Believe in Magic

These photos are from my Master's Hooding Ceremony At California State University, Sacramento, eight years ago. Although I was not yet quite finished with the degree requirements (my degree was actually conferred one year later), I was well on my way. I had six years clean (and/or sober, for those so inclined), I was in a new relationship and I was on my way to Louisiana State University  in the fall to begin work on my Ph.D. The future looked bright indeed, however, there were dark clouds on the horizon and the storm that came was not only predictable, it was predicted - I saw it, but ignored it.

I remember, as I approached my seven-year recovery anniversary (August 6th, 2004 was the first day of my continued abstinence from all mind and mood altering chemicals), I was "warned" by those in recovery of how “hard” the seven year mark was. I didn't believe it then (I still don't - we only hear the horror stories, most "seven years" are perfectly mundane), but seven to 10 years clean was, for me, a monumental struggle on several levels. It seemed everything in my life was way harder than it needed to be, that everything was falling apart and that the Universe was out to get me. That “new” relationship turned into a 2,200-mile Sacramento-to-Baton Rouge “long-distance” relationship turned into a long-distance engagement turned into a long-distance marriage and finally into a long-distance divorce, all while I was working on a Ph.D. at LSU.

In the moment - many moments - I questioned the purpose of my very existence in ways I had not done since before getting clean. It was not the 24/7 type of gnawing that it was in the past, but those questions persisted. By the time my coursework at LSU was finished and by the time my funding ran out at the end of the 2015 spring semester, and despite the fact that the storm had largely blown over, I had already spent a year not writing my dissertation. I cycled through several "I'm gonna do this!” moments of inspiration, always followed by more and deeper procrastination and... then nothing. Sometime in late 2015 or early 2016 I decided that despite my ability, I did not have the willingness to complete and write what is typically a year or more research project. By that time I was employed as a “lecturer” at my first alma mater, CSUS.

However, I did have enough coursework and I did complete my comprehensive exams (I was a "doctoral candidate"), and that was more than enough to be awarded another MA at LSU. I took it before my early coursework started to "time-out" and moved that last, ultimate academic goal, the Ph.D., off the “back burner” and over to the "almost made it" category. It's not the only thing that lives there among my many failures in life, but that one, more than all the others, comes with a significant level of recognition; it represents much more success than it does failure. I am still very much proud of the work I did, despite not doing it all.

Do I regret missing the big prize? A lot. And I knew I would. That I did see coming, and I accepted it. However, my decision also placed me where I ultimately wanted to be. Although my job title and responsibilities differ in some ways (as does my pay) from tenure and tenure track professors, I am doing what I wanted to do. I love school;  that is something I never thought I’d say when I was young. When I came back as a “non-traditional" student 15 years ago, I used to joke that I wanted to remain in school for the rest of my life. I get to do just that. I teach "Rhetoric and Social Influence," "Argumentation," "Public Speaking" (both lower and upper divisions) and other classes in the qualitative arm of communication studies at CSUS. As such, I am always "in school."

That storm, that train-wreck relationship for which I volunteered, was not solely responsible for derailing my Ph.D. Did it play a role? Certainly, but there were several other factors that also played a role - some foreseeable, some not. And my (ahem) advanced age definitely contributed to a mix of factors that ended in failure... and success. My life today is rich. It is fulfilling. While I would love to have earned the right to put "Dr." in front of my name, the fact is that I did not earn it. What I did earn, however, has made my life a magical experience. I have a quote tattooed on my left forearm from a children’s book called “The Minpins.” It is the last line in the last book ever written by Roald Dahl, published posthumously in 1991: “Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” There are all kinds of magic. I found one I can believe in and because I do, I have, indeed, found it.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I might have had it all wrong. I might have deluded myself into thinking in a way that would always leave me lacking. I figured I was entitled. Not to fame or wealth or prestige or anything materialistic, but my frame of reference led me to believe that those were the things that would bring me that which I was entitled to. I thought I was entitled to happiness. I actually believed I deserved to be happy. As a result, every time I was not happy, I felt unhappy. Further, because I deserved to be happy, I was also entitled to do whatever was necessary to achieve it. While that pursuit materialized in a number of ways, eventually it led me to chemical substances that created the illusion of happiness.

This is not so much about drug and alcohol abuse as it is the mindset that contributed to it. And, to be clear, the ultimate cause of my years of “happiness” through chemistry, while no longer important, is not so easily identified. It could be genetics, it could be environment, it could be the time and place I grew up and it is likely a combination of factors. Regardless, substance abuse was by far the most destructive manifestation of my pursuit of happiness, but it was not the only one. In the nearly 15 years since I found recovery, since I abstained from the use of chemicals to alter my consciousness, I have also changed my perspective on many things, a key one is this “right” I had to be happy.

First, some hard, cold truths. No one has an inherent right to anything. True, societies have created conventions that do enumerate certain rights (and they did not start with the good ole US of A), but the fact that we have any rights at all is a result of hard fought battles and many great thinkers. Our ability to communicate symbolically, abstractly and cooperatively has propelled us to the top of the food chain. We are not the strongest, fastest, toughest or most adaptable species on the planet. We are the smartest and because we evolved these huge brains, we are no longer prey. But without our predecessors paving the way we should treat each other, no one is entitled to anything – even life itself.

However, we do have rights. The framers of the Constitution, in the Preamble, declared that we are endowed with, “certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” And while the framers believed these rights are endowed by our "creator," whatever their source, they are enforced by societal conventions. So far, so good. So what about this so-called pursuit of happiness. Apparently even the creator did not grant happiness, only its pursuit is granted. However, from the 1960s and on, while I was coming of age, I must’ve decided that if the pursuit of happiness can be endowed upon us, then actual happiness was simply the logical extension. In other words, why not just bypass that silly chasing it stage and grant it as well.

The second and ancillary problem with that attitude is the conflation of lack of happiness with unhappiness. As it turns out, not being happy is not the same as being unhappy. In fact, it turns out that happiness is rather elusive and unhappiness is also not usually a long-term or prevalent condition. Indeed, what I was after is not achievable. No one can sustain happiness 24/7, but I can be content most, if not all, of the time. What I should have been seeking is contentedness. If that is what I seek, the only time I need take any real action is when I am feeling discontent. Happiness and unhappiness are situational and fleeting. When I thought I was unhappy – when I was feeling a lack of happiness – I was quite probably still content. But, by framing that lack of happiness as unhappiness, my contentedness, that very well could have been, necessarily became discontentedness.

This entire insidious pattern plagued me for years. In my pursuit of happiness, I felt I had a right to do whatever was necessary to get back to that place I had no right to in the first place. Even contentedness is not a right, but it is achievable by simply shifting my perspective, my priorities and what I actually need. As it turns out, I already had everything I needed, and I never knew it. And, of course, once the instant gratification of substances found its way into the picture, that twisted perspective became even more entrenched – and the insidiousness took an ugly, and potentially deadly, turn.

Once the “fixes” were removed, I had to find some way to be okay with myself. That took time, it took work and it took a conscious effort to change the way I looked at the world, to reevaluate what I “deserve” and what it takes to be content. As it turns out, contentedness is not all that hard to achieve. In fact, if I would have just stopped long enough to appreciate who I was, where I was, what I had and who was in my life, I would have been content long ago. Temporal happiness – the occasional, euphoric, natural highs - will come… and go. But I need not become discontent or even discouraged when it does go. And a lack of happiness is not unhappiness. I cannot be “happy” all the time, I am not entitled to it and, furthermore, I don’t want to be. If I was, where could I go from there?  

Not a Motorcycle Story

This is a motorcycle ride story, but it’s not just about motorcycles. I became profoundly aware of some “life things” during this particular ride. I expound upon them towards the end. It’s worth pondering, even for those who never have and never would ride a motorcycle. It’s not as much about riding as it is about living.

Last weekend I decided to take a break from everything and go on a three-day motorcycle ride in Central California. It was not my first solo multi-day motorcycle excursion, I’ve made several such trips, but most were part of a bigger picture – some destination or other “reason” was usually part of the deal. Once I rode to Southern California for a friend’s wedding and then took several more days traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah and Nevada. More than once I’ve used the journey to and from the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally as an opportunity to log several thousand solo miles. While I like riding with others (two to four, not a lot of others), it’s not the same as riding by myself. Nothing is more relaxing, more meditative and more energizing than just me, my machine and the open road.

My route last week took me on many roads I’ve ridden before, I knew what to expect - great roads, little traffic and pristine scenery. Although I didn’t have any firm plan as to the route I would take, I did have a list of possibilities that are based on experience. I live near Sacramento and there are numerous ways I can go to get “there.” I chose US-50 up into the Sierras toward Lake Tahoe, CA-89 over the Monitor Pass to US-395 and south from there towards Death Valley. These are roads I am very familiar with and rendered exactly what I expected; it was Nirvana. I spent the night in a motel that would be a sub-one star rating if ratings went that low, but it had a bed and a shower, which is all I really need. From there I took CA-190 into Death Valley, another road I’ve ridden before and, at this time of year, the weather is perfect.

While at the summit getting ready to descend into Death Valley, I had a decision to make. I could have continued through Death Valley National Park or take Panamint Valley Road to Trona-Wildhorse Road into Trona and Ridgecrest. The road condition was a big question mark, but I had the option of turning back and going to Stovepipe Wells and Death Valley Junction, winding my way around to I-15 before attempting to reroute back to roads less traveled. I took the chance. The road condition was not great, but good enough to navigate my 2017 Harley Street Glide Special at a decent clip. And there were sections that easily fit into my “must-ride” category of motorcycle roads. It also took me out to Lake Isabella and CA-178 through the Kern River Canyon, a route that I would have bypassed had I gone around.

I had a minor mishap on CA-178, a bump in the road took out my kickstand spring. I was able to fix it temporarily, but I was also lucky to find a small shop in Weldon that could fix it for me. I could have made it without the repair, but since I could get it fixed, I did. While I was there, shooting the breeze with the other bikers hanging around, I was informed about just how spectacular the road through the canyon is – and how dangerous it can be. I found it to be spectacular and only as dangerous as any other winding mountain road would be. That was, after all, why I was there. That road flattens out in the Central Valley as is enters Bakersfield. I stopped for gas at the CA-178/I-5 interchange and was content to let my GPS guide me to San Luis Obispo where I would stay for the night. That route put me on I-5 north for more than 20 miles, not a ride I was all that into.

As I was riding, thinking about the I-5 and 20-plus miles of straight, flat, boring riding, I remembered the route options I saw on the map days before. The fastest route was indeed I-5 to CA-46 to US-101, but the more direct route is CA-58 through the Coastal Range right to San Luis Obispo. Google maps indicated that there was construction on that highway, but it was not only a Saturday, but late in the day at that. At the last moment I took the CA-58 offramp, and away I went. Through the valley section, it was not anything to write home about. It had it’s moments, but it was mostly Central Valley farmland. However, when I hit the foothills, the ride took a serendipitous twist.

There was indeed construction going on – they were resurfacing the road. But most of the many miles I traveled on it were already done, and recently. The road condition could not have been any better – it was smooth, fresh and sticky. The section they were still working on was short and construction was already done for the day. No one-way traffic controls (despite the warning signs to the contrary), no personnel and no equipment hampered me in anyway. But the best part of that section of road was that it was virtually abandoned. I saw maybe fewer than 10 other vehicles on the road during the best part of it – for miles and miles. When I arrived in San Luis Obispo, I was walking on air. I rolled the navigational dice all day and I won every time.

As I was unwinding in San Luis Obispo, in a much better motel room, I was contemplating which way I would take to get home. If the journey is really about the journey, the only logical choice would be to ride the world famous Pacific Coast Highway up through Big Sur, Monterey and points north. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. It is a ride that never gets old. However, there was a chance of rain in the forecast along the coast and I was not too sure about riding that road in the rain. I’ve ridden in the rain many times, in many places, but I avoid it if possible. However, avoiding it meant riding inland several hundred miles on perfectly mundane roads. I deciding to check again in the morning. When I did, the chance had decreased, but was still there. I rolled the dice, again.

It turned out to be another win, and it was decision I made due to a revelation from the day before. It was what I now call a “motorcycle decision.” (For those who have endured the ride thus far, this is where I get to the “life stuff” I teased at the top). A motorcycle decision is one that best fulfils the purpose of the ride – any ride. While this ride had no destination, it held no utility, it was largely uncharted, the route was always in flux, it did have a purpose. There was a goal, a reason I set out on what turned out to be an almost 1,100 mile circle. That purpose, while difficult to define in certain terms, can be looked at as an extended meditation session. Prior to the ride, I was stressed. I had some internal pressure gnawing at me. I felt not myself. My ride was meant to take me out of the here and now for long enough to get my feet back under me, and it did just that.

That goal could have been derailed by a number of factors – decisions made that were not directly aimed at achieving this goal. For that, I had to know why I was doing what I was doing and how that mechanism works. When I am on a ride, and there could still be utility or other purposes beyond just getting out on two wheels, the destination is not what it is about. Ever. Even when I am going someplace, if I am riding, the way I get there is a factor. That revelation goes for virtually every decision I make in life. It is never just about “there;” it is about how I get there. Sometimes expediency is a factor. If so, an airplane would be a better decision. Sometimes other people are factors. If so, the best way to connect with them is a better decision. Whether it’s work, school, family, recreation, fitness… whatever the destination is, there is a path to it. If all I ever consider is “there,” I could overlook factors concerning what the best way to get there is.

We seemed to be so goal oriented these days. Although there is nothing wrong with goals and focusing on them, if I get so focused on getting there, I'll develop tunnel-vision; I will inevitably miss so much along the way. Last weekend, my goal was to get out of myself by doing the kind of riding I enjoy most. That riding does not involve traffic, straight, flat roads or a bunch of people. The decisions I made, unwittingly at first (CA-58) and then very purposefully (the decision to take PCH after all) made it a truly magical experience. If I take the time to consider things I wouldn’t in my effort to "arrive," I won’t have to just endure the journey. I can truly enjoy it.

Producing Words

Wm Spear Design

At my core, I am a writer. That is my art, my talent, the one thing about me that I seem to have some natural creativity in. I am glad to have it; I don’t have another one like it. Some people are naturally creative in virtually any medium – they can sing, dance, draw, paint, act, etc. – and it appears effortless. I know better. I know “natural” talent is not enough and that without work – and lots of it – that talent, that creativity, that art is never complete. However, for most of my life I’ve envied those who are able to create those things that I could not. I have envied their ability to create works that are beautiful, compelling, thought-provoking, timeless and enduring. I sort of knew I could communicate well through the written word ever since I was a kid, but I never appreciated it and, until much, much later, I never honed that talent.

Thankfully, that is no longer true. I am conscious that I am, in fact, creative in some way – in my way. I appreciate it and I work at it – a lot. My output has ebbed and flowed over the past few years, but I write constantly, regularly and… painfully. Grabbing my palette of words and punctuation, placing them just so on a blank canvas and being happy with what I paint happens, but the process is arduous. It is never easy. And no matter how good it is, I am my worst critic – it could always be better. And, in rereading much of what I’ve written in the past, some of it wasn’t ever good to begin with. Such is the angst of art.

With the possible exception of the news stories I wrote while a journalist, the essays that populate my blog represent the bulk of my published work. The other significant difference between those two outlets is that I don’t get paid for this stuff. My news stories all had a price tag of one kind or another – either as part of my salary or piecemeal as a freelancer. And the writing was, of course, much different. While journalism does have an artistic element, it is also confined by many rules that limit its creativity. This writing has no such bounds. I don’t do it for money, I have no ads or other monetization on my website/blog. But I think about it sometimes… maybe I should.

I have conflicting beliefs regarding art and its production. On the one hand, I place a lot of weight on the notion of “art for art’s sake.” Artists produce because they are compelled to create, to make a statement that has all of the above-named qualities. Taken to an even deeper level, in theory, it is not produced with any audience in mind, it does not require or want for any attention or accolades. It just is. On the other hand, that’s all bullshit. We are doing it for more than just some utopian “purity.” That is not to say there are no elements of that pure essence present, but I write to be read – even if I am the only reader (I read more own stuff all the time, I always get new insight from it). To be recognized with real, tangible, compensation is even better.

I hear people talk about writing their future books as a means to an end, and that end is money. That is the primary motivating force. Yes, they might have a story to tell, a interest to promote or an idea to develop, but when I hear the plan (and, since I am a writer, the aspiring writers in my extended circle always want to tell me about it) I often hear dollar signs. And, really, who knows what will sell? There is no shortage of good ideas out there and it is also true that bad ideas can be very lucrative. But if money was my primary motivation, I would have already written that book and retired by now. There has to be something more, something other than just money. The fact that I write so much for no money makes this painfully clear.

I have written enough in my blog to compile two or three books of essay collections. My father once suggested I do that. I began the process, but it, like the other two books I have in the works, are currently sitting on the proverbial back burner. I always intend to get back to them. In fact, this very essay is a step in that direction. I’d love to get paid for my words, I’d love even more for people to read and enjoy them. However, that is not what produces them. What produces them comes from somewhere else. It is painful. It is hard. It is compelling. It also, apparently, does not require any monetary compensation. I write them anyway.

Sensory Overload

Today is Easter Day, 2019. I guess that this day has come and gone for around 2,000 years, but I really don’t know nor do I care. I know it means an awful lot to an awful lot of people, but to me it means nothing more than the Easter Bunny and kids hunting for colorful eggs. And even those days, for me, are long gone unless I happen to be with any of my grandsons. Usually Easter is not that sort of occasion. I get the significance it holds for those who believe, but the premise behind that significance is, to me, nothing more than an impossible legend, a myth. It might transmit certain cultural histories, but the proof of the story to which it pertains is not nearly enough for me. And no, I am not open to debate it.

This day – this weekend – is also when an annual convention for a certain recovery 12-step fellowship takes place in Northern California. In fact, it is called the “Northern California Convention of <redacted> Anonymous.” This year it was held in Sacramento and there were literally thousands of attendees. It took place over four days, but besides a quick visit to register on Thursday, I only went for the main event last night. I was there early enough, however, to do some socializing and exchange pleasantries with a bunch of people I know, some of whom are close enough to be actual friends. Most, however, are not – at least in the strictest sense of the word.

Ken Tisa, “Kali’s Dance” (2017)

In this, and probably other similar fellowships, the term “friend” gets thrown around much more freely than I would use it. And some might even be taken aback that I do not consider them friends outside of meetings and other “program” gatherings. Many would say that since finding a new life in recovery, they now have – I am not exaggerating – literally hundreds of friends. I cannot imagine how anyone could maintain even 100 friendships, never mind multiple hundreds. And at this convention, for those who have all those friends, they were surely in their element. All of that attention and all of that good will and all of that like-mindedness and singleness of purpose, combatting an affliction that could have killed us and did make our lives a living hell. Yes, we have that connection that is often formed when groups of people are faced with catastrophe, and long-term relationships spawned from that often come from it – but to be friends with everyone? Pass.

I’m sure there are those who are naturally affable and feed off all that energy; they make connections with as many persons as possible. I don’t. All of that all in one place drains me. I enjoy seeing old friends and acquaintances as much as anyone, but I prefer it be in a far more limited way. But I was there. I hugged a lot of people (we do a lot of hugging in this fellowship). I exchanged pleasantries. After a few hours, I needed to get out of there. It was not anxiety, it was exhaustion. And even though I saw so many, I missed seeing even more – and many of those I did not see were among my real friends. It is impossible to find everyone one wishes to find in a gathering that large. And, truth be told, I didn’t look that hard. Because simply walking around means running into too many “friends” who I must stop and talk to for a moment. Because that’s what we are supposed to do.

So I did it. I took my introverted self to the very place I am least comfortable. It’s not just crowds (though I will avoid crowds generally when I can), but a crowd where I knew so many by face at least, and many of them by name. There were also too many who knew me, somehow, but I do not know or did not remember them. That’s awkward. But I put on the face, danced the dance and did what I viewed as my responsibility. I took my 14 years, eight months, two weeks and one day of clean-time (no mind-altering chemicals) downtown to show that this thing we are all doing can work. That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy being over-stimulated, it just means I have to endure it. Seems like a small price to pay for the life I have today.

I'll Think About It

After almost four weeks of Facebook deactivation, I am thinking about reactivating my account in the near future. I have not, however, made a final decision yet. Unlike most people, when I say “I’ll think about it,” it is not a deflection to avoid saying what I already decided; I am, in fact, thinking about it. So, what is there to think about? Didn’t I basically throw Facebook under the bus? Didn’t I call it and its mother every nasty name in the book? Didn’t I say it was the harbinger of the end of the world as we know it? Well, the last statement is partially true, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. The others are, of course, hyperbole.

I don’t condemn the platform itself so much as I do the way it is used. As it has evolved and as it turns out, the quasi-anonymity of (ironically for “Facebook”) faceless-to-faceless interaction has led to the spread of hate and division. Indeed, where that kind of infestation took some skill, planning and resources prior to the age of information, it can now be done with ease by those who don’t even realize they are doing it. That and the boundless self-aggrandizing, self-promotion - self-everything - has not only turned me off, it was turning me. Turning me into yet another of the many iterations of Facebook minions.

Despite my disenchantment with what Facebook has revealed about people, Facebook is, in a way, its own antidote. The same platform that is so utilitarian in spreading division can, in theory, also be used to spread unity, understanding, peace, good will, diversity, love and all other timeless virtues. However, the platform itself is merely a tool, its benefit comes from how it is used. The degree to which the corporate entity, “Facebook” (whether that refers to Mark Zuckerberg or any other real people who make up that entity), can direct that usage is limited. It is limited in the same way a hammer manufacturer can limit the way its hammer is used. While the Facebook platform has more about it that can be regulated, it is still, ultimately, about who is swinging the hammer.

If I go back, I will use that hammer to build, not destroy. That, however, is not as easy as it sounds. In fact, I could argue that using a hammer for demolition is constructive, is morally positive and is ethical. The demolition phase of construction clears the way to build anew. Of course when it comes to people, ideas, institutions, ideologies and the like, the demolition of those things brings in different and powerful dynamics. We are no longer dealing with tangible, inanimate objects. These are, instead, intangible, but - and ironically enough - very much animate… and sentient. It all has to do with people and all of our collective humanity that makes us up. Facebook puts all that under a microscope and magnifies it to ridiculous proportions, indeed, super-human proportions.

My job, then, should I choose to accept it, would be walking a fine line. I performed that role before, but not consciously. In fact, I have performed that role for much of my life, I seem to be built that way. I don’t want to get all new-agey (one of so many irritating reignited fads from the past that Facebook has breathed new life into), but as an introvert, now euphemistically called an “empath” (sounds special, right? Like we have some sort of super-power), I am easily exhausted by too much sensory input from others. High energy people, some of whom are my closest friends, drain me. Facebook brought all that energy into my home, onto my desktop and put it into my pocket. I was being depleted almost all day, every day.

My return to the platform would, therefore, be markedly different in many ways. The most significant would be my very limited participation. My obligation to acknowledge anyone via a status update, a post, a comment on one of my posts or even a “like” is absolutely zero. As such, Facebook would not be nearly so “interactive.” My job will be to contribute to the world of words and information those things that I feel will benefit humanity, will promote unity, will foster diversity of thought and action and, when demolition is necessary, will do so in a way that recognizes the very real humans involved. I would also use it for personal documentations  of my travels and adventures, but only so much that myself, my family and my (real) friends can enjoy them, in much the same as I enjoy (and now miss) theirs. As I’ve written many times, this ease of connection is probably Facebook's biggest attraction and likely what made it what it is.

Little enlightenments come to me on a daily basis through a number of sources, but the most pronounced is still the Internet – usually through email. I will, when sufficiently motivated, write about them as I am this moment, but more often than not, those insights will fade into the darkness of my memory, never to be heard from again. Facebook never forgets. And even though Facebook users are acculturated to sound-bite sized snippets, part of what I do is challenge that status quo. The platform allows for statuses this long, I have (and will, if I decide to reactivate) use that space. If I can get Facebookers to read several hundred words – about almost anything – then that, in and of itself, is beneficial.

The article that got me thinking about this in terms of a return as a real possibility was written in an online journal called The Medium. It is the most recent of a few periodicals that I have a paid subscription to. I found the writing and writers enlightening, fresh and inspired. It is the kind of stuff I like to read – and write. If I had to compare it to something, I'd say it is similar to The Stone, a section of the New York Times that features essays and opinions that are philosophical in nature. But The Medium is more than that. The point is that a simple link to the article I read today does not work on Instagram, does not work on my blog, it might work on Twitter if I had built up a following and liked it, but I haven’t and I don’t. They are not easily and effectively disseminated anywhere else. Facebook is the standard.

My goal, then, if I go back, is to do so with my shields on “high,” limiting my interaction to almost none and just post things that are, at worst, value neutral. Of course, the goal is to foster unity, peace, tolerance, diversity and essentially everything else that not only makes us good Americans, these are the things that make us good humans. But I am still thinking about it.