Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts

Saturday, March 01, 2008

An open letter to Barack Obama

Dear Senator Obama-

I would like to congratulate you on your strong showing in the Democratic primaries thus far. Your charismatic and positive campaign has energized the country, awakened an apathetic sleeping giant and elevated the democratic process within the national consciousness. It’s heartening to see interest in this country’s political future overshadowing our obsession with celebrity culture. Well, maybe the two are merging a bit, but motivations aside, I credit you—what with your obvious intelligence, amazing gift for communication and that winning smile—for creating a whole new generation of political activism. Bravo…and I mean that sincerely.


The use of this photo to discredit Obama is reprehensible. His response has been underwhelming.

I should tell you that I did vote for you and while you did not win my state (California), you did garner a sizeable share of the state’s delegates, and should you win the nomination, you can count on my vote—and hopefully a Democratic majority from California—in the general election.

Something, however, has been bothering me and I’m hoping you can do something about it. It has to do with all the BS and misinformation that’s been going around about you. I believe it was the great American fictional mob character Tony Soprano who uttered the phrase “fucking internet” upon learning that his children had found out he was not in “waste management” as they had come to believe, but a criminal.

I imagine that you had a “fucking internet” moment of your own—in a reverse way—when all this crap about you began to circulate on the net. Who could blame you—they’re all lies orchestrated to misrepresent you as something you’re not…and that sucks. What sucks even more is that some people really do believe it, which is why you—wisely—have systematically denied and corrected these rumors.

The one thing that has really bummed me out is that in your denial of being a Muslim, you have not taken the opportunity to point out that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a Muslim. That, in fact, there are millions of Muslims around the world who themselves denounce the fundamentalist factions that give Islam a bad name. I mean, I was raised Catholic (though I’m out of practice, so-to-speak) and I have as much to do with Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh (also Catholic) as most Muslims have to do with Al-Qaeda.

The fact is that the Muslims are good people—at least as good as Jews and Catholics and Mormons and atheists and Protestants and Baptists and the good folks from your Church of Christ—who want nothing more than to live good lives and exercise the right to express their faith as they see fit.

I’ve noticed that you talk about change quite a bit. I agree that this country needs it badly. Here is an opportunity to walk the walk, sir. An opportunity to show that you are accepting and open minded and accommodating—unlike, say, the current administration. An opportunity to show that you are willing to do what’s right, despite political risk. An opportunity to defuse the prejudice and persecution Muslims have been increasingly subjected to since that fateful day in September 2001.

Please, Senator Obama, take this opportunity to lead by example and help start the healing.

Sincerely,

Don P
San Jose, CA

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Heartbreak Sweet Heartbreak


When I think of the word heartbreak, it generally conjures up memories of getting dumped, images of a Cinderella basketball team losing by a point to the heavy favorite, or songs by Tom Petty and Elvis. Check that, Elvis first, then Tom Petty.

And while I wouldn't be as dramatic as to say my heart has been broken lately, it's definitely been rattled a couple times. And in a most unusual way.

Just over a year ago my co-worker and friend Bill Corliss was killed in a bike/car accident near his home in Utah. It was very difficult for all of us at work and, yes, truly heartbreaking to comprehend, especially when considering the unfathomable loss suffered by Bill's family, particularly his wife Deb and his newly adopted 12-year-old son Jordan.

A couple weeks ago Bill's brother Greg, who lives locally, called and told me his parents and Jordan would be spending spring break in Santa Cruz. He wondered if I might be able to give them a tour of our facilities so they could see the place Bill was always raving about. There was no hesitation in granting their request.

After introductions and pleasantries, I took the family around the building and showed them what we do and how we do it with an emphasis on the many projects Bill had a hand in. During the tour I was reminded of how utterly cool the people I work with are--everyone I introduced them to dropped whatever they were working on and gave our guests their complete attention and accommodation.

One of our designers took them to the shape shop, the House of the Holy of our company, where outside eyes rarely gaze and even inside eyes are very limited. From there it was all the way through R&D and sports marketing and graphics and to the test lab.

It was there, the test lab, where we intentionally break things that the first shot to my heart struck.

Bill's dad was in deep conversation with our lab technician about impact standards--one that illustrated the shared DNA of Bill and his dad--when I engaged Jordan in a side conversation as he gazed up at a poster of a mountain biker catching huge air.

ME: "Insane photo huh?"

JORDAN: "It's totally cool. I have a lot of freeride DVDs at home with stuff like that."

ME: "Sweet! A lot of those riders wear our helmets. Who's your favorite rider?"

JORDAN: "My favorite rider?" Pause. His voice between matter-of-fact and cheery. "My dad is my favorite rider."

According to government standards a bicycle helmet must limit the impact to less than 300 Gs in our lab tests in order to pass. I'm pretty sure my heart registered well above 10,000 Gs at that moment. How I did not cry, I cannot explain. The only thing I can figure is that Jordan projected some of his immense emotional strength upon me. For even now, it brings a tear to my eye to recall that conversation.
- - -
By the time the family left the building we had loaded them up with t-shirts and stickers and posters and as many choc skis as we could find. After some prodding, Jordan admitted that he'd had his eye on a couple of mountain bike helmets, which I offered to send him.

Last week, I got this thank you card from him:

That was the second shot.

And just for the record, you can break my heart with sweetness any time.