For anyone trying to write about Afghanistan, the war in that ornery, cantankerous and choleric nation is one of the fastest-moving targets around.
Writing about it, like fighting it, is like playing dodge-ball with a fruit fly. Like shooting minnows in the sea. Like pitting Wile E. Coyote against the road runner -- and we all know which character the U.S. military plays in that cartoon.
Anyone who thinks the Afghan people will ever just sit down and play nice with Uncle Sam would make a perfect buyer for oceanfront property in Arizona.
If they could get a mortgage.
But I digress. No wonder the White House is entertaining so many potential strategies and can't seem to pick out one good one just yet. Obama is now rightfully taking his time, weighing each option, and asking for more ideas on how to proceed.
In my humble opinion, any strategy other than withdrawal is doomed to fail. Withdrawal will also fail in its own way, of course; once we pull out, the country will revert to its natural state -- a rugged land full of fierce fighters who will train their sights away from the Yankee invaders and back onto their own people.
So why should we throw more human bodies in the form of American soldiers at an effort that cannot succeed no matter how many years and devalued dollars we invest?
Common sense plus history -- especially the comical Great Game waged between Russia and Britain there in the 19th century -- will tell us to pack up our toys and leave Afghanistan now. Russian attempts to control the country in the 1980s also led to nothing but widows and the eventual collapse of the Soviet empire. And we need only look at British efforts to tell Americans what to do 250 years ago to know that no people want foreign troops on their soil.
And I would argue that Afghani "minutemen" are a lot tougher and more numerous than our home-grown version back then.
My brief experience in Central Asia -- where I spent five months on a US-taxpayer-funded media project in the comparatively mild-mannered Kazakhstan -- tells me that what we call corruption in America is simply the cost of doing business there. And that these nations' leaders long ago learned how to tell us what we want to hear. They know just how naive Americans can be.
So, are the endless battles and skirmishes and firefights and downed helicopters in Afghanistan helping in any way? Rumor has it that we went into Afghanistan to prevent Al Qaeda from inflicting another September 11th on America. But rumor also has it that Al Qaeda has prudently moved to Pakistan and, if 9/11 or recent events are any example, most terrorist plots can just as easily be hatched in European cities or on U.S. military bases in Texas anyway. In fact, our presence in Afghanistan is only making matters worse, especially by helping to destabilize nuclear-bomb-owning Pakistan and to recruit young Muslims who have nothing better to do. And there are lots of young Muslims with nothing better to do. In the meantime, we've already pumped $144 billion dollars into Afghanistan. Apparently, that works out to a million bucks per soldier per year. And we don't save money when one of them gets killed -- we just replace him or her with a new one.
It will be no cakewalk to pull out of Afghanistan and I, like many people, fear for those locals who aided our misguided efforts, and for the women who will surely suffer if the repressive Taliban return.
Similar arguments were used to keep us in Vietnam long after it was clear to most Americans that victory there was impossible. If the U.S. military had continued to believe an end was in sight, we would still be bombing rice paddies and dropping napalm on the jungle, if there were any rice paddies or jungles left.
(Maybe we should bring back the draft. That would almost guarantee an imminent withdrawal from Afghanistan and its sister war in Iraq. Once enough American boys and girls were sent over to fight -- and not just the poor and needy -- the whole thing would be over lickety-split.)
We should never have gone on this fool's errand in the first place, and should have let the Afghans work out their internal problems themselves. But that is another story, another president, and the mistake that led to all others.
In the meantime, again, we're quibbling over how much modest proposals for health care reform might cost or how much we might have to spend to fix our mediocre educational system or to clean up our inner cities or help put Americans back to work.
America is falling apart while our bright red blood and crisp greenbacks paint and litter the barren Afghan hills.
A writer for Britain's Guardian recently compared the endless war in Afghanistan with the darkly funny movie Groundhog Day, in which Bill Murray's character must repeat the same day again and again. It is only through being forced to reexamine his life and priorities that he manages to break that vicious cycle.
Would that America do the same. Our clock, too, is ticking.
When life hands you chilies, it's time to make con carne.
The contrast between New York City and Santa Fe could not have been greater -- one, a man-made mountain range of glass and metal with human wildlife scrambling up and down its slippery slopes all day long; the other, a cluster of adobe-built dwellings tucked between the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and a rust-red desert that stretches for hundreds of miles north, west and south, where an unbroken horizon and brilliant sunsets always hint at another beautiful day tomorrow.
When I finally fled Manhattan and landed in New Mexico, I had no money, no job, no car, no furniture, no friends, no prospects. But at least I no longer had to struggle with the urban tussle and tangle around which I had skirted and stumbled for three long and impossible years.
First things first, I found an apartment in a complex on the edge of town and a middle school nearby for my ever-patient, ever-game 12-year old daughter, Jennifer. Then I found a job waiting tables at a fancy restaurant beneath the aspens and ponderosa pines about a mile up Canyon Road.
I would at least, if I learned how to get plates of poblanos and lamb chops to the tables on time, be able to pay the rent.
Full-time, respectable jobs are about as scarce in Santa Fe as skyscrapers but I knew I could not and would not be a waitress the rest of my life, so I decided to turn my still-nascent writing skills, those plied mostly by writing low-level cable news shows in New York, into print.
I nervously walked into the newsroom of The New Mexican, Santa Fe's city rag, was directed to see the editor of Pasatiempo, the paper's weekly entertainment supplement, and immediately assigned to profile a local artist, whose name escapes me at the moment and will likely never come back.
I would go on to write hundreds of artist profiles for the newspaper, sometimes two or three a week, over the next three years.
I soon figured out why it was so easy to get a freelance gig with Pasatiempo -- with the paper paying just 40 bucks an article, writers weren't knocking down their Water Street door. But it was a little gold mine for me and, over time, I figured out how to pump out those articles, from beginning to end, in about an hour and a half, so I could pat myself on the back for making 25 bucks an hour.
And despite the speed, if I do say so myself, those little profiles did do those artists and their work a fair amount of justice. As time went on, I started writing lengthier and better-paid articles for regional magazines.
When I started that Pasatiempo gig in October 1987, I had no computer of my own, not unusual at the time, which meant creating and writing on one of the clunky MS-DOS IBMs the paper kindly and by necessity set aside for freelancers. The letters were beige on a greenish-black background and stories were saved on floppy disks -- there was no hard drive -- but I was just glad not to have to write them all out by hand.
One day, Denise Kusel, that editor, asked me if I'd like to become the paper's classical music critic. Knowing next to nothing about classical music, I immediately said yes.
For the same 40 bucks per article, I attended concerts around town -- using free tickets from the orchestras, ensembles, choruses, opera companies and schamber groups -- and passed judgment on the quality of their performance.
It didn't take long for some of my readers to read between the lines and figure out I had no credentials, no background, no knowledge to draw from, and, really, no clue. In short, they called the editor and denounced me as a fraud.
Yes! It's true! I cried, hands held up to the sky, seeing no benefit in denying the obvious truth and prolonging my own and the readers' agony.
But not kicking me to the curb, the editor asked me to write weekly previews of the classical music events instead. I would still get free tickets but now provide just history, context and promotion for local musicians and composers, helping to usher locals and tourists into the concert halls and keep the Santa Fe cultural machine humming and happy. The outraged calls to the editor ceased, I kept learning and writing about classical music and I held onto my 40 dollar-per article freelance gig.
Soon, I realized that some of the music being made and performed in Santa Fe, especially the Santa Fe Opera, where new operas were premiered every summer season, might be of interest to a national audience.
Having been a cub reporter years earlier for WBUR-FM, a National Public Radio station in Boston, I contacted NPR's Washington office and discovered a producer I had known in Boston was producing Performance Today, a two-hour morning show about music, mostly classical.
I dusted off my radio production skills and started reporting from Santa Fe, gradually segueing onto Morning Edition and other general news shows, and adding more subject areas, especially Native American culture and southwest
art.
I didn't just write about the Southwest, I gradually became a part of the Southwest -- wearing cowgirl boots and a Stetson, shooting bottles from the sky, wielding a chainsaw, staying on a horse, dancing the two-step and eating jalapeños without shedding a tear.
More on those wild, crazy and so very delightful days coming up. Stay tuned!
Note:
Kachina painting by Dan Namingha, a Hopi artist I admire and had the honor to profile for several magazines, though for more than 40 bucks a pop.
When meeting a new person, the conversation would sometimes go like this:
Them: So, do you have any kids?
Me: Yes, I have a daughter.
Them: How old is she?
Me: 3, 6, 15, 19, 26 (whatever age she was at the time).
Them: What? Were you five when you had her?
Me: Yes, didn't you see my story in The National Enquirer?
Them: (nervous laugh) Well, you must've been pretty young. Me: 18 actually. Them: (slight cough) Well, I've gotta move on now. Nice meeting you.
The issue of teenage mothers hit the news again recently with a 15-year old giving birth in Britain and a 13-year old claiming to be the father. And of course, there's Bristol Palin whose very public teenage pregnancy made her a laughing stock or object of pity in many circles. Frankly, I would rather not see teenage mothers be mocked or bemoaned; things do not always work out as horrifically as many pundits and other experts often expect. I loved being a mother from the very beginning, and have never for one minute regretted having Jennifer exactly when I had her. But I had to fight through years of negative prognoses to stay positive about it. The prevailing social attitude is that we teenage mothers should be ashamed of ourselves, and that our children are doomed. So I did, despite my best efforts, struggle with feeling ashamed even though, on a deeper level, I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of, even if many people felt I had ruined my life.
But because I believe that bringing a child into this world is always a blessing, regardless of the circumstances, I became defiant over the years, preparing myself for the withering glances and other revealing gestures that let me know my interlocutor had suddenly lost respect.
At the same time, I am tremendously grateful for all of those who did not look down on me, did not make me feel ashamed, and who, in fact, embraced Jennifer and me as a solid and reasonably happy little family unit. Our life was not always easy but I do believe life rarely is, even when people follow the rules. There are always challenges.
I know women who were teenage mothers and who are raising wonderful, well-balanced children. I also know women who waited until the right time -- when they were well-educated and established in their careers -- who are having a terrible time raising their children. I also know women who got pregnant as teenagers, had abortions, and tried desperately for the rest of their fertile years to have children and to no avail.
At the same time, I do believe women should have a choice when they find themselves pregnant -- and it can be an agonizing decision, no matter which way one goes.
Raising Jennifer while attending college kept me out of the dorms and endless parties and helped me focus on my studies in a way I probably wouldn't have. And she helped me keep my priorities straight -- I did make sacrifices in my career in order to make myself available for her.
True, I may have become more "successful" if I had followed the usual and expected route for the child of well-educated, middle-class parents, but I chose early motherhood instead. Like any mother, I did some things well and others not that well. I made plenty of mistakes and there is much I would do differently. But I would have had these issues regardless of my age when she was born.
There is no pat formula for parenthood. And don't get me wrong -- I am certainly not advocating teenage motherhood, as it does create hurdles that would otherwise not be there. But I do believe the hysteria that accompanies news of a teenage birth is often overblown.
I can't judge how this teenage mother in Britain will do -- yes, there may be some rough years -- nor can I judge how Bristol Palin will be as a mother. But I would rather give them my respect than my condemnation or even pity and, as with anything in life, wish them the best.
A short while ago, I took up drinking dark spirits. Whiskey, that is. Aquae vitae. Eau de vie. The water of life.
Not because of the economy or marital problems or any deep malaise, but just because. Because I recently rediscovered a bottle of single malt whiskey my husband bought me a while back -- a bottle I thought he and his musician friends had polished off long ago.
And because I've started watching reruns of the series Mad Men, where the pre-Kennedy Madison Avenue characters drink hard liquor in just about every scene -- in the office, restaurants and at home. No event, big or small, goes by without the pouring of spirits onto a glass full of ice. They're smoking in every scene, too, but I have to draw the line somewhere.
And because, according to Slate magazine, President Obama has brought cocktails back into the White House. Writer John Dickerson reminds us that drinking liquor in moderation "promotes relaxation and laughter" and, among politicians, can "shave off a few layers of posturing." That could be helpful in the months to come.
But whereas there are absolutely no benefits to cigarettes, whiskey has been a proven elixir since distilled spirits were discovered in the Middle East in the eighth century. Six hundred year later, French professor Arnald de Villanova claimed spirits could “prolong life, clear away ill humors, revive the heart, and maintain youth.” And as we all know, depriving early-20th century Americans of their booze only led to crime, unhappiness and even death, when people turned to tainted moonshine.
In recent years, scientists have turned modern research methods to proving what people have observed for centuries. Each shot of whiskey contains a whole slew of antioxidants, according to Dr. Jim Swan, an expert in all things whisky (as spelled in Canada and Scotland), who also argues that these anti-cancer properties may be more powerful than those found in red wine, the current favorite libation for all those seeking eternal life.
Does it seem like I'm trying to get you drunk? That I'm trying to get you to put down that glass of chardonnay or pale ale and start hitting the bottle instead? I know, I know. Taking up whiskey right now seems so very retro, so very black-and-white movie. But whereas wine has always made me whoozy and beer makes me dumb, one little glass of whiskey can keep me bright, cheerful and charming the whole night long.
So give it to me straight, honey. Hold the ice. Neat, very neat.
Disclaimer: The author receives no royalties from the whiskey industry. Nor any other industry for that matter.
Not long ago, I attended the funeral of a relative. He died in 1686. As I sat outside that tiny old Virginia church, under a tent in the pouring rain, the eulogy -- the same one said at his first funeral there 323 years ago -- made me realize that my ancestor had had his faults. Plenty of 'em. Where I had expected a bunch of boasting to pump up the proud bereaved, this eulogy minced few words.
The Honorable Joseph Bridger had been a political bigwig and owner of all that the eye can see in southeastern Virginia. A few hundred of my fellow descendants had come in from across the country to pay respects to a man they never knew, who had long been little more than the name at the top of a family tree.
Bridger had been dug up a few months earlier by anthropologists curious about the health and well-being of America's first colonialists for an upcoming exhibit at The Smithsonian Institution. After the scientists had picked over his remains, this re-funeral -- with many mourners again dressed in black -- was to help usher him back into the grave.
It turned out that while Bridger had deftly helped manage the affairs of Virginia for King Charles II, he was also "a man of strong emotions and given to angry outbursts." I was delighted to hear it. He could be a generous man but, as I would learn later, he also led wars against the Indians, owned slaves, sued his own father-in-law over land rights, disinherited his son for siding with his enemies, and finally fled into exile.
Instead of the portrait of an illustrious family member who could do no wrong, who made the rest of us feel unworthy to carry his genes, we got a glimpse of the living, breathing man, who had lived fully and made plenty of mistakes. And it was through knowing his humanity, rather than by blood, that I suddenly felt directly related to this Joseph Bridger and all of those mostly unknown relatives around me.
Which made me think -- briefly -- about my own eulogy. I assume I'm far from the grave right now but if and when I should one day need words said over my casket, I would ask my family to put not just my virtues out there but also my warts. There would be nothing I could do about them by then anyway and for the sake of truth and honesty, I would want to be remembered as a woman who lived fully but made her own share of blunders along the way. May you rest in peace, Granddaddy Bridger.
For anyone trying to write about Afghanistan, the war in that ornery, cantankerous and choleric nation is one of the fastest-moving targets around.
Common sense plus history -- especially the comical Great Game waged between Russia and Britain there in the 19th century -- will tell us to pack up our toys and leave Afghanistan now.
A writer for Britain's Guardian recently compared the endless war in Afghanistan with the darkly funny movie Groundhog Day, in which Bill Murray's character must repeat the same day again and again. It is only through being forced to reexamine his life and priorities that he manages to break that vicious cycle. 
