Second Verse, Same As The First

The title of this post, “Second verse, same as the first,” is a line from the Herman’s Hermits song, Henry the Eighth. I’m going to continue talking about morality so this post is sort of like the last one, but not quite. I only got one “like” on yesterdays post, (thank you Rachel) so maybe morality isn’t a popular subject. If we think about morals, we start thinking about our own morals and that leads to taking a deeper look at ourselves. That, can be uncomfortable. As with all things, I try to take the uncomfortable along with the comfortable, the good with the bad, that sort of thing. It’s good to be balanced. You see so many things today, such as Facebook memes, TV, newspaper, and magazine ads about being happy. Buy this, eat that, consume this and you’ll be happy. The truth is, it’s not good for you to be happy all the time. A good balance of happy/sad, comfortable/uncomfortable, is healthier. The bad times help you appreciate the good times more. Being uncomfortable, especially with yourself, helps you grow as a person. If we don’t know we have a problem, how can we fix it?

So, back to morality. How can two people have completely different outlooks morally, on the same subject. The pacifist feels that war is completely unnecessary, the killing of others completely unacceptable. The war hawk believes that war is necessary and even good. To accomplish your goals, to get what you want, sometimes you have to kill some people. Sometimes even siblings have viewpoints that are that different. Born and raised by the same parents, under the same conditions and they still have moral outlooks that are miles apart. I’m not sure if it can be explained, and that is why the Philosophy of morals exists. To try and find answers.

My own moral viewpoint as to war is somewhere in between pacifist and not pacifist. When it comes to conflict I think all other avenues should be explored before going to war, and only going to war when it’s necessary to protect yourself and your country. Even then, war is still morally objectionable. That’s my feeling. How did I come by that? I’m not sure I know, but it’s how I feel.

One of the ways people find war/killing/mistreatment of others more acceptable is to demonize the “enemy.” Make them seem less than human. Call them savages, murderers, rapists, etc. White Americans did that to Native Americans. They did it to African American slaves. And even today, our own president does it to Mexicans and Central Americans. Gay people have been called sick and immoral, Muslims are all called terrorists. If you make your target seem “less than” it becomes easier to treat them badly. This is all part of morality. Convince yourself that some people are just evil and you can justify many things that maybe you normally wouldn’t. Morality is fluid. Our moral outlook fluctuates depending on a lot of criteria. While you wouldn’t think of taking a big stick and beating your neighbor who’s nice to you, that guy down the street who’s always playing loud music at midnight deserves a whacking. Fluid morality.

So why is morality fluid? It depends on how we feel. It depends on what we fear. One neighbor is nice to you, the other one isn’t. Does one deserve less than the other one? Or more? Why do we feel more compassion towards one than the other? We feel compassion for people who are starving because we feel they don’t deserve it. For a brutal murderer who gets life in prison we feel little compassion because after all, she killed someone. She deserves what she got. Fluid morality. Our feelings change with the situation. Is this a protection system built into our brains to protect us from what we fear? Does our moral code change with our feelings because our morality is our feelings?

These are questions I ponder. No wonder my mind is such a mess! This is the reason I write. To get all this stuff out of my head helps me think more clearly about it. I’m endlessly fascinated by the question of why people are the way they are. How they see good verses bad and why. And more importantly, how do we arrive at our moral values and what happens to change them? Fun stuff!


On The Importance Of Remembering That All People Are Important, All The Time

Recently, our president and some Republican congress people have tried to use the fact that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was a bartender and waitress, to imply that her work as a congress woman can’t be taken seriously. It’s meant to be demeaning. To say that certain people who hold certain jobs are “lesser than” others. All this has done for them is to reveal the ugly classism they partake in. They couldn’t be more wrong in my not so humble opinion and as usual, I’ll tell you why.

When you really want that after work drink, after a hard, stressful day of doing what you do, a bartender becomes an important person. When you have to use a public restroom, a janitor becomes an important person, making sure the restroom is clean. When you need someone to pet sit for your dog because you’ve been called away suddenly, the pet sitter suddenly becomes an important person. At those moments, those people become important to you. You become thankful for the jobs they do. Jobs that you may have never done. Jobs that you wouldn’t want to do. But think about this. For the two minutes it takes for a bartender or a barista to make your drink, that person is important to you. But that mixologist makes many drinks every day. That person wiping the spilled drinks off the bar is an important person to many people, not just you, throughout the day. The janitor who keeps the restrooms clean is as important to me as they are to you when we both need to use that restroom. Whether they think about it or not, all those who use a clean restroom find the janitor to be an important person.

The point is this: All people are important to many different people for many different reasons every day of their lives. This makes us all important. As soon as you leave the coffee shop with that drink you love so much, mixed by the only barista who gets it just right, that same person is now mixing another drink for another person who appreciates the work they’re doing also. That barista is an important person, all day long. When they go home at the end of their shift, they’re important to their family. They’re important to their dog or cat. They are important. To think of someone as “lesser than” because you feel that your job or position is way more important than theirs shows a complete lack of empathy and compassion and a hugely inflated ego. Try using a filthy public restroom sometime and see just how important a janitor becomes.

Realizing that all people are important, not just for you but for others as well, opens up your heart to a much more compassionate way of seeing the world. Knowing that a janitor or a former bartender or a plumber can think and feel the same as you can, even if you’re the CEO of a large company or a congressperson makes you more human. We’re all on this planet together, all trying to make our way, in our own way and we need each others help. Looking down on someone for who or what they are creates division and harm. So try to remember that when you deal with others. We are all important.

A Moment In Time

My hometown, Northfield, Minnesota, is famous for stopping the Jesse James Gang from ever robbing another bank. We celebrate “The Defeat Of Jesse James Days” every September. Another reason for fame here, but less so, is that Northfield is the home of the Malt-O-Meal cereal company. I went to work there in 1975 at the age of 18. I did a variety of jobs there but one in particular I remember with fondness. I was part of the cleanup crew. Now you might think, “clean up crew?” Doesn’t sound like much fun right? What that job did for me was to allow me to wander all over the plant cleaning up cereal spills. The plant had a vacuum system and I carried a long flexible hose into the various departments, plugged my hose into the vacuum outlets and sucked up the cereal that had spilled onto the floor. In doing this job I was able to chat with just about everyone who worked there. It was there, and at other jobs I had as a kid that allowed me to start collecting stories that I can tell now as a relatively mature adult. Relatively.Ames Mill Malt O Meal sign
The Ames Mill Malt-O-Meal plant

Puffed Wheat and Puffed Rice were the two original cold cereals that Malt-O-Meal began producing in the early Seventies. It was discovered somehow, (there are various stories as to how) that rice and wheat, when super heated and pressurized and shot out through a small hole into a cooler and lower pressure area would puff up into what people know of as “puffed wheat and rice.” This is how Malt-O-Meal made their early puffed cereal. There were four “Batch Guns” (see the picture) that sat half way into the floor. Rice or Wheat was introduced into an internal chamber in the “gun,” the cap was sealed and the gun was rotated while heated. A gauge kept track of the internal pressure and when it was ready the gun was stopped and a sledge hammer was used to hit the “trigger” which would open a small hole in the bottom of the gun. The rice or wheat would blow out of the hole, puffing the cereal grains as they fell into a hopper below. This process was repeated many times throughout a work shift and that’s how you get puffed cereal. Today of course, the process is all automated.
Batch Gun
Batch Gun

The point of my story is not to tell you about cereal or bank robbers however but about a moment in time that took place while I worked there. There were four batch guns and two operators. Both of the guys who did this job were large men who drove down from Minneapolis every day (about 50 miles one way) to swing sledge hammers all day and collect their pay. And they were both black men. The younger guy was about 25 or so, smiling and jolly and easy going. The older one was about 60ish and mostly kept to himself. As the clean up guy, I went to their floor a couple times a day and talked with them while we worked. I mention that they were black because I grew up in small town white America and had little interaction with people of color except for a couple of black students in high school. I often wonder what they thought of me.

One day as I went into the locker room at the end of my shift, the older batch gunner was getting dressed after showering. He hadn’t put on his shirt yet and I noticed two long and rather ugly scars on his abdomen and chest. It was obvious that he had been cut by something and sewed up badly. He saw that I was looking at them, looked down at himself and back up at me and said, “The knife do it’s work.” I said, “Yes sir, it sure did.” He smiled and put on his shirt. He clasped his hand on my shoulder as he left the room, giving it a little squeeze. That an elderly black man who had obviously seen some darker sides of life and a young, dumb white kid like me could share a moment of understanding was important to me and I have never told this story to anyone until now. That moment was pivotal in that it helped me learn that beneath our clothes, beneath our skin, we are all just people. Take away what we wear and what we believe and we are all the same, seeking love and understanding.

All I knew of this man, I have written here. I doubt that he ever knew what he did for me and how it has helped shape me as a human being. And he really didn’t do anything at all except show kindness which helped shape my life. I would thank him, if I could.