Muslims, Mosques and Common Moral Sense

Recently (and by recently I mean I wrote this article for the Cornell Sun in August and forgot about it because they chose not to publish it or respond to my e-mail in any way) the Anti-Defamation League joined Sarah Palin and the Tea-Party, Rush Limbaugh, and other infamous pundits and individuals who have no idea what they are talking about in reprimanding the silly Muslim Americans who are planning to build a mosque/community center in NYC. The once respected rights group used a particular line of reasoning that I have noticed to be quite popular amongst these demagogues who rally against everything America upholds. The ADL appealed not to particular rational, philosophical or ethical grounds, but claimed that the issue was “not a question of rights, but a question of what is right.” I immediately remembered Sarah’s (we're on first name basis) twitter about “common moral sense” and the various internet comments I have had the unfortunate pleasure of reading—damn my curiosity and unending quest to disabuse those who are, in my opinion, “wrong.” This is a slippery slope these individuals are treading on for a variety of reasons and an appeal to such “common sense” should not be used in any context and especially not in the case of Mosque v. New York.

The problem with saying this situation is one of "common sense" is that this protest movement—whether it be in New York or Tennessee— can in no way be rationalized with common sense. Common sense pertains to things like eating when you're hungry, holding your breath when you go underwater, and Arrested Development being the best comedy series ever produced.

This Mosque (or Community Center, take your pick) is another beast entirely. I understand that some individuals are unhappy this is being built, that people are "sensitive,” and that some question the motives of the placement of the aforementioned building. However, I think everyone who protests this building should state that they themselves feel sensitive about the Mosque instead of appealing to generalizations. In place of saying "the families who have lost loved ones during 9/11 wouldn't approve of this" these protesters should say "I feel sensitive about Muslims Americans building a place of worship near Ground Zero." The former sounds legitimate but is specious beyond reproach (read: bullshit) while the other is the actual truth.

The former statement sounds innocuous but it implies a variety of exceptionally incorrect views. By saying that this is a "common moral sense" issue, you are implying that all Mosques are associated with terrorism and that you agree having such a viewpoint is both common and understandable. I can assure you with the deepest conviction that it is not at all common or understandable to have such views. Associating mosques and the religion of Islam implicitly with 9/11 and terrorism is something that needs to be stamped out completely. Just as this country is continuing to extinguish those associations between African Americans and Latino Americans with crime and drug use, we must eradicate the associations “common moral sense” innately champions. Yes, many impoverished minorities do commit crime and abuse drugs but you must not implicitly associate the two, nor can you justify such associations with vague notions of “common sense.” That is bigotry and that is exactly what protesters like the ADL support; the continuation of this prejudiced association.

I've seen someone compare this to building a Nazi museum near every concentration camp. I fear that to some individuals who have not yet formed an opinion on this debate will be influenced by such a base appeal to emotion. First, nothing in human history has ever compared to such a horrific and deplorable event as the Holocaust and comparing anything to it would be cheapening the suffering the Third Reich caused. Second, a Mosque is not a place remembering and celebrating terrorism. If I were to use such an inappropriate simile this Mosque is akin to building a German history museum near a concentration camp instead. Germany as a country does not support Nazism and when touching on that grievous part of its history, would condemn with the most passionate ardor that such actions were inexcusable and atrocious. Neither the Mosque in question nor the leadership associated with it (contrary to rags such as the Weekly Standard report) support terrorism but denounce it just as every responsible Mosque should.

In conclusion, everyone who is against this Mosque and claims that while Muslims have a "right" to build near Ground Zero, "common moral sense" compels them not to, is a bigot. There is no use affirming that you support the rights of religion and the American people when it is so clear that you do not. In this day and age we can no longer afford to let these individuals use such a nebulous phrase as a shield to ward off any suspicions of prejudice. #justsaynotocommonsense

The Traveler

Those Steelers Tickets were the only thing that kept us together those last few months. Cheryl and I got divorced the minute we lost a gut-wrenching home game to the Jaguars during the ’08 playoffs; when we signed the divorce papers in the parking lot, I even spilled a few drops of the Yuengling I was drinking on my signature for good luck. How did I ever come to this?

After watching her drive away, I aimlessly meandered through the parking lot back to my black SUV. My drunken stupor and unrelenting frustration with myself, Cheryl, and Ben-fucking-Roethlisberger reminded me of one particular inebriated night I had during college.

I was a junior back at Penn State and playing Pong with my Pi Sig brothers. It was a cold January in 1996 and the Steelers were going to the SUPERBOWL! In the basement of our annex house, the music was cranked up and Ace of Base had the perfect beat for the rhythm of my game. I sank cup after cup during my streak at the table and the crowd that started to gather around began calling next games so frequently, we needed a sheet of paper for people to sign up.

“Cherry and Jennifer?” By then, Jason and I were nothing like the Goliaths that started the night; we barely won the last two games before the girls came onto the table.

“It’s Cheryl,” one of them replied in affirmation as she crisply cracked open a Bud and began the ceremonious preparation.

“Hey, I’ll call you whatever you want, honey, especially after I make you do a naked lap around the house.” The other girl, Jennifer, didn’t even wait for me share a misogynistic high-five with Jason before the beer drenched ball left her French-manicured hand. It brushed the thin white line before it landed dead in the center cup. I tried batting it away but all those ethanol molecules pumping through my bloodstream, interacting subtly with vital GABA neurotransmitters, guaranteed my delayed flail to be a swing and a miss.

“House rules, other team has to drink if they hit the bitch cup on the first shot,” Jason explained as he started picking up the middle cup by pinching the back rim with his thumb and index fingers. Just as he did though, another white ball flew in from across the table, kissed Jason’s hand, and apologized as it dived into the cup that still held its floundering, wet twin. For the next three seconds, the room was as silent as a Clara Bow movie; save the two girls. The next thing I can remember is the crowd.

“Naked lap! Naked lap!”

Grey sleet fell from the sky but for some reason the tiny chunks of wet slush only hit my left side until my left arm became numb and silent.

This continued until I started waking up from the sharp blasts of central Pennsylvanian air. The December wind was blowing courageously; I had forgotten to close the rear windows all the way when I passed out in my car hours ago. The desire to call Cheryl forced me to reach into my pocket, but as I stared at her name in my contacts list, I decided to save the embarrassment for another time. Instead, I started driving; unknowingly travelling towards Penn State. For the first seventy miles, I thought I was driving to clear my head, not knowing or caring where I was headed or if I would ever reach it. Soon, however, I started recognizing towns I had travelled through in the distant past. By Blairsville I knew I wasn’t aiming for Philly and once I hit Altoona, it was already too late.

I need to go back to where I met her, I rationalized to myself. If I can just trace back our time together from the beginning and… Ah screw it; when has that ever worked? Maybe it was just an excuse to get away.

I arrived at 3:54 A.M. exactly and parked near Beaver Stadium to get some sleep. At least that’s what I told myself as I shut off the engine. I stared at the dim silhouette of the stadium. The lot was so dark and it had been so long; I could have easily mistaken the home of our Nittany Lions for a slumbering giant in disguise. As my consciousness was waning, the stadium yawned and rolled over.

Suddenly, it was spring again and I was camping out in front of the stadium for a chance to win season tickets for next year. I had been living out of my Pontiac for a week and the competition was still stifling; 20 more guys and 3 girls were just as stubborn as me. Conveniently, Cheryl was one of the girls. We vaguely acknowledged each others’ existence and exchanged “good lucks” at the start of the competition but I never expected her to last.

One of the last nights of the competition, I was having a hard time sleeping in my Firebird—which was built for speed, not comfort. I decided to take a walk around the parking lot. It was a surprisingly warm night and I guess I passed by Cheryl’s maroon Civic to assess the competition.

She was curled up in the back seat covered in a plaid blanket. A few locks of her wavy burgundy hair poked out under the tartan fabric and a Dickens novel rested on the leg that was saving her last page. I stared at her for a full five minutes and then found a small, red stone and checked around to see if any contest officials were nearby. Next, I hid beneath the rear window that her head was closest to. After getting in the optimal attack position, I lobbed the rock so it hit the rear windshield on the opposite side and I waited for my cue. Wait for it, wait for it… Nothing. I squatted there for a good minute before I gave up and tried tapping on the auburn window instead. But just as I reached for the window, she started tapping it.

* * *

“Excuse me sir,” a voice called out to me from afar. “Excuse me but you can’t sleep here sir, it’s against university policy.” Sunlight was stinging my eyes as I rolled down my window. I shaded them when I tried to stare at the kid with the uni-brow.

“She cheated you know. She hid a doll in her car every night. That’s how she won.”

“Um sir, OK. That’s… Sir, if you continue to park here without a permit, I’m going to have to fine you too.” “Sir,” he quickly added as an afterthought once he noticed my Alumni windshield sticker.

I agreed to move and drove out to McDonald’s to finish waking up. After half an uninspired “McGriddle” sandwich, I thought long and hard, trying to find a reason for my trip. I slugged back my coffee after half an hour of unproductive, concentrated thought and tossed the rest of my pathetic sausage-egg-and-pancakes? into the bin. I drove back to campus to find another “landmark” from our relationship.

I walked into Carpenter to find that the second floor had been transformed from an Anthropology department to a Study Abroad office. A student was sitting by a window and I was taken in by her strange resemblance to Cheryl. Although this girl was blonde and half a foot shorter than my ex-wife, she wore the same horn rimmed glasses, tight neon pants and converse chucks Cheryl did in her 20’s. I then noticed the beautiful landscape featured on the front cover of the book she was reading. "Provence" it read. Mimosa, lots of it. If it were a painting I would have criticized it for being too distracting, too much color. Art can sometimes seem forced, nature can’t.

I had wanted to visit Provence and the French Riviera when I was younger. I thought I would visit when I had more money, more time, more family. Young men have always wanted to visit places, that has never changed. They have always delayed such visits until they have grown old and tired of trips; this has never changed either. I took down the box labeled "France" from the shelf and perused the brochures about Marseille, Aix-en-Provence, Nice, and Cannes. Then I went for Italy. Florence seemed beautiful in the spring. So did Rome. Next in line, Spain. England. Greece, Turkey, Japan. China, Thailand, Russia, Brazil, and finally South Africa when my phone started buzzing. I pressed answer before I looked at the screen. It was Cheryl.

"Are you OK Chris? Your brother called me, he said you didn't show up to work today at the dealership. Is everything alright? Where are you?"

"I'm in Carpenter hall actually. Do you remember Carpenter? It was right in front of room 307 where I said ‘I love you’ the first time. Do you remember that Cheryl?"

"Yes… Chris, I… I do… But what are you doing back at Penn State? Shouldn't you be at your job? Do you, need someone to get you?"

"No, I’m fine. Well, not just fine… good actually. Thanks for asking but I am doing really good. Did you know McDonald’s started putting pancakes in sandwiches now? It’s actually better than you’d think. They call it something like a…Mc… Hey! Cheryl! Guess what? I've decided to go on a trip." I explained to her how it would help my therapy, how I've never used any of my vacation days; but mostly, I talked about how I just wanted to go. I simply wanted to go.

“I always thought smart girls were what I needed in my life,” I clarified. “If I could just marry a smart, sophisticated woman who knew how to speak French and Spanish and could tell me stories about Renaissance Italy and ancient Japan’s Shoguns… I wanted to travel you. Well, I loved you and I still do but you were always a shitty adventure.”

"Where are you going then?" she finally asked after a few puzzled seconds. I looked around at the plain, metal shelf again. There was only one box that I hadn’t foraged through yet. It was tucked beneath on the lowest shelf and tipped over. I could barely make out the writing but my heart was set.

"India."

Castles on the Beach

Late nights of fruitless banter;
I take little pebbles such as these
washed up from the fragrant ocean;
I make castles.
Incomplete at best, I crush them.
I’m afraid.
If I leave one standing
foolish enough one day.
What will I do when the tide comes?

New Idea

I'll still update the vlogitty vlog (I promise I will get the next vid up soon...) but I'm now going to use this channel for some of my writing I did/still do. I'm not exactly looking for any feedback on this blog (though if there are things you can suggest I would be more than happy to listen through other mediums). However, if you like a particular piece, a "Cool" or "Rad man" would be appreciated (and in case you were wondering, yes, I used "Rad" ironically).

So for my first piece, I will start with something I wrote on the train from Vienna to Venice a few months ago.

Is your father a thief?

Do you care
if it’s Orion or
one of the Dippers?
It was something
you were looking for. Her
or she or something close-
by invisibly replies:

“No,” she says. “It was you,”
she says. “You put them there
remember?” Not her father.
You and your love blinded her.
And the night has never been the same.

Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make your bed rock...