PRAYERS: Shock and Amazement   BLOG

 You need to know I have always wondered about religion. Keep in mind, the number of “nones” is increasing making up about 20% of the population. They are the people who, on surveys, answer “none” to the religion question. Some take such as evidence of atheism or agnosticism, but that is not a necessary conclusion. Obviously, one can be religious and not believe in God or, conversely, believe in God but not be religious. But, certainly, the large percentage of “nones” confirms the finding that institutional religion is slowly contracting.

The issue is on my mind because of Rosh Hashannah, a grand holiday which traces back to 5 thousand and something. Not too shabby for a people battered by other religionists and sometimes close to extinction. The Jewish people, as do Christianity and Islam religion, pray to a king. The king is a male divinity with a multitude of names, IE, Lord, Master, Creator of the universe, but they all are manifestations of a being in charge of everything. The prayers are effusive, worshiping, adoring all reminding the king of how much his people love him.

Children are born into a den of giants; the child had better learn that from the git-go or there will be disaster. They learn that good things emanate from the giants and have little comprehension about why that's so. For the most part they gradually learn that the giants are benign, but living with giants is chancy. Every now and then the giants seem mean and uncaring so watch out. There is a psychological adage: Identify with the aggressor.” Simply put, it means if you can't beat them, join them. Thus, kids become more or less civilized. Still, what does this to have with God?

Keep in mind that we live in a universe that until very recently was quite misunderstood. Why did the sun rise? A God, on his chariot, arranged that. Why did the seas become unruly? Yup, a God. How does love arise? A God shoots you with an arrow. You get the picture, until recently the explanations made no sense except, and this is important, except that they provided an aura sanity to an otherwise chaotic universe. As long as the universe has meaning, its vicissitudes are okay. As a last resort, we are told that “God works in mysterious ways.” Why do the good die young? “It's part of God's plan.” Get it? As long as there is order in the universe, all is well.

Well, we humans are doing better than that. We gradually make sense of the universe and find explanations in reality. Love, for example, depends on the presence of some chemical in our body. I forget its name, but much research is aimed at understanding the details; we don't need Eros to explain the phenomenon. Religion is based on free-will, but neuroscience cannot find it in the brain. We do know that the brain makes decisions which take time to become translated into action. The old line, “Man proposes, God disposes,” no longer fits: we are part of a deterministic universe.

Alas, the ancient tradition of worshiping the king no longer has legs. As a people, when we get the message, some of the old forms will disappear. Humanistic Judaism ignores the whole issue. Human beings need to solve problems and to do so they must find real explanations.

The king is dying, long live mankind.

CASTRATION AT AN EARLY AGE     5-5-08  BLOG

BY

Bertram Rothschild

You must understand that at age seven or so I had heroes. In those ancient days, the radio was the fountain of all pleasure . . . well, most pleasure . . . and after dinner, we gathered to listen to Mandrake the Magician, Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow and others. Turning on the radio produced a bonanza of thrills and delights.

But, for me the Lone Ranger was the epitome of my burgeoning manhood.

How could it be otherwise? One, he had been cruelly wronged . . . what child can’t identify with that? Two, he was supreme in his abilities, routinely shooting the gun out of villains’ hands, riding faster than anyone and never losing a fight. Fathers were OK, but what boy wouldn’t rather be like the Lone Ranger or at least share some reflected glory? Three, his morality was impeccable. He never did anything evil or sinful and always rescued the weak and helpless. Unlike every other cowboy hero, he had an Indian sidekick, Tonto. Who can ever forget, when starting on a trip of derring-do, the ringing “High You Silver.” and Tonto muttering, “Gettem up, Scout.” And, who can forget the music, the William Tell Overture. Us smart kids knew that.

The Lone Ranger sold Silvercup bread, the best in the land. And by my dictate, no other entered the house. The few times it was sold out, my mother had to buy an inferior brand and it truly disgruntled me. Feh!

In those days, the radio shows provided some gadget to increase sales. Mandrake the Magician always ended with a series of bells that told about his next adventure. But, you needed the Decoder Ring. Of course, my mother had to provide the box tops. How could I be left out? Never. And, then one day, the miraculous happened. The Lone Ranger offered a real, simulated pistol for $2.00 and a large number of Silvercup seals. Of course, I demanded she buy all the necessary loaves at once, but for once my ability to manipulate her failed. I forget how long it took to accumulate the requisite number; as I recall it was pretty close to an eternity. Yet, finally, I had enough of them. The $2.00 I had accumulated from my .10 cent a week allowance so the next eternity was spent waiting for the postman to deliver my genuine, simulated gun. Like everything else, such eternities come to an end. My moaning and groaning ended when that wonderful day arrived bringing a package from the Silver Cup Bread Co.

At age seven, I surely knew how to rip open any package and I wasted no time . . . and what I found was like a stab in the gut, a heart stoppage, an almost loss of life.

They had sent a wooden silhouette of a pistol with decals on one side only simulating the pistol grip, the cylindrical cartridge holder and the barrel. I knew I had been cheated; it was not a genuine simulation, it was junk!

I struggled for many days to try to understand how the Lone Ranger could have pulled such a trick on me. At that age I didn’t get it, but I did know he was a cheat, a hero with feet of clay, and ordinary (ugh) human being. By extension, my lesser heroes were diminished. They were only actors, after all. I suspect that incident started my on Diogenes quest, searching for an honest man.

Sidebar: Psychoanalytic theory would assert that receiving a fake gun was a symbolic castration. Curse you, Lone Ranger!

  

CASTRATION AT AN EARLY AGE     

BY

Bertram Rothschild

You must understand that at age seven or so I had heroes. In those ancient days, the radio was the fountain of all pleasure . . . well, most pleasure . . . and after dinner, we gathered to listen to Mandrake the Magician, Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow and others. Turning on the radio produced a bonanza of thrills and delights.

But, for me the Lone Ranger was the epitome of my burgeoning manhood.

How could it be otherwise? One, he had been cruelly wronged . . . what child can’t identify with that? Two, he was supreme in his abilities, routinely shooting the gun out of villains’ hands, riding faster than anyone and never losing a fight. Fathers were OK, but what boy wouldn’t rather be like the Lone Ranger or at least share some reflected glory? Three, his morality was impeccable. He never did anything evil or sinful and always rescued the weak and helpless. Unlike every other cowboy hero, he had an Indian sidekick, Tonto. Who can ever forget, when starting on a trip of derring-do, the ringing “High You Silver.” and Tonto muttering, “Gettem up, Scout.” And, who can forget the music, the William Tell Overture. Us smart kids knew that.

The Lone Ranger sold Silvercup bread, the best in the land. And by my dictate, no other entered the house. The few times it was sold out, my mother had to buy an inferior brand and it truly disgruntled me. Feh!

In those days, the radio shows provided some gadget to increase sales. Mandrake the Magician always ended with a series of bells that told about his next adventure. But, you needed the Decoder Ring. Of course, my mother had to provide the box tops. How could I be left out? Never. And, then one day, the miraculous happened. The Lone Ranger offered a real, simulated pistol for $2.00 and a large number of Silvercup seals. Of course, I demanded she buy all the necessary loaves at once, but for once my ability to manipulate her failed. I forget how long it took to accumulate the requisite number; as I recall it was pretty close to an eternity. Yet, finally, I had enough of them. The $2.00 I had accumulated from my .10 cent a week allowance so the next eternity was spent waiting for the postman to deliver my genuine, simulated gun. Like everything else, such eternities come to an end. My moaning and groaning ended when that wonderful day arrived bringing a package from the Silver Cup Bread Co.

At age seven, I surely knew how to rip open any package and I wasted no time . . . and what I found was like a stab in the gut, a heart stoppage, an almost loss of life.

They had sent a wooden silhouette of a pistol with decals on one side only simulating the pistol grip, the cylindrical cartridge holder and the barrel. I knew I had been cheated; it was not a genuine simulation, it was junk!

I struggled for many days to try to understand how the Lone Ranger could have pulled such a trick on me. At that age I didn’t get it, but I did know he was a cheat, a hero with feet of clay, and ordinary (ugh) human being. By extension, my lesser heroes were diminished. They were only actors, after all. I suspect that incident started my on Diogenes quest, searching for an honest man.

Sidebar: Psychoanalytic theory would assert that receiving a fake gun was a symbolic castration. Curse you, Lone Ranger!

“IF IT AIN’T BROKE . . .”

By

Bertram Rothschild, PhD

You know it, it ends with “don’t fix it” (attributed to Thomas B. Lance, 1977). Or, if you prefer, “When it is not necessary to change it is necessary not to change (Lord Falkland, 1641). The admonition is simple; do not mess with things that are working satisfactorily. Life surely would be simpler and surely be easier. What works will remain undisturbed only to be changed only when it no longer fulfills its purpose. By that criterion, we wonder about the Douglas County School Board (DCSB) messing with their school system.

The Douglass County school system has been considered perhaps the best in Colorado and apparently has national ranking. Indeed, there is some talk about comparing it with the Japanese system, expecting a favorable outcome. Clearly, the system is not “broke”; whence the thrust to transform it?

First, out-of-the-blue, and to the astonishment of all, the DSCB promulgated a voucher system. Keep in mind that voucher systems are generally designed to give support to religious schools so we might expect that sectarian groups had agitated for such indirect financial aid. Kids get vouchers good for any private school, but they provide not nearly enough money for secular, expensive schools so the bulk of the cash goes to religious schools. Such an easing of the financial burden gratifies parents who want their children to have a Catholic or Protestant or Jewish or Muslim education. Odd, why would the DCSB prefer that? Especially since, I say, especially since because there is no credible evidence that voucher schools provide a better education.

Lately, the DCSB have decided to get rid of the teacher’s union and are free to do so. Its members campaigned on that promise and now they are living up to their word. As part of their transformation, teacher’s salaries will be based on both performance and the difficulty of the job. There will be pay scales for different levels of class difficulty. Thus, teaching math and science are deemed more difficult than art so those teachers have a better pay scale. Some districts include bonuses for teaching in difficult schools and for student outcome; whether DCSB will include such I do not know. However, I do know there is no consistent evidence that pay-for-performance systems provide better outcomes. There was one system in which, after establishing a pay-for-performance system, the teachers lost their zeal for teaching and you can imagine who suffered as of consequence.

The DCSB has launched itself on an unpredictable roller-coaster ride, with loops, twirls and drops, but with an uncertain future. They have taken a perfectly good system and, ignoring the conservative, “ain’t broke” admonition are making changes that are likely to lead to problems for their students. And, why so? Surely, they ideologically minded and worry not about the reality they face; having the Truth does not require evidence. And, and as an anonymous source explained to me, they anticipate gaining political creds for future advancement.

 All this is done in the name of the children. Alas, the changes will get rid of good teachers and the Douglass County schools will produce fewer well-educated children.

BROOKLYN: A Reminiscence

8-27-12

I started out as a baby boy in The Bronx. For reasons unknown to me, my parents moved me to Brighton Beach where when six or seven I was hit by a car and consequently acquired a compound fractured left leg and heel. Perhaps because I was not to be trusted in such violent streets, they moved me to Ocean Parkway, a four-lane road running from Prospect Park to Brighton Beach and which had, running its length, a bridle path where horses and their fantasy cowboys would trot by.

We lived on the first floor of a four story walk-up, window facing Ocean Parkway. Even though approaching maturity, I understood that once our building had been fancy, with a statue, now battered and disfigured in the patchy, weedy plot of grass in the front and fancy sconces in the lobby. The building surrounded a small courtyard, which I quickly learned was part of a short cut to Church Avenue. That storied street did not cross Ocean Parkway but went underneath so as not to disrupt traffic. I took a ride or two just to get the thrill of it.

My bedroom faced the back courtyard. It was a noisy place, the resident's garbage dump where all refuse wound up in trashcans waiting for the weekly pick-up. There was always a steady stream of people trudging to the cans and, it must have been written in heaven, that making noise in the process was part of a grand plan.

Kids took the short cut and, on the way with much gusto discussed their lives and plans for the next few moments. Usually, they involved a trip to Drooley's, our nickname for the local candy shop which sold ice cream, sodas, ice cream sodas, malteds, shakes, coffee, sandwiches and even had a for rent lending library. My mother regularly sent me there for any book and for cigarettes. My contribution to culture there was a chocolate shake made with orange ices. (I learned about sorbet much later in life.) Delicious in spite of the fools who sneered at my creation, I drank it up as nectar.

Weekends produced venders shouting their services. There was the Red Devil shoemaker, the “I buy old clothes,” man, the knife sharpener and the key maker. I vaguely remember someone selling haircuts, but I am not sure. Naturally, the most important skill was the ability to reach all floors to be sure they made contact with all possible buyers of their services. Considering the volume of noise they created, surely they were successful. Almost always, someone would shout from a window. “Shoemaker, come to 4 B you fix the shoes nice?” Or, “Hey, old man, I got a few shirts, you interested?” There was little sleeping in on Saturday or Sunday morning.

When my sister married and moved out, I moved in to her bedroom, facing Ocean Parkway. It was noisy beyond belief, because there were always kids runningscreamingfightingcrying and mamas yelling and soothing, sometimes both at the same time. Because it was a major street, the traffic was immense with many people going to Brighton Beach or Coney Island. We used to hitch rides to the beach but that brings up other adventures. Fire engines and police cars zipped back and forth hoping to prevent disasters and, of course, there were the obligatory car crashes.

Naively, I assumed that at night there would be pleasant silence, but traffic on that street never stopped. Did the police and fire department have special nighttime cars and engines, which made louder sounds? I do not like to think so, but it surely seemed so.

My childhood in Brooklyn was not like but actually living in cacophony. This truth had consequences when I married and moved to Syracuse. First, we lived with my parents but that is another story. In Syracuse, I discovered silence. It was so quiet that I could hear potential miscreants creeping up to me and Marilyn bodily harm. Every sound I heard was proof of that. No, I forget the damned crickets, may they roast in hell for all eternity. There were no traffic sounds, no kids shouting, no vendors, no trashcans, but there were the crickets and they made a persistent, grinding sound. Grinding, I mean grinding into consciousness all night long.

Well, now I could not survive in Brooklyn but woe betide any cricket I can find.

In Brooklyn, the sounds were persistent

And to them I became quite resistant

The noise and the strife

Were the sounds of city life

But, if you take it, I'll lower the rent.