PLEASE GO VOTE

Dear Spike's Friends:

I was there, in the fall of 2005, standing in the shadow of the tapered golden dome of the Imam Ali Mosque in Najaf, as Iraqis braved shootings, bombings, and even beheadings to vote in that nation's first constitutional referendum. On that day, 10 Iraqi poll workers were kidnapped, dozens of others were killed or injured, and six U.S. service members lost their lives.

What's stopping you, today, from voting?

Love,
Spike's dad

I AM THANKFUL

LOOK! Spike has a new Thanksgiving week poll. Just glance to the right and pick your poison.


Dear Spike:

I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.

I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.

Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.

When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.

Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.

Especially now that you’re here.

On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.

I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.

I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.

I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.

I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.

I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.

I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.

None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.

Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.

And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.

May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.

Love,
dad

HISTORIC AND HOLY

Dear Spike:

I usually vote in the mornings. Your mother usually votes in the afternoons. And often when she comes home she shakes her head and mutters something about how I once again made such an indelible impression on the little old bitties who volunteer at the polls.

“They just loooove you there,” she says, “I sign my name on the register and they just squeal. ‘Oooooh!’ they say. ‘We had another person by that name in here this morning. Was that your husband?’”

She thinks I flirt with the blue hairs. Maybe she’s right. I have been known to wink at the occasional octogenarian.

But do you know why I think they remember me? Really? Because I smile.

Ear to ear.

Every time.

I believe that voting is a sacred ritual. Like Holy Communion, the Hajj and the Seventh-Inning Stretch of a close ball game. And while it’s not popular to say such things these days, I believe that democracy is a gift from God.

Of course, I’m pretty sure communism was a gift from God also. And the the Black Plague. And Cheetos.

Sometimes God hits the mark. Sometimes She misses.

I’m not sure what She was thinking on Oct. 15, 2005, when Iraq’s citizens went to the polls to choose a new constitution. For the most part, Iraqis vote the way they’re told to by their tribal and religious leaders. So in truth, what I witnessed in Iraq on that day was little more than a religious census.

Still, it felt special. And historic. And holy.

I was just outside of the city of Najaf — close enough to see the tapered golden dome and two soaring minarets of the Imam Ali Shrine rising up into the polluted haze above the city. At a rundown village schoolhouse on the city’s west side, I walked along with a proud poll worker (a local teacher, I don’t think they have a League of Women Voters there) as he proudly showed off the box of ballots, the purple ink with which volunteers marked voters’ index fingers — and one brand new, baby blue, perforated cardboard privacy screen.

At that moment, a tall man with a scar on his face walked in, signed his name on a clipboard, picked up a ballot and walked toward the cardboard booth.

“Come around here so you can watch him vote,” the polling worker instructed through an interpreter as he followed behind the would-be voter.

I paused, frozen between what my journalistic sensibilities told be was a really nifty opportunity to watch history unfold and what my western democratic civilities tell me is a clear violation of a very hallowed privacy.

“Come, come,” the polling worker said as he watched from over the voter’s shoulder. “You’ll miss seeing who he chooses!”

Ultimately, I couldn’t bring myself to watch the guy cast his vote. And I tried — albeit unsuccessfully — to explain why to the poll worker. Voting is, after all, a sacred ritual, if only just to me.

Winston Churchill once quipped that democracy is worst form of government, “except for all the others.”

I’m not completely convinced that’s true. Nonetheless, it has been years since I missed an opportunity to vote.

I hope you’ll make a similar effort to be part of your government, if only in the small way of making it to the polls, each election day, with a smile on your face.

Ear to ear.

Every time.

Love,
dad

A MORAL IMPERATIVE

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.
— Rev. Martin Niemöller

Dear Spike:

I first remember reading Rev. Niemöller’s enduring words on a small laminated poster stuck to a bulletin board in a high school classroom.

I didn’t really know what a socialist was — let alone a trade unionist. But like most American kids with a public school education, I knew what had happened when “they came for the Jews.” And from that context I immediately understood the depth and profundity of Niemöller’s poem — even if I didn’t understand its relevance in a remedial freshman English class.

Indeed, the horrid enormity of that which Niemöller originally spoke has always made it difficult for me to put his words into any sort of modern context — lest of all for our lives in this amazingly blessed nation.

But I’ve been thinking a lot, today, about Niemöller’s poem. And though it may amount to literary and historical blasphemy, I’ve begun to rewrite it in my mind.

Something along these lines...

First they told me that tens of millions of Americans were unable to go to the doctor — and I did not speak out; I had insurance.
Then they told me that millions upon millions of children were uninsured — and I did not speak out; I had no children.
Then they raised my wife’s insurance premium — threefold — and I did not speak out; we simply switched to my insurance.
And then, today, they priced me out of my insurance. . .
And it seems there is no one left to speak out for me, my wife, or my beautiful baby girl.

Niemöller’s poem, I think, was not really about the Jews. It was about the trade unionists and the socialists (and, in other versions, about communists and social democrats and Catholics.) It was about setting the table for larger evils with smaller ones that go unnoticed because they effect the few, the poor and the unempowered.

I’ve long been a believer that basic, universal healthcare is nothing less than a moral imperative for our nation — and particularly for our nation’s children and its senior citizens. But in 29 years on this planet, there has not been a single moment when I have not been insured myself. And so I did not speak out. Not as tens of millions of Americans used the emergency room as their primary care physician. Not as millions of children and seniors went without basic medical care. And not as some lamented the rising costs of workplace premiums – or the absurd costs of open-market insurance for those whose employers wouldn’t or couldn’t pay.

Now, facing an enormous increase in our family’s healthcare costs, I have no reason to wonder why no one spoke out sooner. I know very well why.

You cannot bear every cross or stick your finger in every leaking dam. But do not fail to do so for lack of a clear and present danger. And do not fail to do so for lack of empathy.

You will not always know which dam will break or which cross will fall. You will not always know whether small evils will grow into larger ones.

But every small evil is evil. And if you do not speak out, who will?

Love,
dad

TO PONY UP

Dear Spike:

My friend Steve sent us a photo of his daughter, Emma, riding a horse. It was her first lesson, but she looked perfectly poised — as though she’s been riding forever.

It seems Emma had gotten it into her mind that she would like to learn to ride and told her parents so. Steve must have panicked a little, because while he’s the kind of dad who encourages his kids to try new things, horse-riding lessons are pretty expensive.

And so he made her a deal: They’d split the cost.

Instead of asking for presents for her eighth birthday, Emma let everyone know that she wanted to take a few riding lessons. When all was said and done, she had collected about $200 — which, along with her parent’s matching contribution, will pay for about 15 lessons. Steve couldn’t have been prouder. In addition to getting to watch his little girl ride, he knows that she’s invested in this activity and values her practice time all the more.

In this world, we live a life of relative luxury. We do not want for food or clothing. We have a wonderful home and two running vehicles. We attend sporting events and movies. We have season passes to the zoo and aviary. We eat out once a week (and sometimes more than that.) Occasionally, we even get to the opera or take in a play at the Eccles Theater.

So when the time comes that you decide that you want to take up horseback riding, or dirtbike racing or ski jumping, you might not at first understand if I am hesitant to agree.

As much as I want you to have a wide variety of experiences and a vast array of exciting activities, I want you also to learn the value of a hard day’s play. And I’m not so sure that, when things are simply given to us, we really appreciate them all that much.

I remember in high school there was a boy named Daniel whose parents gave him, for his 16th birthday, a new Ford Mustang.

At 16 years and one day old, he crashed it.

And so they got him a new one.

And he crashed that one, too.

You will never want for food or clothing (the kind designed to keep you warm and modest, not the kind designed to impress people with fancy labels.) You will never want for an education. You will never want for medicine. And you will never want for our love.

But when you’re ready to pony up, you may just have to pony up. If you want it bad enough, I figure, you’ll find a way to make it happen.

Love,
dad

SOFT BLUE HAZE

Dear Spike:

As I write this, you’re sleeping in my arms — a very real and rare privilege for me over the past few days.

You spend a lot of time at rest, but per your doctor’s orders, it is mostly in a “home bili light” that has been set up on your mother’s dresser. It’s a funny contraption: a baby blue suitcase, about two feet long, that opens like a tanning bed — with two long blue florescent bulbs running down the center. At night, it sets our bedroom in a soft blue haze.

When you’re not sleeping in the box, which is supposed to help with your jaundice, you are usually at your mother’s breast. You’ve been so hungry in the past few days and that is a wonderful sign that you are growing increasingly healthy and strong.

Alas, that has left little time for me and you to simply be together, and so I’ve spent many hours at the side of your box, peeking in (sometimes with sunglasses) at your tiny bare body.

Even is such a surreal setting, you are so beautiful. I marvel at your tiny features, your soft hair and your every delicate breath.

And I pine for when holding you is no longer such a rare treat.

Love,
dad