The other day I saw a small Cambodian boy standing on the side of the road. By himself. Talking to himself. Head bopping. A slight smile on his lips. Happy.
All around him, cars were buzzing, dust was flying, foreigners were staring, the sky was falling. (Not literally, no, because the Cambodian sky is vast and deep, but his country is falling. Sinking. Or drifting -- let's say drifting. It is not for me to say if this wounded land sinks or swims, but I can recognize drift.)
But he is a boy. These are not his concerns.
He was thinking about something. Perhaps a day at school, half-remembered, the details already fading away but still strong enough to bring a smile to his lips. Or something his sister said. Yes, that must be it. Something his sister said that morning, over breakfast, as they drank their water and ate their rice. She said something silly and strange because that is what sisters do. Often he does not like his sister but at moments like that, breakfast moments, she can say something silly and strange and all is forgiven. (Until lunch.)
Even now, the boy is fading from my memory. I can't clearly remember his features. No matter. He was in his own headspace, the space that only kids inhabit. Anything can happen in there. Aliens can land, animals can fly, cars can speak.
When I was a child, in a similar space, I used to choose one rock to kick all the way home, and I would imagine that that particular stone was alive and sentient, that it was aware, in pain, and I was kicking it further and further away from home, and for a stone, a small stone, the distance was quite far, and its family, assuming it had one, would never see it again. And though I sometimes felt bad for that rock, I still would kick it, again and again, until I reached home, because I knew, after all, that it was just a rock.
(Oh, but still. There was one that one part. That one part of my brain. The part that allowed aliens to land and animals to fly and pigs to speak. The part that suspected that I had committed a malicious and contemptuous act, though I would not have used those exact words, not knowing what they meant. Did the rock have feelings? Had I taken it away from its family? Listening to the rain against my window, this is what I wondered.)
He was just a boy on the side of the road. But I'm quite certain that something strange and wonderful is going on inside of his head even as I type these words. Something divorced from politics, and finance, and development, and coercion. Something intricate and layered.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Monday, June 27, 2005
WHAT I WANT VERSUS WHAT YOU NEED, or WHY, DESPITE THE FACT THAT THE WORLD IS A RATHOLE, WE STILL NEED TO WATCH JON STEWART EVERY NOW AND THEN
What do you owe yourself and what do you owe the world around you?
I ask because I'm reading Thomas Friedman's new book The World Is Flat, which details how, in this brave new interconnected world, you had better continually upgrade who you are and what you can do or else you will be left in the competitive dust of those around you who are not necessarily climbing the corporate ladder, but just hanging onto a rung by any means possible.
I also ask because recently I read a book called Citizen Nader, written in 1972, about social crusader Ralph Nader, a man who, even thirty-five years ago, was recognizing certain tendencies in American society that he deemed trivial and wasteful -- namely, watching t.v., chilling out, playing mah-jong, having fun. In a world and a society at the mercy of major corporations and governments who do not necessarily have the people's best interests at heart, it is not enough to just vote; you have to engage.
I tend to read between the lines and find things that usually aren't there to begin with, but what the hell. Reading these two books, this is what I found.
You have the individual who must prepare himself to engage in an increasingly interconnected and difficult job-market, society, world. This takes planning, intelligence, time and strategy. If you want to have even a middle-class life, you have to be prepared to strategically position yourself to potential employers. And you will have to keep doing this to survive -- to buy the car, the house, the flat-screen TV.
And yet, Nader is pointing to loftier goals. He is saying look, all that shit won't make you happy. It's advertisers and governments way of forcing you to continually keep up with the Joneses; it's society's way of playing your neuroses like a harp. The key to a good life and a healthy life and a happy life is to fight injustice any way that you can -- in your society, your city, your neighbourhood. Don't waste time on trivial things; think of what you can contribute to society.
Which is the better choice -- the career and the family and the inevitable path that those structures necessitate, or the more laborious, less ostentatiously fulfilling road of social engagement? How do you balance your own needs, which are, by their very nature, inherently selfish, with the notion that you could be putting your own energies to better, more nobler uses? And to what end? You can end up divorced, paying alimony to an ex-wife to you hate and with kids who barely know you, or end up like Ralph Nader, alone at seventy, no wife, no family, no companions, driven by work?
Is there a middle ground?
I'm oversimplifying things, obviously, but it's something I often think about. I don't have a car, or a house, or a flat-screen TV. Do I want those things? I dunno. I do know that I want to engage in work that contributes something to the world around me, but I'm not sure that a single-minded, blind pursuit aimed at solving society's ills will necessarily result in contentment. An hour spent watching The Daily Show: Global Edition is an hour that I could have spent tutoring some poor kid in the slums. But just as Doestoevsky's Underground Man said that it's sometimes fun to smash things, so do I say that it's sometimes fun to chill out in front of Jon Stewart. Where do you balance the insatiable needs of the ego with the more humane tendencies that truly lift us up and take us to another level of humanity?
If teaching taught me anything, it's that you can see the effect, instantly, every day, that you have on another people. If you're pissed, it changes the texture and tone of the class. (I mean, of course, 'pissed' in the Canadian and American sense, not 'pissed' in the, you know, British sense. I'm aware that coming to class plastered out of your mind could change the mood of the room.) Alone in your cubicle, your mood only affects your own psyche. Standing in front of thirty nineteen year olds, your mood determines whether the next hour will be heaven or hell. (Or, as is usually the case, at least purgatory.)
No answers from me, only questions. Perhaps there's a middle ground, somewhere that satisfies our own selfish natures and allows the better parts of goodwill an outlet to the world at large.
I just wonder if settling for the 'middle ground' has ever created any lasting, resonant change -- in the world, or in ourselves.
I ask because I'm reading Thomas Friedman's new book The World Is Flat, which details how, in this brave new interconnected world, you had better continually upgrade who you are and what you can do or else you will be left in the competitive dust of those around you who are not necessarily climbing the corporate ladder, but just hanging onto a rung by any means possible.
I also ask because recently I read a book called Citizen Nader, written in 1972, about social crusader Ralph Nader, a man who, even thirty-five years ago, was recognizing certain tendencies in American society that he deemed trivial and wasteful -- namely, watching t.v., chilling out, playing mah-jong, having fun. In a world and a society at the mercy of major corporations and governments who do not necessarily have the people's best interests at heart, it is not enough to just vote; you have to engage.
I tend to read between the lines and find things that usually aren't there to begin with, but what the hell. Reading these two books, this is what I found.
You have the individual who must prepare himself to engage in an increasingly interconnected and difficult job-market, society, world. This takes planning, intelligence, time and strategy. If you want to have even a middle-class life, you have to be prepared to strategically position yourself to potential employers. And you will have to keep doing this to survive -- to buy the car, the house, the flat-screen TV.
And yet, Nader is pointing to loftier goals. He is saying look, all that shit won't make you happy. It's advertisers and governments way of forcing you to continually keep up with the Joneses; it's society's way of playing your neuroses like a harp. The key to a good life and a healthy life and a happy life is to fight injustice any way that you can -- in your society, your city, your neighbourhood. Don't waste time on trivial things; think of what you can contribute to society.
Which is the better choice -- the career and the family and the inevitable path that those structures necessitate, or the more laborious, less ostentatiously fulfilling road of social engagement? How do you balance your own needs, which are, by their very nature, inherently selfish, with the notion that you could be putting your own energies to better, more nobler uses? And to what end? You can end up divorced, paying alimony to an ex-wife to you hate and with kids who barely know you, or end up like Ralph Nader, alone at seventy, no wife, no family, no companions, driven by work?
Is there a middle ground?
I'm oversimplifying things, obviously, but it's something I often think about. I don't have a car, or a house, or a flat-screen TV. Do I want those things? I dunno. I do know that I want to engage in work that contributes something to the world around me, but I'm not sure that a single-minded, blind pursuit aimed at solving society's ills will necessarily result in contentment. An hour spent watching The Daily Show: Global Edition is an hour that I could have spent tutoring some poor kid in the slums. But just as Doestoevsky's Underground Man said that it's sometimes fun to smash things, so do I say that it's sometimes fun to chill out in front of Jon Stewart. Where do you balance the insatiable needs of the ego with the more humane tendencies that truly lift us up and take us to another level of humanity?
If teaching taught me anything, it's that you can see the effect, instantly, every day, that you have on another people. If you're pissed, it changes the texture and tone of the class. (I mean, of course, 'pissed' in the Canadian and American sense, not 'pissed' in the, you know, British sense. I'm aware that coming to class plastered out of your mind could change the mood of the room.) Alone in your cubicle, your mood only affects your own psyche. Standing in front of thirty nineteen year olds, your mood determines whether the next hour will be heaven or hell. (Or, as is usually the case, at least purgatory.)
No answers from me, only questions. Perhaps there's a middle ground, somewhere that satisfies our own selfish natures and allows the better parts of goodwill an outlet to the world at large.
I just wonder if settling for the 'middle ground' has ever created any lasting, resonant change -- in the world, or in ourselves.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
TEARS ARE NOT ENOUGH, BUT IS LIVE-8?
As the world gets ever more interconnected, as our lives become intertwined with friends and family and strangers in electronic ways requiring ever more heightened degrees of sophistication and complexity, the world, in turn, will have to provide us with more complex solutions to our problems -- which is why the increasing hype around the upcoming LIVE 8 series of concerts devoted to ending 'extreme poverty' in Africa has me worried. They're a reprisal of the LIVE AID concerts that took place more than two decades ago, which followed up on America's 'We Are the World' and Canada's 'Tears Are Not Enough' pop songs that raised money for Ethiopia. (I distinctly remember watching the first Live-8 concert at the age of ten one summer morning, while waiting for the car to be packed for the start of our week-long vacation to Muskie Bay, Ontario. Strange, what the mind can remember.)
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for these concerts, designed to not only to raise money for poor African countries but also to intended to convince the G-8 countries to cancel the outstanding debts owed by these very same countries. Anything that brings Bryan Adams and Dan Ackroyd to Barrie, Ontario is a good thing; Barrie could use a little celebrity lovin', if you ask me. Anything that highlights charity, that gives to those in need, is, in and of itself, a good thing. An ennobling thing.
(Oh, and you sure as hell must sense the 'but' coming, right? Get ready. Arm yourselves. Here...it...comes...)
But what worries me is the relatively simple-minded presentation of these concerts, which seems at odds with the relative complexity of the modern world that we live in. The myriad connections to the Internet available in multiple countries, the changing face of international business and commerce (skillfully depicted by Thomas Friedman in his new book The World Is Flat), the speed at which technology develops -- all are indicators of a world that is remarkable not only for its innovation, but also for its expectations. People expect more now; as a result, companies, corporations and innovators are expected to deliver.
What aren't the organizers of Live-8 delivering?
Nuance. Realism.
Here's what I would like Bob Geldof to say at the beginning of these concerts to his world-wide audience:
"Good afternoon, everybody! I hope you're ready for a fantastic show! I hope you've brought along plenty of bottled water, because you're going to need it under this blistering sun. Millions of people in Africa will never drink a clean glass of water in their entire lives, and this concert won't change that. Much of the money you donate to us will simply go into the pockets of the government workers of various indigent countries. You only have to look at the lack of reconstruction going on in countries affected by the tsunami to realize that there are a lot of venal, craven people in power who have no qualms whatsoever about keeping money specifically designated to help others. They prey on people's generosity. They take what we give. That's what we've been asking you to do -- give. That's what this is all about. You give money, and we save Africa. Fine. Charity is always good. It ennobles the human spirit.
"But what are we asking of Africans? It is not enough to give somebody something; you have to teach them how to make it themselves. It is not enough to just hand over money and think that you've achieved something grand and worthwhile; you have to teach people how to make money themselves. If you don't, you create a culture of dependency. You create a culture that takes advantage of your goodwill.
"I admit -- I fucked up. I should have been more specific when I started these series of concerts. I should have laid out, precisely, which countries the money you donate would go to, which government departments, and how we can ensure that this money will go to specific programs -- AIDS, education, law, construction. I should have indicated how we plan to monitor this money's progress to make sure that it reaches the people's themselves. I should have stated what capacity building programs we have instigated.
"Because it's not enough to think of Africa as this blob of humanity designed to receive our aid every twenty years or so. It's not enough to go to a concert in the park every twenty years or so and feel like you've actually contributed something. Contribution starts when enable people to enable for themselves.
"This concert will help do that. Thank you and enjoy the show."
I write these words not as someone who begrudges charity, but as someone who has worked in a UN organization and seen the ways that money is stolen, diluted and put aside by the very governments who are supposed to be doing something with it. I write these as someone who has spent two years living in a country that was voted as the tenth-worst country to live in for women and children. I write these as someone who witnesses a generation of children who associate foreigners as "someone who gives me money."
This is not blame, but realism. A country like Cambodia did not ask for genocide, or corruption, but here it is, overt and enduring, and it must be dealt with. Many countries in Africa are going through the same thing.
For me, the important things are:
a) Ensuring that whatever aid money is given, whenever it's given, this week and next year and the year after, as often as possible, ends up directly with the people who need it. It is inevitable, absolutely certain, that much of the money will be stolen by the respective governments. The only way to combat this is to create series of 'watchmen' who will monitor what money is given to whom, and what is done with it. I don't know if it is feasible -- but it is necessary.
b) Ensuring that money is not just given to people, but used to create projects designed to train people, allow them to acquire skills, continue their education. That old cliche maxim is true: "Give a man to fish, you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, you feed him for a life." Many countries, Cambodia included, are literally living off the aid industry -- for jobs, for support, for money. The whole point of aid groups is to help people first, and then enable them to help themselves. This takes years, and the progress is slow, and the evaluation is difficult, but it is absolutely essential. Money from donations raised over the coming years should go into specific programs in specific areas designed for specific problems in specific countries -- education, engineering, computer repair, medicine, you name it. Governments can be very, very, very corrupt; unless there are safeguards in place, checking-mechanisms in place, the corruption will continue, whether or not their debts are cancelled.
I know it's just a concert designed for a good cause. I know it's a way to mobilize the world.
But for most people, that's what it will be -- a series of cool concerts, a pleasant diversion on a Saturday afternoon. They will listen to the bands and cheer on Africans and drink some water and go on home and try to catch the end of Saturday Night Live, even if it is a repeat.
The countries, though, are real. The people are real. Their misfortune is extreme. Their prospects are dim. These are difficult, complex problems that require real, lasting, intricate solutions. To not acknowledge some dismaying realities, to not propose concrete, viable plans that are then laid bare for the public to criticize and enhance, not only belittles our own collective intelligence but is also, in this interconnected world, asking for too little from us. People (myself included) who spend hours figuring out websites, downloading music onto i-pods and composing blogs should be able to spare a few moments to listen to different theories regarding African aid -- what we should be doing, with whom, why, and what the next step is. Anything less is an insult to us and an affront to all those less fortunate countries that require a little bit of help to eventually get to a state where they, too, are at a level to set up aid concerts of their own, where they, too, can all afford to buy a bottle of mineral water, parasite-free, and chill out for a few hours, under the sun, listening to music.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for these concerts, designed to not only to raise money for poor African countries but also to intended to convince the G-8 countries to cancel the outstanding debts owed by these very same countries. Anything that brings Bryan Adams and Dan Ackroyd to Barrie, Ontario is a good thing; Barrie could use a little celebrity lovin', if you ask me. Anything that highlights charity, that gives to those in need, is, in and of itself, a good thing. An ennobling thing.
(Oh, and you sure as hell must sense the 'but' coming, right? Get ready. Arm yourselves. Here...it...comes...)
But what worries me is the relatively simple-minded presentation of these concerts, which seems at odds with the relative complexity of the modern world that we live in. The myriad connections to the Internet available in multiple countries, the changing face of international business and commerce (skillfully depicted by Thomas Friedman in his new book The World Is Flat), the speed at which technology develops -- all are indicators of a world that is remarkable not only for its innovation, but also for its expectations. People expect more now; as a result, companies, corporations and innovators are expected to deliver.
What aren't the organizers of Live-8 delivering?
Nuance. Realism.
Here's what I would like Bob Geldof to say at the beginning of these concerts to his world-wide audience:
"Good afternoon, everybody! I hope you're ready for a fantastic show! I hope you've brought along plenty of bottled water, because you're going to need it under this blistering sun. Millions of people in Africa will never drink a clean glass of water in their entire lives, and this concert won't change that. Much of the money you donate to us will simply go into the pockets of the government workers of various indigent countries. You only have to look at the lack of reconstruction going on in countries affected by the tsunami to realize that there are a lot of venal, craven people in power who have no qualms whatsoever about keeping money specifically designated to help others. They prey on people's generosity. They take what we give. That's what we've been asking you to do -- give. That's what this is all about. You give money, and we save Africa. Fine. Charity is always good. It ennobles the human spirit.
"But what are we asking of Africans? It is not enough to give somebody something; you have to teach them how to make it themselves. It is not enough to just hand over money and think that you've achieved something grand and worthwhile; you have to teach people how to make money themselves. If you don't, you create a culture of dependency. You create a culture that takes advantage of your goodwill.
"I admit -- I fucked up. I should have been more specific when I started these series of concerts. I should have laid out, precisely, which countries the money you donate would go to, which government departments, and how we can ensure that this money will go to specific programs -- AIDS, education, law, construction. I should have indicated how we plan to monitor this money's progress to make sure that it reaches the people's themselves. I should have stated what capacity building programs we have instigated.
"Because it's not enough to think of Africa as this blob of humanity designed to receive our aid every twenty years or so. It's not enough to go to a concert in the park every twenty years or so and feel like you've actually contributed something. Contribution starts when enable people to enable for themselves.
"This concert will help do that. Thank you and enjoy the show."
I write these words not as someone who begrudges charity, but as someone who has worked in a UN organization and seen the ways that money is stolen, diluted and put aside by the very governments who are supposed to be doing something with it. I write these as someone who has spent two years living in a country that was voted as the tenth-worst country to live in for women and children. I write these as someone who witnesses a generation of children who associate foreigners as "someone who gives me money."
This is not blame, but realism. A country like Cambodia did not ask for genocide, or corruption, but here it is, overt and enduring, and it must be dealt with. Many countries in Africa are going through the same thing.
For me, the important things are:
a) Ensuring that whatever aid money is given, whenever it's given, this week and next year and the year after, as often as possible, ends up directly with the people who need it. It is inevitable, absolutely certain, that much of the money will be stolen by the respective governments. The only way to combat this is to create series of 'watchmen' who will monitor what money is given to whom, and what is done with it. I don't know if it is feasible -- but it is necessary.
b) Ensuring that money is not just given to people, but used to create projects designed to train people, allow them to acquire skills, continue their education. That old cliche maxim is true: "Give a man to fish, you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, you feed him for a life." Many countries, Cambodia included, are literally living off the aid industry -- for jobs, for support, for money. The whole point of aid groups is to help people first, and then enable them to help themselves. This takes years, and the progress is slow, and the evaluation is difficult, but it is absolutely essential. Money from donations raised over the coming years should go into specific programs in specific areas designed for specific problems in specific countries -- education, engineering, computer repair, medicine, you name it. Governments can be very, very, very corrupt; unless there are safeguards in place, checking-mechanisms in place, the corruption will continue, whether or not their debts are cancelled.
I know it's just a concert designed for a good cause. I know it's a way to mobilize the world.
But for most people, that's what it will be -- a series of cool concerts, a pleasant diversion on a Saturday afternoon. They will listen to the bands and cheer on Africans and drink some water and go on home and try to catch the end of Saturday Night Live, even if it is a repeat.
The countries, though, are real. The people are real. Their misfortune is extreme. Their prospects are dim. These are difficult, complex problems that require real, lasting, intricate solutions. To not acknowledge some dismaying realities, to not propose concrete, viable plans that are then laid bare for the public to criticize and enhance, not only belittles our own collective intelligence but is also, in this interconnected world, asking for too little from us. People (myself included) who spend hours figuring out websites, downloading music onto i-pods and composing blogs should be able to spare a few moments to listen to different theories regarding African aid -- what we should be doing, with whom, why, and what the next step is. Anything less is an insult to us and an affront to all those less fortunate countries that require a little bit of help to eventually get to a state where they, too, are at a level to set up aid concerts of their own, where they, too, can all afford to buy a bottle of mineral water, parasite-free, and chill out for a few hours, under the sun, listening to music.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
DESPITE WHAT YOUR PARENTS TOLD YOU, ALWAYS TALK TO STRANGERS (ESPECIALLY WHEN DYING OF THIRST)
I totally, absolutely believe that kids should never talk to strangers, but when you're completely lost in the wilderness, seemingly abandoned by your boy scout troop, having not eaten anything or drank anything for four freaking days, I think exceptions should be made. Call me crazy.
Have you heard about this? Brennan Hawking, a boy scout, got lost while hiking with his troupe. Got lost for four days. Didn't eat anything. Didn't drink anything. And they found him, alive and well.
Great story. Marvellous story. Almost makes me want to become a Mormon, given that that's the kid's religion. (And he hails from the impossibly idyllic sounding town of Bountiful, Utah.)
Maybe I've got a weird sense of humor, and maybe I tend to find humor where it's not supposed to be found, but some of the comments from his parents just struck me as, well, funny.
One thing they said was that Brennan was born premature, so he's therefore a bit socially immature.
Wait a second. Maybe I'm missing something, but doesn't 'being born premature' mean that you're born at, like, six or seven or eight months, instead of the normal nine? And, if that's the case, given that the kid is now eleven, hasn't he had enough time to get over it? I those first three or four months of life are tough, but get over it. And wait another second -- why should being him being born premature mean that he's socially awkward? I mean, shit -- he had a head start on the world, if anything. The kid had two, three more months than the rest of us to scope out the land, check out the chicks, get that whole 'pissing' and 'shitting' thing down to a science.
(Oh, wait. I just realized: maybe being born premature means that you also look a little young, forever, and, come to think of it, he did look a little small for an eleven year old. So I've just gone and mocked a kid who probably has image problems already. Damn, I can be a cruel and heartless bastard sometime. But it was an accident, I swear!)
The parents also told the kid to never talk to strangers, and to always stay on the trail. When a horse or an SUV came by looking for the kid, he didn't flag them down or beg for a Slurpee or hop on the horse like the Lone Ranger looking for action. Instead, he hid from the homies looking to save his ass, and then resumed rambling down the trail where they were off in the distance.
Wow. I mean, you would think the 'never talk to strangers' rule could be bypassed on this special occasion. But maybe the kid's brain shortcircuited -- 'stay on the trail' would have meant 'talking to strangers', and he wasn't supposed to do that, so he had to choose one rule to violate, I guess.
Also noted by his proud pappy was the fact that perhaps the kid didn't go screaming for help because the strangers wouldn't have had the 'secret password' that the family shared. But you would think, being lost in the desert (or mountains, or wherever), thirsty as hell, hot as hell, the kid would have been tempted to toss aside those rules for the present.
But he didn't. Those rules were so ingrained in his brain that he couldn't do it, even when his life was in danger.
I find that fact interesting, and it dovetails with a comment made by Thomas 'tommy-boy' Friedman in a recent column in The New York Times. He noted that, as children, we're taught not to talk to strangers, but that, as adults, it's absolutely essential that we do so. You have to talk to strangers to understand the world and your own place in it.
Perhaps the source of all of society's ills comes down to that simple maxim shoved into our heads by our well-meaning elders: Don't talk to strangers. That's the first thing we learn. We internalize it, fetishize it, and make it our own unconscious mantra. The result being that, as adults, we're locked into our own little universes, convinced we're right, desperate to be right, and not interested in what other, stranger people have to say.
Well, I'm here to say: Talk to strangers. Repeatedly. Every day. You'll learn something.
Especially if you're lost in the desert. (You might even get some water, too.)
Have you heard about this? Brennan Hawking, a boy scout, got lost while hiking with his troupe. Got lost for four days. Didn't eat anything. Didn't drink anything. And they found him, alive and well.
Great story. Marvellous story. Almost makes me want to become a Mormon, given that that's the kid's religion. (And he hails from the impossibly idyllic sounding town of Bountiful, Utah.)
Maybe I've got a weird sense of humor, and maybe I tend to find humor where it's not supposed to be found, but some of the comments from his parents just struck me as, well, funny.
One thing they said was that Brennan was born premature, so he's therefore a bit socially immature.
Wait a second. Maybe I'm missing something, but doesn't 'being born premature' mean that you're born at, like, six or seven or eight months, instead of the normal nine? And, if that's the case, given that the kid is now eleven, hasn't he had enough time to get over it? I those first three or four months of life are tough, but get over it. And wait another second -- why should being him being born premature mean that he's socially awkward? I mean, shit -- he had a head start on the world, if anything. The kid had two, three more months than the rest of us to scope out the land, check out the chicks, get that whole 'pissing' and 'shitting' thing down to a science.
(Oh, wait. I just realized: maybe being born premature means that you also look a little young, forever, and, come to think of it, he did look a little small for an eleven year old. So I've just gone and mocked a kid who probably has image problems already. Damn, I can be a cruel and heartless bastard sometime. But it was an accident, I swear!)
The parents also told the kid to never talk to strangers, and to always stay on the trail. When a horse or an SUV came by looking for the kid, he didn't flag them down or beg for a Slurpee or hop on the horse like the Lone Ranger looking for action. Instead, he hid from the homies looking to save his ass, and then resumed rambling down the trail where they were off in the distance.
Wow. I mean, you would think the 'never talk to strangers' rule could be bypassed on this special occasion. But maybe the kid's brain shortcircuited -- 'stay on the trail' would have meant 'talking to strangers', and he wasn't supposed to do that, so he had to choose one rule to violate, I guess.
Also noted by his proud pappy was the fact that perhaps the kid didn't go screaming for help because the strangers wouldn't have had the 'secret password' that the family shared. But you would think, being lost in the desert (or mountains, or wherever), thirsty as hell, hot as hell, the kid would have been tempted to toss aside those rules for the present.
But he didn't. Those rules were so ingrained in his brain that he couldn't do it, even when his life was in danger.
I find that fact interesting, and it dovetails with a comment made by Thomas 'tommy-boy' Friedman in a recent column in The New York Times. He noted that, as children, we're taught not to talk to strangers, but that, as adults, it's absolutely essential that we do so. You have to talk to strangers to understand the world and your own place in it.
Perhaps the source of all of society's ills comes down to that simple maxim shoved into our heads by our well-meaning elders: Don't talk to strangers. That's the first thing we learn. We internalize it, fetishize it, and make it our own unconscious mantra. The result being that, as adults, we're locked into our own little universes, convinced we're right, desperate to be right, and not interested in what other, stranger people have to say.
Well, I'm here to say: Talk to strangers. Repeatedly. Every day. You'll learn something.
Especially if you're lost in the desert. (You might even get some water, too.)
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
DAMN YANKEES, RALPH NADER, AND HOW I FINALLY FOUND OUT JUST WHAT THE HELL A 'BENJAMIN' IS
I’ve always admired about Americans what others around the world tend to resent – their ambition, moxie, gall. It’s almost a brand of assertiveness that says: This is who I am, and if you don't like it, tough. (In varying degress of intensity.)
Before living abroad, the only time I actually, like, spoke to Americans was when I travelled to Disney World or Myrtle Beach, and the conversations one has at age seven or fifteen are not usually ones conducive to contemplation of nationalistic similarities (or differences).
Now that I've lived abroad for a great while I've picked up the habit of studying different people from different cultures and trying to figure what they often tend to do, and why. I’m always amazed when the Americans I meet just commence to, well, announce their political beliefs, their moral beliefs, their personal beliefs, whatever, right off the bat, without even knowing my nationality, or whether I might be offended. Canadians are more cautious; we feel people out. Americans dive right in. That always jars me, every time. (I remember one American who came to my old university sitting in the teacher's lounge -- or our version of a teacher's lounge -- just ranting and raving about Bush, and what a prick he was, and he didn't know if we were Americans, or Republicans or Democrats, and I suspect he wouldn't have cared one way or the other. He was going to say what he was going to say, period.)
On a (kind of?) related note, the other day I was in an Internet café and an Asian-American girl was trying to break some change.
“What are you trying to break?” I asked.
“A Benjamin,” she said.
“I’m Canadian,” I said. “I don’t know how much that is.”
She probably heard my accent and assumed I was American. That happens all the time here. I’ll ask somebody where they are from and they’ll say ‘Chicago’ or ‘Detroit’ or ‘Los Angeles’ – not ‘the United States’. Most other foreigners tell you the country they’re from; Americans tend to name the city, or the state, assuming either: a) you’re American, or b) you’ll know the city or state, regardless.
This doesn’t bother me the way it bothers other foreigners. I've learned that every culture has its stereotypes, that a lot of the stereotypes are true, and that, most importantly of all, you really gotta cut people some slack, people.
The reality is, especially in Cambodia, Americans have a somewhat poor reputation, one that has more to do with their own individual policies than the policies of their country. Some language schools or universities won’t even hire Americans. Why? Because they do their own thing. They don’t play the game. They won’t adapt. They tend to have a fixed view of things, are stubborn as hell, and cut loose when things don't go their way. (That's what people in managerial positions here have told me, anyway.) When I started teaching at the University of Cambodia at its inception, four of the people in high management positions didn’t last longer than six months at the place; a few didn't even last three. All of them quit, and all were American.
This is not an indictment by me -- I swear. I just find Americans, well, curious; they are somewhat similar to Canadians in tone and temperament but are possessed by a confidence, an assertive poise, that Canadians simply don’t have. I can usually tell within five seconds of talking to a person over here if they’re Canadian or American, and accent has nothing to do with it; attitude does. A boldness to their personalities. The world as a whole has been so bombarded by American media that Americans themselves, as people, as individuals, have become lost in the electronic morass of their cinematic substitutes; trying to figure out who they actually are, divorced from any pre-conceived media conceptions, has been difficult, but I'm betting that 'boldness' would definitely be on my top-three-adjective-list-of-American-character-traits.
I’m thinking about all of this because I’m reading an old hardcover book I picked up in a used bookstore over here called Citizen Nader, written in 1972, chronicling the remarkable rise of that quintessentially American rabble-rouser Ralph Nader. He had barely been on the scene a decade when the book was written, and he was already a legend.
I say ‘quintessentially’ American because, to me, a Canadian, Nader possess what I sense most Americans possess – a form of boldness that us Canucks lack. Nader does his own thing. He doesn’t give a flying fuck what anybody thinks. I absolutely agreed with his presidential ambitions, and I found it disgusting that everybody was telling him to drop out of the race in order to save the nation from Bush and his cronies. If America is what it purports to be, what it presents itself to be, then Nader had every right in the world to run for President; he had an obligation to do so, one could say. And to all those who said that he was ‘stealing’ votes from Gore, I say: Do people not have their own minds and their own intentions? People can vote for whoever the hell they want to vote for, and if they choose Person A over Person B, you can’t fault Person A simply because he’s in the race to begin with. If anything, you should fault Person B for not putting up a more attractive argument.
I’m rambling. I tend to do that when I write or talk about something that not a lot of other people agree with. The truth is, all of the Americans I have met, both in Japan and Cambodia, have been good, decent, likeable people. Jon Stewart was dead wrong on The Daily Show when he recently responded to Russel Crowe’s plea for more Americans to travel, to see the world, by saying: “Dude, if we traveled, people would hate us even more.”
A funny line, sure, but I don’t think it's necessarily the case. I would hate to think that that's the case, anyway. As Crowe also said, the only advertisement Americans have for America are themselves. Period. Americans have gotten a bum rap based on the actions of their warlords back home. Americans as individuals – like the Swedes I’ve met, the Finns I’ve met, the Cameroons I’ve met, the Filipinos I’ve met – have something to offer to the world. (And to me.) Something different and uniquely their own. Something we can, if we choose, even seek to emulate. The more Americans travel, the more other people around the world will see them as people, with the same faults and virtues that we all possess, the better we'll all be.
In the end, I'm not sure if Canada could produce somebody like Ralph Nader. Somebody with that much chutzpah. That much passionate, informed rebelliousness. Living abroad, you will find out how (insert nationality here) you really are; I can see Canada more clearly from a distance, its people and its form, and I wonder about the possibility of a Nader-like Canuck. Are we doomed to forever be the emotional and psychological denizens of our home and native lands? Can we sample and integrate the qualities of other nationalities that we'd like our own to wield?
Not sure.
But living abroad, I've learned, is a hell of a good way to try and find out.
Before living abroad, the only time I actually, like, spoke to Americans was when I travelled to Disney World or Myrtle Beach, and the conversations one has at age seven or fifteen are not usually ones conducive to contemplation of nationalistic similarities (or differences).
Now that I've lived abroad for a great while I've picked up the habit of studying different people from different cultures and trying to figure what they often tend to do, and why. I’m always amazed when the Americans I meet just commence to, well, announce their political beliefs, their moral beliefs, their personal beliefs, whatever, right off the bat, without even knowing my nationality, or whether I might be offended. Canadians are more cautious; we feel people out. Americans dive right in. That always jars me, every time. (I remember one American who came to my old university sitting in the teacher's lounge -- or our version of a teacher's lounge -- just ranting and raving about Bush, and what a prick he was, and he didn't know if we were Americans, or Republicans or Democrats, and I suspect he wouldn't have cared one way or the other. He was going to say what he was going to say, period.)
On a (kind of?) related note, the other day I was in an Internet café and an Asian-American girl was trying to break some change.
“What are you trying to break?” I asked.
“A Benjamin,” she said.
“I’m Canadian,” I said. “I don’t know how much that is.”
She probably heard my accent and assumed I was American. That happens all the time here. I’ll ask somebody where they are from and they’ll say ‘Chicago’ or ‘Detroit’ or ‘Los Angeles’ – not ‘the United States’. Most other foreigners tell you the country they’re from; Americans tend to name the city, or the state, assuming either: a) you’re American, or b) you’ll know the city or state, regardless.
This doesn’t bother me the way it bothers other foreigners. I've learned that every culture has its stereotypes, that a lot of the stereotypes are true, and that, most importantly of all, you really gotta cut people some slack, people.
The reality is, especially in Cambodia, Americans have a somewhat poor reputation, one that has more to do with their own individual policies than the policies of their country. Some language schools or universities won’t even hire Americans. Why? Because they do their own thing. They don’t play the game. They won’t adapt. They tend to have a fixed view of things, are stubborn as hell, and cut loose when things don't go their way. (That's what people in managerial positions here have told me, anyway.) When I started teaching at the University of Cambodia at its inception, four of the people in high management positions didn’t last longer than six months at the place; a few didn't even last three. All of them quit, and all were American.
This is not an indictment by me -- I swear. I just find Americans, well, curious; they are somewhat similar to Canadians in tone and temperament but are possessed by a confidence, an assertive poise, that Canadians simply don’t have. I can usually tell within five seconds of talking to a person over here if they’re Canadian or American, and accent has nothing to do with it; attitude does. A boldness to their personalities. The world as a whole has been so bombarded by American media that Americans themselves, as people, as individuals, have become lost in the electronic morass of their cinematic substitutes; trying to figure out who they actually are, divorced from any pre-conceived media conceptions, has been difficult, but I'm betting that 'boldness' would definitely be on my top-three-adjective-list-of-American-character-traits.
I’m thinking about all of this because I’m reading an old hardcover book I picked up in a used bookstore over here called Citizen Nader, written in 1972, chronicling the remarkable rise of that quintessentially American rabble-rouser Ralph Nader. He had barely been on the scene a decade when the book was written, and he was already a legend.
I say ‘quintessentially’ American because, to me, a Canadian, Nader possess what I sense most Americans possess – a form of boldness that us Canucks lack. Nader does his own thing. He doesn’t give a flying fuck what anybody thinks. I absolutely agreed with his presidential ambitions, and I found it disgusting that everybody was telling him to drop out of the race in order to save the nation from Bush and his cronies. If America is what it purports to be, what it presents itself to be, then Nader had every right in the world to run for President; he had an obligation to do so, one could say. And to all those who said that he was ‘stealing’ votes from Gore, I say: Do people not have their own minds and their own intentions? People can vote for whoever the hell they want to vote for, and if they choose Person A over Person B, you can’t fault Person A simply because he’s in the race to begin with. If anything, you should fault Person B for not putting up a more attractive argument.
I’m rambling. I tend to do that when I write or talk about something that not a lot of other people agree with. The truth is, all of the Americans I have met, both in Japan and Cambodia, have been good, decent, likeable people. Jon Stewart was dead wrong on The Daily Show when he recently responded to Russel Crowe’s plea for more Americans to travel, to see the world, by saying: “Dude, if we traveled, people would hate us even more.”
A funny line, sure, but I don’t think it's necessarily the case. I would hate to think that that's the case, anyway. As Crowe also said, the only advertisement Americans have for America are themselves. Period. Americans have gotten a bum rap based on the actions of their warlords back home. Americans as individuals – like the Swedes I’ve met, the Finns I’ve met, the Cameroons I’ve met, the Filipinos I’ve met – have something to offer to the world. (And to me.) Something different and uniquely their own. Something we can, if we choose, even seek to emulate. The more Americans travel, the more other people around the world will see them as people, with the same faults and virtues that we all possess, the better we'll all be.
In the end, I'm not sure if Canada could produce somebody like Ralph Nader. Somebody with that much chutzpah. That much passionate, informed rebelliousness. Living abroad, you will find out how (insert nationality here) you really are; I can see Canada more clearly from a distance, its people and its form, and I wonder about the possibility of a Nader-like Canuck. Are we doomed to forever be the emotional and psychological denizens of our home and native lands? Can we sample and integrate the qualities of other nationalities that we'd like our own to wield?
Not sure.
But living abroad, I've learned, is a hell of a good way to try and find out.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Virsna Yoeung Oudam (1982-2005)
I first met him when I first moved to Cambodia. He was one of the young Cambodian chaps working for another Canadian compatriot of mine in the Marketing department at the University of Cambodia. He was good natured, friendly, always ready with a laugh and a smile, as Cambodians often are. Sometimes, when I was about to go home from work, he would spot me and say: "Oh, Scott, where are you going? To go somewhere, to do something, with someone?" And then he would laugh. I saw him every day for about a year; sometimes he would have to interrupt one of my lessons to speak to the class about this or that school announcement, or I would see him in the library, or in the halls. He was one of the dozens, hundreds, thousands of people who formed a backdrop to my life.
He died the other day. Killed by a drunk driver. Heading home to a party at his house where everyone was waiting for him. A party he never got the chance to attend.
He was not my best friend, or even a good friend, but he was someone that I knew. Someone I had shared a goodnatured moment or two with quite often over the past year or two.
I saw him for the last time about a month ago. He had moved on to another job, as had I. He gave me his card for his new job, and we discussed the possibility of me working for the same place at some point in the near future. I shook his hand, slapped him on the back, said see ya. Phnom Penh is a small town; I would see him again.
Every so often the ordinariness of life is upended. We are jolted and reminded that our time here is short, our options few, our guarantees nil. A world that takes a young man not yet twenty-four is not a fair one, or a balanced one, but it is a real one, and it is the realness of the real world that I have not yet begun to grasp or comprehend. I hope I never do.
Harlan Ellison once wrote: "Nobody should go down into the darkness with too few words."
I fear that these meager words are far too few to give justice to a life. Hell, I know that they are. But I humbly offer them with the hope that the news of the death of this young Cambodian man in a foreign land you will never visit, just starting out in life, will remind you of all those people in your own life -- at school, at work, at the supermarket --who you talk to on a regular basis, who you pass in the halls with a smile and a nod, who ask after your children, who you know little of other than that they are kind and good and pleasant. I hope that you will consider them. I hope that you will appreciate what they give you, however small it is. It's the small things in life that cushion us and accumulate.
He died the other day. Killed by a drunk driver. Heading home to a party at his house where everyone was waiting for him. A party he never got the chance to attend.
He was not my best friend, or even a good friend, but he was someone that I knew. Someone I had shared a goodnatured moment or two with quite often over the past year or two.
I saw him for the last time about a month ago. He had moved on to another job, as had I. He gave me his card for his new job, and we discussed the possibility of me working for the same place at some point in the near future. I shook his hand, slapped him on the back, said see ya. Phnom Penh is a small town; I would see him again.
Every so often the ordinariness of life is upended. We are jolted and reminded that our time here is short, our options few, our guarantees nil. A world that takes a young man not yet twenty-four is not a fair one, or a balanced one, but it is a real one, and it is the realness of the real world that I have not yet begun to grasp or comprehend. I hope I never do.
Harlan Ellison once wrote: "Nobody should go down into the darkness with too few words."
I fear that these meager words are far too few to give justice to a life. Hell, I know that they are. But I humbly offer them with the hope that the news of the death of this young Cambodian man in a foreign land you will never visit, just starting out in life, will remind you of all those people in your own life -- at school, at work, at the supermarket --who you talk to on a regular basis, who you pass in the halls with a smile and a nod, who ask after your children, who you know little of other than that they are kind and good and pleasant. I hope that you will consider them. I hope that you will appreciate what they give you, however small it is. It's the small things in life that cushion us and accumulate.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
WHY GETTING HOOKED ON SOLVING THE JONBENET RAMSEY MURDER CASE IS REALLY, REALLY NOT A GOOD IDEA SHOULD YOU VALUE SLEEP
I think the mother did it. I honestly do. Or it could have been the brother. I believe that's a possibility, though not as likely. Either way, the father helped cover it up. But that doesn’t explain the motive: why? Why would a family kill its six year old daughter? And the ransom note left on the stairway – there was no fingerprints, no folds, no creases. Pristine. How is that possible? (But how would an intruder know to place it so carefully on the back staircase that Patsy used every morning?) And the unidentified DNA in the child’s panties – whose was it? And that palm print on the cellar door – unknown.
I’m hooked.
See, this is the thing. I could be reasonably happy alone in a room for the rest of my life, provided that I had a supply of good books. If the books happened to be true-crime stuff, I would be in heaven. Usually, this is a genre that gets a bad rap, and deservedly so; exploitive, lurid junk, most of it is. It is a genre, however, that has also given us Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD and Norman Mailer’s THE EXECUTIONER’S SONG – two books that are about as good as books can get.
Mailer’s researcher on THE EXECTUIONER’S SONG, Laurence Schiller, wrote PERFECT MURDER, PERFECT TOWN, which I recently read, a 1999 true-fiction account of the JonBenet Ramsey case that gripped the United States back in 1996 and 1997.
You remember it. Probably vaguely. I was in university at the time, and didn’t pay much attention to all the media shenanigans surrounding it. I knew the outlines of the case, roughly: A wealthy family, a beauty-queen child, the girl killed, the parents under suspicion. Whatever.
Oh, but let me let you in on a secret. Come closer. Don’t be shy. This is no ‘whatever’ story. This is one of the most fascinating, infuriating, maddeningly unsolvable cases I’ve ever encountered. I read the 600 page book in two days flat. Couldn’t get enough. No movie could make this up. No case could be more tragic.
In brief: Jon Benet Ramsey and her family went to a Christmas party on December 25th, 1996. They came home, went to bed. The next morning, the police received a phone call: a kidnapping had taken place. They arrived at the home of wealthy Boulder socialites John and Patsy Ramsey. A ransom note had been found by Patsy Ramsey on the back staircase, asking for $118 000 for the safe return of their daughter. The note stated that the kidnappers would call later that morning. They never did. Sometime in the early afternoon, the father, John, searches the house once again. He finds the body of his dead daughter in a wine cellar in the basement. She is wrapped in one of her favorite blankets. A noose is around her neck. A garrote has been fashioned around her neck.
And that’s just the beginning.
What makes this case so fascinating is the physical evidence, and the human evidence, and all the things that should add up but don’t. The fact that the ransom note was the ‘war and peace’ of ransom notes, as the police put it, when most ransom notes are short and to-the-point. The fact that the amount of money asked for in the ransom note is $118 000, which just happens to be the amount of John Ramsey’s Christmas bonus. The fact that the note was written using a Sharpie pen and a pad of paper that were already in the house. The fact that a Bible was found open in the Ramsey’s bedroom to psalm 118, which talks about giving a sacrifice unto God. The fact that the house was so large and so winding that there was no way anyone unfamiliar with the house could have located the wine cellar where the body was found. The fact that a neighbour heard a scream in the night, but the parents didn’t. The fact that the parents said that their son, Burke, was not awakened until after the police had arrived and the body had been found, and yet, on an aural enhancement of the original 911 call placed by the mother, in the distant background, you can hear the son’s voice asking: “What do I do now?” The father, John: “We’re not talking to you.” The son: “What DID you find?” The fact that, despite the ransom note stating that if anyone was notified about JonBenet’s disappearance their daughter would be killed, the family instantly phoned not only the police but their priest and closest friends and invited them over to the house. The fact that, only thirty-five minutes after finding the body of his dead daughter, John Ramsey phoned his private pilot to try and arrange for his family to fly out of state that evening. The fact that some experts declared the sexual abuse evident from examination of the vagina determined that JonBenet had been the long-term victim of abuse, while others stated it had happened for the first time the night of the killing. The fact that a flashlight was found on the kitchen counter that could have been used to knock her unconscious. The fact that it was proven that Patsy Ramsey purchased material from a hardware store the month before that was the same exact price as the rope and duct tape used in the killing. The fact that the role of duct tape was not found at the house. The fact that fabric from the outfit Patsy Ramsey wore the night of the party was found on the duct tape plastered across the daughter’s mouth. The fact that it was proved the duct tape was placed on the girl’s mouth after she was already dead. The fact that she was found wrapped in her favorite blanket and near her Barbie outfit, indicating that the killer wanted her to feel comforted. The fact that the ransom note uses phrases like “and hence”, the same exact phrase that the Ramsey’s themselves used in a thank-you message to their church the following Christmas. The fact that handwriting experts could not exclude the mother from writing the ransom note. The fact that a linguistic expert, after examining various samples of the mother’s writing, determined that she wrote the ransom note. The fact that two experienced investigators, viewing the same evidence, came to opposite conclusions: one determined an intruder had killed the girl; another determined it was the parents.
And all of that is just the beginning.
I’m losing sleep, I’m telling you.
See, I’m the deluded type of guy that actually thinks: I can figure all this out. I can crack the case, given enough time. In high school, I became obsessed with the Kennedy assassination, reading every book ever written on the subject that I could find, culminating in my Grade 13 History Independent Study that was supposed to be eight pages and ended up being thirty. (I haven’t figured that one out yet, not completely, but I have my theory, more or less, and I’m sticking to it.)
Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor? It’s the rule stating that, all things being equal, the simpler explanation for an unexplained event is usually the correct one.
When a child is murdered in the home, it is usually the parents who do it. That’s a fact. All of the circumstantial evidence in this case, and the parents’ behavior, indicates that one or both of them were in on it. (The evidence for an intruder, I think, is quite scant.)
So, bearing that in mind, my two cents:
As one interesting article I read recently on the Internet postulated: If you stop thinking of it as a ‘murder’, and instead think of it as an ‘accidental death’, then things become clearer.
I think either the mother or the brother accidentally killed JonBenet.
If it was the mother: The little girl had a history of wetting her bed, and still wanted to be wiped by others after using the bathroom. Perhaps the mother got angry, wiping too hard, resulting in the vaginal tears that the autopsy found. They later determined that the type of head injury she had was consistent with a fall on a bathtub or the floor. So the mother accidentally kills the daughter, panics, awakens her husband, and the two decide to make it look like a murder to save their own skin. (This could account for why the husband and wife acted completely distant from each other the morning of the murder, never once seeking to console the other.)
Or, if you believe the other experts who insist that the girl had been sexually abused for quite some time…
If it was the brother: The brother sometimes slept in the bed with JonBenet. The fact that the parents did not tell the police that the brother was awake and aware when they made the initial phone call indicates that they did not want to implicate the brother in any way. The anger in the father’s voice audible in the aural enhancement of the phone call – “we’re not talking to you” – indicates he was pissed at the son. Perhaps the parents found out that night that the brother had been molesting JonBenet. (A photo from the crime scene shows a dictionary open to the ‘I’ section, and the page folded so that it points towards the word ‘incest’.) The angry mother takes JonBenet into the bathroom, accidentally whacks her, kills her, and the scenario plays itself out again.
This case, I’m telling you…
It’s not an open and shut case, by any means, and I’ve left out a bunch of evidence, a ton of evidence. It’s almost ten years later, and nobody’s been charged. If you’re at all intrigued by what I’ve written (and if you’re still awake by this point in the post), I recommend the book PERFECT MURDER, PERFECT TOWN. It draws you into these people’s lives, their community, their loss. It’s a fair and multifaceted and balanced look at a heartbreaking, tragic story, as the saying goes, and I can’t pretend to have it all figured out.
But I’m working on it.
I’m hooked.
See, this is the thing. I could be reasonably happy alone in a room for the rest of my life, provided that I had a supply of good books. If the books happened to be true-crime stuff, I would be in heaven. Usually, this is a genre that gets a bad rap, and deservedly so; exploitive, lurid junk, most of it is. It is a genre, however, that has also given us Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD and Norman Mailer’s THE EXECUTIONER’S SONG – two books that are about as good as books can get.
Mailer’s researcher on THE EXECTUIONER’S SONG, Laurence Schiller, wrote PERFECT MURDER, PERFECT TOWN, which I recently read, a 1999 true-fiction account of the JonBenet Ramsey case that gripped the United States back in 1996 and 1997.
You remember it. Probably vaguely. I was in university at the time, and didn’t pay much attention to all the media shenanigans surrounding it. I knew the outlines of the case, roughly: A wealthy family, a beauty-queen child, the girl killed, the parents under suspicion. Whatever.
Oh, but let me let you in on a secret. Come closer. Don’t be shy. This is no ‘whatever’ story. This is one of the most fascinating, infuriating, maddeningly unsolvable cases I’ve ever encountered. I read the 600 page book in two days flat. Couldn’t get enough. No movie could make this up. No case could be more tragic.
In brief: Jon Benet Ramsey and her family went to a Christmas party on December 25th, 1996. They came home, went to bed. The next morning, the police received a phone call: a kidnapping had taken place. They arrived at the home of wealthy Boulder socialites John and Patsy Ramsey. A ransom note had been found by Patsy Ramsey on the back staircase, asking for $118 000 for the safe return of their daughter. The note stated that the kidnappers would call later that morning. They never did. Sometime in the early afternoon, the father, John, searches the house once again. He finds the body of his dead daughter in a wine cellar in the basement. She is wrapped in one of her favorite blankets. A noose is around her neck. A garrote has been fashioned around her neck.
And that’s just the beginning.
What makes this case so fascinating is the physical evidence, and the human evidence, and all the things that should add up but don’t. The fact that the ransom note was the ‘war and peace’ of ransom notes, as the police put it, when most ransom notes are short and to-the-point. The fact that the amount of money asked for in the ransom note is $118 000, which just happens to be the amount of John Ramsey’s Christmas bonus. The fact that the note was written using a Sharpie pen and a pad of paper that were already in the house. The fact that a Bible was found open in the Ramsey’s bedroom to psalm 118, which talks about giving a sacrifice unto God. The fact that the house was so large and so winding that there was no way anyone unfamiliar with the house could have located the wine cellar where the body was found. The fact that a neighbour heard a scream in the night, but the parents didn’t. The fact that the parents said that their son, Burke, was not awakened until after the police had arrived and the body had been found, and yet, on an aural enhancement of the original 911 call placed by the mother, in the distant background, you can hear the son’s voice asking: “What do I do now?” The father, John: “We’re not talking to you.” The son: “What DID you find?” The fact that, despite the ransom note stating that if anyone was notified about JonBenet’s disappearance their daughter would be killed, the family instantly phoned not only the police but their priest and closest friends and invited them over to the house. The fact that, only thirty-five minutes after finding the body of his dead daughter, John Ramsey phoned his private pilot to try and arrange for his family to fly out of state that evening. The fact that some experts declared the sexual abuse evident from examination of the vagina determined that JonBenet had been the long-term victim of abuse, while others stated it had happened for the first time the night of the killing. The fact that a flashlight was found on the kitchen counter that could have been used to knock her unconscious. The fact that it was proven that Patsy Ramsey purchased material from a hardware store the month before that was the same exact price as the rope and duct tape used in the killing. The fact that the role of duct tape was not found at the house. The fact that fabric from the outfit Patsy Ramsey wore the night of the party was found on the duct tape plastered across the daughter’s mouth. The fact that it was proved the duct tape was placed on the girl’s mouth after she was already dead. The fact that she was found wrapped in her favorite blanket and near her Barbie outfit, indicating that the killer wanted her to feel comforted. The fact that the ransom note uses phrases like “and hence”, the same exact phrase that the Ramsey’s themselves used in a thank-you message to their church the following Christmas. The fact that handwriting experts could not exclude the mother from writing the ransom note. The fact that a linguistic expert, after examining various samples of the mother’s writing, determined that she wrote the ransom note. The fact that two experienced investigators, viewing the same evidence, came to opposite conclusions: one determined an intruder had killed the girl; another determined it was the parents.
And all of that is just the beginning.
I’m losing sleep, I’m telling you.
See, I’m the deluded type of guy that actually thinks: I can figure all this out. I can crack the case, given enough time. In high school, I became obsessed with the Kennedy assassination, reading every book ever written on the subject that I could find, culminating in my Grade 13 History Independent Study that was supposed to be eight pages and ended up being thirty. (I haven’t figured that one out yet, not completely, but I have my theory, more or less, and I’m sticking to it.)
Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor? It’s the rule stating that, all things being equal, the simpler explanation for an unexplained event is usually the correct one.
When a child is murdered in the home, it is usually the parents who do it. That’s a fact. All of the circumstantial evidence in this case, and the parents’ behavior, indicates that one or both of them were in on it. (The evidence for an intruder, I think, is quite scant.)
So, bearing that in mind, my two cents:
As one interesting article I read recently on the Internet postulated: If you stop thinking of it as a ‘murder’, and instead think of it as an ‘accidental death’, then things become clearer.
I think either the mother or the brother accidentally killed JonBenet.
If it was the mother: The little girl had a history of wetting her bed, and still wanted to be wiped by others after using the bathroom. Perhaps the mother got angry, wiping too hard, resulting in the vaginal tears that the autopsy found. They later determined that the type of head injury she had was consistent with a fall on a bathtub or the floor. So the mother accidentally kills the daughter, panics, awakens her husband, and the two decide to make it look like a murder to save their own skin. (This could account for why the husband and wife acted completely distant from each other the morning of the murder, never once seeking to console the other.)
Or, if you believe the other experts who insist that the girl had been sexually abused for quite some time…
If it was the brother: The brother sometimes slept in the bed with JonBenet. The fact that the parents did not tell the police that the brother was awake and aware when they made the initial phone call indicates that they did not want to implicate the brother in any way. The anger in the father’s voice audible in the aural enhancement of the phone call – “we’re not talking to you” – indicates he was pissed at the son. Perhaps the parents found out that night that the brother had been molesting JonBenet. (A photo from the crime scene shows a dictionary open to the ‘I’ section, and the page folded so that it points towards the word ‘incest’.) The angry mother takes JonBenet into the bathroom, accidentally whacks her, kills her, and the scenario plays itself out again.
This case, I’m telling you…
It’s not an open and shut case, by any means, and I’ve left out a bunch of evidence, a ton of evidence. It’s almost ten years later, and nobody’s been charged. If you’re at all intrigued by what I’ve written (and if you’re still awake by this point in the post), I recommend the book PERFECT MURDER, PERFECT TOWN. It draws you into these people’s lives, their community, their loss. It’s a fair and multifaceted and balanced look at a heartbreaking, tragic story, as the saying goes, and I can’t pretend to have it all figured out.
But I’m working on it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)