No One Would Tell - a film by Noel Nosseck - reviewed by Sara Mileski

                                                    
    
                      Sara Mileski is President of Kappa Omicron Nu, the national honor society
                                                    for  Child and Family Studies at Syracuse University.

      No One Would Tell exposes partner violence in the teenage population. Stacy is caught in Bobby's web of control and abuse and only a tragic event can detach her from him. Teen partner violence can be underrated yet its implications are just as terrifying as domestic violence at later ages. The causes of Stacy and Bobby's abusive relationship arise from their role models and the environment of the teenage world. The outcomes of Bobby's power over Stacy develop over time expanding from the trivial into major societal issues. Connections between this fictional relationship and real teenage partner violence emphasizes why this phenomenon exists and what it means for society as a whole.
     Society must examine a teenager's ideas about violence. Bobby's abusive actions can be defined as intimate partner terrorism because he physically assaulted Stacy. (Hattery and Smith 65). Stacy however, chose to see his abuse as love. She often blamed herself for the beatings, explaining that she was being "stupid". Teenagers tend to believe that abuse is a "demonstration of caring behaviors" and is thus "justified". (Herrman 164) They believe that the provoked abuser has good reason to hurt their partner. Teens have less experience with romantic relationships - they see abusive behaviors as "normal", reasoning that their partner's actions are typical of for example, jealousy. (Largio 952-953) Teenage views of abuse may also be learned by witnessing other romantic relationships.
     Family circumstances may shape a child's definition of abuse - first a victim then perhaps a batterer. Stacy's father abandoned her. The mother then went through numerous relationships with men who were emotionally and verbally abusive. She was Stacy's only role model for romantic relationships. This may have increased her chance of being a victim because she was learning to stick with an abusive partner. Bobby's father also abandoned him. Before he left Bobby witnessed the father drunkenly beating his mother. Bobby then became a batterer. According to the Intergenerational Transmission of Violence Theory he taught his son to batter his partner and Bobby learned the lesson. (Hattery and Smith 194)
     Teenagers deal with peer pressure in their competitive environment daily. Romantic relationships add on to the stress of high school students. If they are abusive it may immediately affect the victim. Stacy's grades started dropping and friendships weakened - Bobby controlled her every move. He created rules she had to follow - otherwise she would end up bruised. Unable to see her friends or leave her home at night she began to lose herself. Stacy demonstrated "traumatic bonding" - she gradually lost her identity, made no decisions of her own and became more attached to Bobby. (Largio 952) 
     The small scale struggles soon become greater problems for victims of  partner abuse. The psychological and mental health issues associated with teenage partner violence are just as severe as for adults in abusive relationships. Worse, for both the teenage victim and the batterer a pattern of domestic violence may continue throughout their lives. (Largio 973; Herrman 167) Bobby battered his first girlfriend and continued the abuse with Stacy. The audience does not discover the impact the abuse had on Stacy - until it witnesses its' tragic sum, her death.
     The film aims to demonstrate that keeping domestic violence a secret can lead to tragedy. Domestic violence is considered a private matter and hidden from others. (Hattery and Smith 35) This is the main reason why those who knew of the abuse did not come forward - and they did not wish to become involved. Bobby was able to abuse two girls and maybe more without punishment because his community allowed it. If someone had stepped in Stacy may have lived. But our society might not have been able to help her very much. Devon Largio explains that it is hard for teen victims of partner violence to receive legal protection because some courts do not recognize domestic violence and teen partner violence as being the same. (Largio 972) It is highly unlikely that Bobby would have been prosecuted for the prior abuse. The film overlooks this but advises that telling is the right thing to do - it is our responsibility to help those being abused. Bobby might not have been prosecuted but their relationship could have ended before her death.
     Society should encourage people to speak up about abuse. Stacy was obviously in need of help as are many other teens. Teenage partner violence has unique complications in resolving these relationships because high school traps victims and perpetrators together. Though there are flaws in the legal system for helping these teenagers justice can still prevail if people try. Society should be able to protect victims from their abusers - awareness of the problem is the first step in getting help to those in need.

Works Cited

Hattery, Angela; Smith, Earl. The Social Dynamics of Family Violence Boulder, CO: Westview, 2012.
Herrman, Judith W. "There's a Fine Line . . . " Pediatric Nursing 35.3 (2009) 164-170. Proquest. Web. 2 Mar 2014.
Largio, Devon M. "Refining the Meaning and Application of 'Dating Relationship' "
                            "Language in Domestic Violence Statutes" Vanderbilt Law Review 60.3 (2007) 939-981. 
                            Proquest. Web. 2 Mar 2014.
No One Would Tell - a film; Dir. Noel Nosseck. Perf. Candace Cameron Bure, Fred Savage, Michelle Philips. NBC, 1996.
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Blue Mountain manuscript - excerpt

   

                                           
                                                          Prospect House - 1880s
                                                                           photo by Stoddard                             
    The one hundred yard channel that connected Eagle and Blue Mountain Lakes had been dredged by W.W. Durant for his steam boats. It was arrow straight with the banks secured by granite blocks that dropped eight to ten feet beneath the water. Along the shore stretched a profusion of white birch and aspen trees casting leafy images onto the channel. None of the dozen passengers spoke as the steamboat, The Oneonta moved slowly through the strait. Murometz and Dean sat on the stern bench stoically viewing the emerging lake scene. There appearance was consistent with individuals who might have been dragged along the Adirondack forest floor. They emitted powerful odors of bogs, campfire smoke and rotting wool. In unison they turned their heads to watch a grey hawk struggling to stay airborne carrying in its talons a diminutive raccoon with a still twitching tail.
     As the Oneonta entered Blue Mountain Lake it eased off to starboard and increased speed. The captain intended to pass between two rowing boats crewed by fancy vacationers. The steamboat's wake set both small boats gently rocking and their occupants clutched the gunnel's. In the nearest boat a young woman in a wide brimmed hat waved and the young man tipped his skimmer. A long, pretty lady Murometz thought to himself. The steamer responded with a medley of whistle toots and everyone laughed - except Ox who neither smiled nor even blinked.
     A wind mill and three of the turrets rising above Prospect House loomed off in the distance. The massive building was situated on a granite peninsula jutting out into the lake. It was "T" shaped with the top of the "T" including two promenade decks facing the lake. The supporting leg, equally long moved away from the lake terminating among auxiliary buildings. Murometz counted five stories and threw in an extra story of height created by the turrets. He had heard one of the passengers mention that it contained 300 rooms. The Oneonta steamed the length of Prospect House and then turned sharply to starboard, slowed and gently nudged against the Hotel's pier. Lines were secured and passengers stepped off - the two guides last. The five story wind mill flanking the pier was pumping water to the hotel  - its' blades blurring as they responded to a freshening breeze off the lake.
     They walked toward the Hotel passing a wire enclosure that contained four grazing deer. Prospect House seemed to bustle with guests, staff and guides mixing, chattering and then the occasional chortle. As they hiked up a flight of stairs two dogs, a black Lab with a scar on his head and a yellowish German Shepard raced down past them. The  latter  animal stopped for an instant - stared  intently at Alex - then resumed the scramble down. On the veranda they followed signs bearing the word "Staff".  Alex heard Dean mutter something about "god damn hotel guides". "What's up Ox?"
     "Too many guides around - most don't know shit - they just hang around getting drunk waiting for the Hotel to send them off with paying fools. Then they'll lead them hither and yon, watch 'em shoot anything and hook trash fish."
     While the guests or "rusticators" as Ox occasionally referred to them, appeared neatly dressed the guides were a class apart. Most wore their solitary outfit - heavy wool shirt, thick trousers held up by suspenders, perhaps a belt, one with a rope or bib overalls. Some added a crumpled hat or an abandoned jacket to the outfit. A few wore old army issue or laced up boots. But most footwear was nondescript and included moccasins. Their faces  were inevitably masked by thick mustaches or  like Ox, a full beard. Alex had a full face of stubble.
     "Who are Murray's fools?"
     "Where did you hear that?" Ox paused a moment contorting his face into an agonized grimace. "A few years back - the early 70s - What a fuckin mess - a preacher in Boston told everyone that if they were sick, the place to go cure was the Adirondacks. He even wrote about it - he claimed there weren't nothing that couldn't be cured by a refreshin, revitalizing stay in the mountains. Then for years it seemed like every coach arriving at a lodge was filled with coughing, gagging, bleeding,
puking dudes. Every bed, cot and rug contained someone sick, dying or fuckin dead."
     "Anyone get better?"
     "Hell no. The survivors mostly picked up their umbrellas and went hacking back to the city. A bunch of them  wandered off into the woods, curled up on some nice moss to die." Ox looked thoughtful. "I hear there is a still a doctor over near Saranac Lake who is trying to cure people with mountain air, herbs and such. Personally I think it's a pile of bear shit."
    They stopped on the lower promenade and scanned the dark blue lake and sunlit hills beyond. Adirondack weather at its' best. "Ox, how long you been a guide?"
     "Almost - well on and off for maybe twenty years. Summer months are pretty good - but the god damn spring - bugs! Drive deer nuts! Winters I starve."
     "Are we going to make any money at this?"
     "Trust me Mister Murometz! A dollar a day - not bad. Of course you won't get that - you don't know shit - you just learning." Ox got thoughtful again.  "Things have gotten better with the Hotel here - it brings us fatter clientele. Five years ago each guide had to take out at least two or more sportsmen - some real cheap bastards. Now at the Hotel many sportsmen expect their own guide - and we expects a 'graatooiittyy'!"
     Alex turned back to the lake - the afternoon sun was now glaring off an almost black surface. Shadows were filling the distant valleys. One month ago he had stood down there by the lake's edge - where the deer now graze. He had heard of Prospect House but at that moment in time not a single board, nail or stone had remained of the great Hotel. Almost a century earlier, in 1915 it had been razed. A week later Alexander drown in Racquette Lake.

Lindell, Michael Gustav - DFC

                                              

                                                 Bell UH-1A Iroquois
                               

                                                    Vietnam  1966
                                            
     The application my grandson Kevin was required to complete for the Navy ROTC program asked for the names of family members that had served in the armed forces. Kevin called me to consult. I immediately thought of my father John who had been an Air Raid Warden during World War II. But no, a polite, Swedish immigrant equipped with a white helmet and gas mask - walking around a Utica neighborhood looking for streaks of light escaping from darkened homes that might attract Nazi bombers was probably not what the Navy sought. But the Navy would appreciate the name of my brother Michael's son, Brian. We are all exceedingly proud of the family's first commissioned Marine Corp officer. Kevin also has a cousin "Haarld" who served in the Swedish Army and is now a Stockholm Metro Police investigator. The Navy probably cares not, but I presented the name. Kevin's Uncle Roger was a rugged Marine Corp infantryman in peace time in the Mediterranean. Space constraints prohibit me from elaborating on his exploits. Last and absolutely least his grandfather - I was in the Naval Reserve for eight years.
     Then there is Michael - he volunteered to join the Army in 1962. After training to be a helicopter pilot the Army sent him to Germany. There he was assigned to General Custer's old outfit, the Seventh Cavalry. In the Autumn of 1965 he received his orders for Vietnam. The night before Chief Warrant Officer Lindell shipped out to Southeast Asia we went out on the town. My sister Mary, Mike and I partied among the bars lining 1st Ave in New York's lower east side. Every aspect of Michael that night was shiny, starched, creased and brazen. A stranger approaching us on the sidewalk might be greeted with "straighten up dude!"
     In Vietnam Mike was assigned to the 68th Aviation Company and went to war. A fellow pilot would later describe him as "the coolest of the cool". In February 1966, he was engaged in a military operation for which he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. The citation for that action reads:
     For heroism while participating in aerial flight: Chief Warrant Officer Lindell distinguished himself while serving as pilot on a cargo helicopter on 11 February 1966 in the vicinity of Tan Tru, Republic of Vietnam. As part of a flight of 10 helicopters, Chief Warrant Officer Lindell flew reinforcements to elements of a Vietnamese division which had been landed by river barge and were pinned down by intense hostile fire. The flight delivered four lifts of reinforcements into a landing zone in the midst of Viet Cong positions. Chief Warrant Officer Lindell's aircraft bore the brunt of a savage Viet Cong attack launched at point blank range. The aircraft was hit on three lifts by small arms, automatic weapons and mortar fire, inflicting thirty-two holes in the aircraft and rendering it unsafe for flight. Undaunted, Chief Warrant Officer Lindell volunteered to fly another aircraft, and for the fourth time, flew into the fierce hostile area. With visibility restricted by dusk and the smoke of battle, Chief Warrant Officer Lindell hovered around the landing zone through a barrage of tracers to pick up wounded friendly soldiers. His heroic actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit and the United States Army.
     Michael returned to the United States from Vietnam at the end of his tour physically whole but holding his coffee cup with both hands. He would immediately continue his education receiving a BS in Business Administration from Virginia Tech. Mike loved flying and flew helicopters on heavy construction projects, then as Medevac to Virginia hospitals and for the National Guard. In 1990, he was recalled by the Army to serve in Operation Desert Shield. Michael returned from the Middle East to deal with service related injuries. Career change - He entered a Nursing Program at Radford University, received another BS degree and went into Nursing Home administration. He finished his career as an administrative troubleshooter - Mike would be brought in to manage and fix "broken" institutions. Now retired Michael and Maria, his beautiful wife of 50 years live in Virginia.
     Thanks Chief.

The "Trading" Gene

                                 

                                    The "Potemkin"" Steps - Odessa, Ukraine

 

                                                          
                                           Hazrali Street - Teheran, Iran

     The "Y" chromosome identifies Lindells as descendants of the Haplogroup N that migrated out of Africa tens of thousands of years ago. The group spread to Central Asia and then casually west towards Europe. Individual markers link Lindell genes to Siberian populations  east of the Altai Mountains, in northern Russia and Scandinavia. The reindeer herding Sami people of northern Scandinavia and Russia are members of the N group. Modern family history suggests a twist - Lindells may have been immigrants to Sweden from Belgium during the reign of Gustav Adolphus (1611-1632) as he sought to "modernize" the Swedish nation.* Whatever the history - after millenniums of genes mixing, dissolving and then reemerging the Lindell genome is pathetically short of "trading" genes. In the course of intense bargaining situations for automobiles, furniture or vegetables the phrase most utilized by Lindells is "I'll take it!" At bargaining most of us are simply lousy - "I'll take it!" is our fallback position and mantra. (There are exceptions. My brother Michael and sister Mary have sons with tremendous business talents. My youngest daughter Jennifer has also shown trading instincts.) But for me - I am in the process of selling a condominium and purchasing another - transactions with women both named Cheryl. From one Cheryl I shall receive less value than I am sure my property is worth. To the second Cheryl I shall pay more - "top dollar" - for her property. It's the Lindell way.
     The most miserable and embarrassing deal of my life took place in a six stool pub with a bartender - a very decent fellow, Sasha - in Odessa on the shores of the Black Sea. Odessa has been known for centuries as a city extremely rich with gifted business people - flourishing even under the steel fist of Soviet rule. Sasha and I were commiserating. I was responsible for a large group of college students and faculty. My program was seven weeks long - three weeks in Austria and four in the USSR. My supply of Rubles desperately needed replenishment. Sasha thought he could help - he had a need for "hard" currencies. As luck would have it I also had some surplus Austrian Shillings and Deutschmarks (this was before the "Euro") as well as US Dollars. The official Soviet exchange rate was 4 Rubles to the Dollar; a rate that Sasha and I agreed was exorbitant. So we began working on a deal - currency trading was not my forte - so I worked with pencil and paper for about thirty minutes. After a couple of stiff vodkas in salute of proletarian solidarity we concluded a deal. Memory tells me that I received 15 Rubles to the Dollar with Shillings and Deutschmarks somehow thrown into the mix. Back in my room I recalculated the deal and to my astonishment I had come up short by about $125.00.  But I now had a load of Rubles and my reaction, far from anger or remorse was amazement, "how the hell did he do that?" The following day at lunch I was providing a hushed account of my profound incompetence at exchanging currencies. My students at the table thought the tale quite funny and hopefully learned a critical lesson; "don't do as I do, do as I say."
     Our Intourist National guide was told my story. Natasha was about 35 years old, with dark hair tightly wrapped in back and over the calves black boots. She spoke English with a delicious accent. "Hello; my name Natasha. I will be with you always." She was dedicated to Soviet ideals -  mostly. Natasha read a student's copy of Dr. Zhivago, carefully hiding the forbidden book in a Soviet magazine. But that evening after dinner she took me like an outraged mother back to the bar and mercilessly  ragged  Sasha for illegal currency trading and exploiting a guest of Mother Russia. Twice he turned to me for support, "Did I exploit you?" "No, no, no" I cried. But Natasha was relentless. Defeated Sasha gave me $100.00 worth of Rubles at the official rate of 4 to 1. The victor then stormed out of the bar. Sasha and I stared at each other. "I'll have a vodka." "No" he said, "You leave now."
     The finest trade I have ever consummated occurred in the early evening hours on a street corner in Teheran. Wandering along I had become bored looking at store fronts with interminable photographs of the Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, his wife Farah, their son Reza and family portraits. There were also peddlers, a few beggars including the occasional child asking for a handout. We had been asked and warned not to give to begging children - the youngsters were being exploited by parents or relatives. I had no intention of trading on the streets or giving money to exploited children.
     I stopped on a corner to glance at a peddler's jewelry collection on a portable kiosk. He had many kinds of cuff links and a brass pair caught my eye - they were brilliant, half inch by quarter inch squares. Next to them was an identical pair in shiny steel. I immediately coveted both pair and engaged the merchant. "How much?" I did not hear his answer because a small girl, perhaps 8 or 9 years old was pulling on my arm soliciting a handout. "No little girl, absolutely nothing, run along" I said more harshly than necessary.
     "How much?" The merchant said "Thirty dollars." I replied that was too much and offered $20.00. He seemed to smirk at my good faith counter offer. Again I had to respond to a tugging on my sleeve. "No, nothing, no handouts, nothing." The girl was imploring me in Farsi I assume, but I turned my attention back to the merchant. "OK, how about $22.00?" Again he smiled and simply shook his head - no. Again the child, "I said no!" This scene continued for about ten minutes as I demonstrated excellent bargaining skills and dogged determination. Finally the merchant capitulated saying "Yes". I handed him $25.00 and took possession of the cuff links. More tugging at my arm - "OK. here!" -  and I gave her $5.00. A three way business deal had been successfully concluded - I began strolling back to my hotel. Turning a corner I saw the little girl in a store doorway, happily chattering away to an adult while bouncing up and down on one foot - firmly clutching my five dollar bill.

* Information provided by Dr. Erik Lindell from the National Geographic Genographic  online.         
 **  Articulated first by Roger Marquis.
Photo; The "Potemkin Steps" Odessa, Russia - Wikipedia.
Photo; Hazrali Street, Teheran, Iran - by Kamyar Adl.   

Damaging Birds

                                                                    

                                                      Eurasian Sparrows

                                  

                                                   Brown billed Scythebill

     The headline of the Wall Street Journal's column dealing with Catherine's work was inelegant but eye-catching; "New Scarecrows for Vineyards: Car Dealer's Inflatable 'Dancing' Tube Men." * It reported how Dr. Catherine Lindell, an ecologist at Michigan State University was selected as the principal investigator of a US Department of Agriculture multi year Specialty Crop Research Initiative - "Limiting Bird Damage in Fruit Crops." USDA allocated $2 million to academic researchers to discover sustainable strategies to limit and control bird damage in a $15 billion industry - specifically losses to blueberries, cherries, wine grapes and "Honeycrisp" apples in Michigan, New York and the Northwest. The Initiative called for integrating economic, biological and consumer information in order to "provide producers with cost effective, environmentally sustainable bird management strategies." Dr. Lindell's team includes 20 researchers from three regions - the Northeast, Great Lakes and the Pacific Northwest.
     With enormous pride and boring repetition I had informed friends, "My daughter has been awarded a grant from USDA to discover ways to prevent bird damage to fruit crops . . ." All I approached seemed pleased. But the responses I received from three male friends with strong, conservative proclivities surprised me. Each responded invoking a final solution with the same phrase; "Kill them!" Such a stark, yet truly simple idea for dealing with birds eating fruit had not occurred to me.
     I had been trained in "birding" by Dr. Lindell and worked for her many times as a "field assistant" in Costa Rica. (But perhaps you have already seen my name in a footnote or two in an avian scientific journal!) My job involved hauling poles, rebar and mist nets (and sometimes my son-in-law's GPS equipment) in total darkness, sometimes clutching a flashlight with my teeth - "Dad, watch out for snakes near the stream!" - into rainforest or abandoned coffee fields. Nets had to be erected before 5:00 AM. Then we carefully extracted birds that flew into the nets taking them to Dr. Lindell who would treat them to a physical exam, perhaps tagging and quick release. In late morning the nets, rebar and poles were collected and hauled out. Every single bird was important to Catherine - and her crew. In my hands I have held some of the most exquisite life forms on earth. To  simply touch a Brown billed Scythebill, or have fingers chewed by a Buff throated Saltator or pooped on by a Blue-crowned Manakin - these were to me great privileges and high honors. Simply killing birds would not have occurred to me.
     But it has been thought of by others and even tried. Mao Zedong and the Chinese Communists initiated the "Great Leap Forward" circa 1958 - 1962, in order to rapidly expand the industrial and agricultural production of a poverty stricken nation. To this end they implemented the "Great Sparrow Campaign" also known as the "Kill a Sparrow Campaign" and the "Four Pests Campaign." The principal objective of these campaigns was the elimination of the English Tree Sparrow that in China eats prodigious amounts of rice and other grains. Other pests to be exterminated were rats, flies and mosquitoes. Methods included village populations banging noisemakers forcing birds to fly. When exhausted from flight and coming within stick range they were killed. The use of poisons and pesticides was also widespread. The "Kill a Sparrow" program was enormously successful and ". . . resulted in the near extinction of the birds in China." ** But by April 1960, the commissars realized - too late - that sparrows also ate locust and this now flourishing population swarmed across China devouring everything in its path. Rice yields declined. The ecological catastrophe created by the Great Leap Forward was now underway. Too late the word came down from Mao - "Stop killing the birds!" The sparrow was removed from the list of four pests and replaced by the bedbug.
The policies of the GLF included massive deforestation projects, the utterly irresponsible misuse of pesticides, poisons and "backyard steel furnaces" that ultimately produced tons of unusable, worthless metal. But the GLF did create what is now regarded as the greatest famine in the nation's history. The number of Chinese who starved to death as a result of its policies range from 20 to 40 million. ***
     Early morning sun cut through the mist shrouding the coffee trees in Las Alturas, Costa Rica. The nets twelve feet high, stretched in a line between two rows of trees for about two hundred yards. From a net I had just extracted a yellowish flycatcher also known as a Scale crested Pigmy Tyrant - a beautiful little bird with an attitude. Its legs trapped between my index and middle fingers the Tyrant stared up at me - angry. It then began an attack hammering my thumb like a woodpecker. At that moment on my hand precisely behind the Tyrant's head landed a thick, black insect. The flycatcher's head blurred as it swiveled 180 degrees and scoffed up the treat - it's never a bad time to eat. With head feathers now rakishly askew it returned to punishing my thumb. Eventually it stopped and looked up.
"Had enough? Give up?"

*     Jon Kamp, Wall Street Journal Nov. 28, 2013 p.1.
**   Frank Dikotter, Mao's Great Famine. 2010. See Wikipedia; The Four Pests Campaign.
*** Summers-Smith, In Search of Sparrows 1992. Also see Dikotter.
Photos - Brown billed Scythebill, Dr. Catherine Lindell. English Sparrows, Wikipedia.

Speculation

                                   

                                                                   Miyajima Deer

     Still wearing youthful camouflage, the deer bounced from the bushes and landed in front of my car - it glanced at me and was then destroyed. My wife immediately began a slightly disjointed explanation of the dangers of crossing a street trying to sooth three young daughters who were not aware anything had happened. "That's it!" I despaired. In two weeks I was scheduled to leave for Japan on an extended tour. In addition to my distress this was clearly a disastrous omen. I expected to pay dearly for a transgression against nature in the land of Shinto and the Buddha.
     The first two weeks on Honshu were a blur - especially of shrines. But at each, hauling guilt I bowed, scrapped and donated. In Hiroshima Prefecture on the Island of Itsukushima I visited the sprawling Shinto shrine with its massive Torii Gate. The Shrine and Gate during tidal flooding appear to be afloat. Here in exchange for my donation I received a "fortune" from a priest - my colleague read it to me - it was he said the best prognostication of an individual future possible. I felt forgiven - exonerated - in life I shall indeed flourish! At the Shrine's gift shop I purchased a small metal bell - it alerts the spirits as to my whereabouts. This bell has hung near the entrance to my principal residence for the past 40+ years.
     Interest in gods and organized religions evaporated for me in 1959-60. For several months I worked in the sub-basement of the law school at New York University among the transcripts of the World War II war crimes trials - the International Military Tribunal Far East and the IMT Nuremberg. My conclusion - our species is profoundly corrupted and self destructive. But for reasons that Darwinian scholars might explain we are probably "hard wired" to believe in something beyond us - anything regardless of how quixotic or idiotic it might be. "Nothingness" beyond our consciousness is too unpleasant and perhaps impossible to accept. So if we must believe in something why not identify a set of ideas that satisfy, comfort and possibly we even enjoy. Over the millenniums millions have done precisely this and so have I.
     To oversimplify - Shinto is a belief in and study of "spirits". Every human, animal, bird, flower, tree and bush has one. Mountains, valleys, lakes and rivers possess a "spirit" as does our home, other special places, our automobile of course and cell phone. Things as common as a book,  coffee cup and rock have a spirit. All these spirits are an integral part of our existence and the best life consists of living in harmony with them and treating everything with respect.
     Looking for a pleasant venue for lunch I turned the car into the entrance of a Provincial Park in Nova Scotia. We poured out and the daughters seized a picnic table close to a stream gurgling through the park. My wife and I strolled around - on a breezy, bright day we had a Canadian park all to ourselves. In the middle of the stream we noted an abandoned tire - half its black mass rising above the turbulent waters. The tire's presence disrupted the harmony of the place. "Jennifer" I yelled at my ten year old. "I have a task for you - go get that tire!" 
     "Me? Whhhy me? Why alllllllways me? Why not Cathy or Liz?" She was an excellent youngster and despite the grousing had already started moving towards the edge of the water. "Because you are the youngest, lack seniority, and the spirits will greatly appreciate your efforts, and you have no socks on." I responded. Without another word Jennifer waded through ankle deep water and rolled the tire back to shore. We left it leaning against a trash can. A transgression against the stream and park had been corrected. Again it was a totally beautiful area.
     One of my finest automobiles was a Mercury Montego. Purchased for a fair price this second hand car flawlessly served and protected my family for three years. During a rainy, windswept night near Roscoe, New York I rammed another deer killing it and totaling my Montego. Before the wreckage was towed away I removed the eight inch "Montego" name plate. It would have been grossly disrespectful not to preserve a relic from that great machine before it reverted back to its elements. I kept that memento for over twenty years before it was lost in a change of lives.
     Shinto believers are troubled by death - it is considered "unclean" and "corruption". The Japanese will treat life's complexities with Shinto but in the presence of death prefer Buddhism. This "corruption" issue troubles me not - a Russian friend once remarked that "death is a natural process - often". I believe at death some spirits will simply dissipate into the ether, but other may congregate. On the southern edge of Kyushu in Kagoshima Prefecture there is a place where spirits are gathered - the Konoya Special Attack Corps War Dead Memorial. In the spring of 1945 the Konoya Air Base was the HGQ for the Special Attack Corps, also known as the kamikaze, the divine wind and suicide bombers. From Kanoya they assaulted the allied forces invading Okinawa. A total of 908 Navy and Army personnel ranging in age from 16 to 35 flew off into this maelstrom and perished. The Memorial consists of a tower on a small hill. At the tower's apex is perched a white dove with wings extended. When I arrived there in 1970 it was a memorial unvisited, uncared for and drenched in gloom. The walkways were littered with detritus while drooping flowers and weeds competed for space around the foundation. The dove's details were vague, an ethereal representation of a symbol of peace or a "holy" spirit. There were seven men in our group - three Japanese and five Americans - all remained absolutely silent. The only sound was strains of music drifting up to us from a nearby motel that rented rooms by the hour. Here were gathered many disconsolate conflicted spirits.

See: Wikipedia; Bill Gordon, Kamikaze Images; Photo by Oliver Bonnet.

Law and Order

               

   
     Homo sapiens are different, "exceptional" if you like. We alone have "consciousness". But as Harvard's Stephen Jay Gould noted, if "consciousness" is such an evolutionary advantage why hasn't any other species developed it? Study of the human species reveals great cleverness but a blood soaked history - a UNESCO study reported that over the past 5,000 years humans have fought 15,000 wars - three per year - killing several billion people. The technology and weapons change and the killing is perpetual. The human species is an aberration -  a self destructive branch on the evolutionary bush that should and will disappear - it was a mistake that nature will not repeat. In the mean while to function at all we require rules, laws and rigorous political authority to enforce them.
     To follow this dismal assessment of the species with a history of my criminal behavior will be to the reader a crashing disappointment. On occasion I have broken the law and freely admit to the following: three speeding tickets and three warnings received; twice suspicious officials of state power have frisked me - once a NYS Trooper and another time two heavily armed German soldiers in Frankfurt am Main International Airport. Navy Shore Patrol once removed my two inebriated friends and me from a street in old San Juan, Puerto Rico. We were driven around in the back of a jeep for a half hour and then released - near the ship. As a callow faced child I ate a Twinkie that my friend "Fred" stole from Kowalski's Grocery Store. A mortal sin - I could hardly wait to get to confession - that cake is still partially stuck in my craw. That is pretty much it - my life has been excruciatingly boring from a brigand's point of view. Clearly I have no potential to be characterized in a Cormac McCarthy or Elmore Leonard novel.
     Acutely aware of its necessity I have admired the glimpses of law enforcement witnessed through the years. Sitting by a window in a Greenwich Village restaurant I was sipping a bowl of Wonton soup. A NYPD patrol car slammed on its brakes in the middle of the street. Two officers jump from the vehicle and rush into a neighborhood bank. Twice I dipped into my soup - the officers reappeared each holding the arm of a young man - I dip again - the police drape the individual over the hood of their car - snap on handcuffs - push him into the back of the patrol car and speed away. NYPD cool - excellent hot soup.
     In the early morning darkness of a Stockholm metro station, a train slowly approaches and jerks to a halt short of the platform. A problem on board - a few people drift toward the train and stop, anticipating further developments. Within minutes a Metropolitan Police Officer jogs past me on the way to the train. She was exceptionally beautiful - curvaceous in her tight, dark uniform, long pony tail waving at me and a 9 millimeter on her hip - everything a man could desire. A tad sexist at the time I feared for her safety. But then limping along her partner arrived. With no disrespect intended he was the ugliest man I have ever seen - and huge - with disheveled hair hanging out from under his hat. The knuckles of his right hand seemed to drag on the cement far beneath his weapon. She was in no danger. My train going in the opposite direction arrived and I departed.
     The mere presence of police can of course have a potent stabilizing effect. Stepping down a staircase connecting the door of a Tupolov 134 to the runway in Volgograd I finally stood in snow. To my right in a swirling white cloud a KGB Security Officer in black fur hat, great gray coat and black boots. He was back lit by flood lights. About ten meters behind him another dark silhouette - a noncom in gray, black and a Sam Browne belt. Neither showed a weapon. But their demeanor led one to conclude that nothing untoward could possibly happen here - a silent, peaceful night.
     Costa Rica has not had an army since 1949 and the end of it's 44 day civil war. December 1st is celebrated as Military Abolition Day. The nation of 4.3 million takes pride in being one of the few nations on earth without a standing army. But Ticos are not perfect. Costa Rica has a national police, the Fuerza Publica - the Public Force - that deals with general law enforcement and counter-narcotics. It has SWAT units. Since the border clashes with Nicaragua in 2010, Fuerza Publica has reestablished a Border Police. Under the Ministry of the President, Costa Rica also has an Intelligence and Security Directorate that contains Unidad Especial de Intervencion - the Special Operations Unit. UEI trains with the special ops forces of Israel, the US and others. A guesstimate of the total employed in the nation's police function is 14,000. *
     On February 12, 2000, the US Senate voted on whether to convict or acquit President Bill Clinton of two articles of impeachment. For reasons that remain unclear, Costa Rica went to a high state of defensive readiness. I stepped out of San Jose's Grand View Hotel onto sunny Segunda Avenue around 10:00 AM. Pedestrians crowded the street, shops were busy. The Park near the Theatro National was filled with visitors, dogs and hawkers. Fuerza Publica was everywhere - perhaps every 100 yards up and down the boulevard policemen dressed for war - body armor, assault rifles, sometimes helmets, sometimes motorcycles. There were different uniforms, shoulder patches, equipment suggesting that the Agency had simply issued an "all hands on deck". President Clinton was not impeached and Costa Rica experienced no challenge to national security. But the display of teeth by FP was visually impressive - for a country with no army.
     *World Military and Police Forces; Costa Rica, May 2013. Wikipedia. Costa Rica Star, July 2nd, 2012. Special Operations.com.