ve ever met. But I felt like I was a performing a role; A and our fantasized reunion always on my mind. It just seemed like a hoax. So I cancelled Bumble and focused on winning her back.

Then all that changed.

Two weeks ago, I was feeling aggrieved because I felt like A was routinely disregarding me and I was all in my head about it. It was Friday and the start of her week with Cozy (and the end of her week with her boyfriend) and my Pisces brain was going to claim I had a date with a beautiful lawyer just to drive a splinter in. Then I took a left turn.

According to Facebook, I have over 2,800 friends. Some folks go way back to high school, some I don’t know how I know, and a whole bunch are dead. But there was someone in my feed who I didn’t know how I knew, I just knew she owned a Portland dress shop and was stunning. I found myself exploring her pictures, with her dogs, her family and friends, and travels. So I took a chance and messaged her.

Me: You’re always in my feed so I thought I should say hey!

Her: How are you doing? I’m rarely on Fb and miss a lot of messages so if I ignore you, I swear it’s nothing personal.

Me: Was just looking for some live music tonight. I need tunes.

Her: Ooh did you find anything good?!

Me: Usually I go to No Fun on Hawthorne for random bands. You should come out!

Her: Sounds fun! I’m down

And that’s how my relationship with Jaime started. She walked into a favorite SE Portland joint of mine, a bar called No Fun, and it was like a brand new chapter was about to unfold. We immediately clicked, like nothing I’d experienced before, while the band played TLC and Britney Spears songs. Sitting at the bar, we began to plan a trip to Paris and I said, “I’m going to kiss you tonight.” Then we ended up on the dance floor at Goodfoot, another local bar, for Soul Night, and by the second song we were already a couple.

I can’t explain what happened to my brain. All that bandwidth that had been taken up by my obsession with A, winning her back and/or hating that she was with this guy who I detested, just vanished. What did it mean? Was I not in love with her? My love for her had defined every day of my life for the past ten years. But my love for her was often about “my love” and not about her as a person. I was unable to repair that disconnect to lure her back. But now all I could think about was Jaime. It was like a channel had switched.

At first I felt the need to keep this new relationship on the down low. I didn’t know how to “frame” it. But after the April car crash that Cozy and I had been in (that totaled the RAV) and the cancer scare earlier this month, I know every second in this life matters.

Jaime and I quickly became connected at the hip. I wanted to learn everything about her. I wanted to not make the mistakes of the past. In a few days I was convinced that I could build something with her and finally release A from the crushing weight of being tied to my project. A seemed relieved that I had found someone, which was both nice and annoying. A week after our first meeting, A OK’d Jaime and I taking Cozy to a Portland Thorns soccer game. Seeing how wonderful she was with my daughter sealed the deal and I asked her to be my girlfriend.

I truly don’t understand the nature of love. My ten years with A, including the year and half separation, still carry a real meaning to me. She’s the mother of my child, but she has a boyfriend who I know she loves. I know there have been people rooting for us to reunite (and others who haven’t). When she told me a year ago, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” I laughed it off as the standard doldrums of marriage. But now I feel the same way.

All I know is that my heart has been kidnapped by someone I want to be with as much as possible. Cozy loves her madly and so do I. It came from out of the blue, but I know it’s real because she has me listening to Taylor Swift and thinking about my words before I say them. It may just be a summer affair or it may be something with some staying power. I don’t know and I don’t care and it feels damn good.

It’s nice not to worry about what people think. I just want to put all these lessons to work to keep this magic moment going that started on a Friday night in a bar called No Fun. As Taylor sang, “A string that pulled me, out of all the wrong arms, right into that dive bar. ” There is a golden string that now connects me to her and I can’t help but just say, “Yeah, well, it’s divine intervention.”

Tonight at 8:30 will be our two-week anniversary and it feels like I’ve known this person for a lifetime. Two weeks from now, I might be saying, “What the hell was THAT?” I have a feeling that we’ll be doing just fine. Love is a beautiful thing.

NOTE: I let Jaime read this before posting it. If she’s good, I’m good.