Whose New Year Is It, Anyway?

by Madeleine Kando

Since my mother died, two days shy of her 104th birthday, I have thought a lot about the passing of time. 
But why do I think of time as ‘passing’? Is it like a train passing by as I stand on a platform? That’s not possible since I am on the train.

And why does the train only go in one direction? According to experts, the reason for the arrow of time is the second law of thermodynamics (the law of entropy). There was only one way my mother existed and putting her back together again would violate the second law of thermodynamics. That’s why she no longer exists as my mother.

Nobody really knows what time is, but it doesn’t prevent us from experiencing it. According to Aristotle, this is interlinked with our capacity to perceive change. If I were sitting in a dark room for a week without outside references, how would I know a week had passed? 

But what constitutes ‘change’?

Environmentalist Bill McKibben points out that our inability to respond to climate change is because we perceive change on a ‘human’ level, but cannot perceive change in the sphere of nature. We are ‘fatally confused’ about the nature of time. (Fatally Confused: Telling the Time in the Midst of Ecological Crises, by Michelle Bastian). Our notion of time is specific to our species, for better of for worse.

If you were a mayfly, you wouldn’t be celebrating New Year’s Eve. You wouldn’t even celebrate New Day’s Eve because mayflies in their adult form, don’t live more than one day. They spend two years as larvae immersed in water, but then their one-day clock starts ticking. They swarm to find a mate, fly around a bit, lay their eggs on the surface of ponds and then die, all in a 24 hour span of time. They don’t even have time to eat, which is just as well, since mayflies don’t have a mouth. Does that mean mayflies appreciate their time more than we do? After all, we live about 30,000 times longer!

A fruit fly could potentially celebrate New Week’s Eve, since they live for two weeks. They still have to spend their precious time laying eggs, eat as much rotten fruit as possible and hope they don’t get squashed before their number is up.

A housefly lives a generous two months, which is four times longer than a fruit fly and sixty times longer than a mayfly. It’s like a one year old mayfly meeting a senior citizen housefly.

Mammals are guaranteed a much longer life span than insects. And the bigger a mammal you are, the longer you live. Field mice live about a year or two. They could potentially celebrate New Year’s Eve and make a resolution to eat less cheese, but what’s the point of losing weight when you don’t live to see the benefits?

Elephants live up to 60 years, bowhead whales live 200 years and the Greenland shark can live up 400 years. They should celebrate New Century’s Eve, but remembering a resolution you made a hundred years ago might not be so easy.

One of the longest living beings on earth is the ‘Ming clam’. It can live up to 500 years. Can you imagine having 500 years to live? When a Ming clam is a mere 8 years old, we already spent most of our useful life, at age 48. At the height of the Ming clam’s puberty, we are all long dead and buried. And to vaunt its superiority, the lucky devil keeps on living for another 485 years! 

Who cares about time, when you have so much of it? You can cruise along, violate the minimum speed limit, with not a care in the world. Did you forget about your best friend’s birthday? No harm done, there will be so many more. A Ming clam lives 200,000 times longer than a mayfly. But do they appreciate all that extra time, or do they take it for granted? Unfortunately, the last surviving Ming clam was killed by scientists trying to work out how old he was.

Santa’s Dark History

by Madeleine Kando

Like most children, I believed in Santa while I was growing up. It wasn’t easy believing in someone who changed his name and his appearance every time my family moved from country to country.

I was born in Hungary, where Santa goes by the name of Mikulas or Szent Miklós. He is really a Bishop, not a jolly old dude who lives on the North Pole. He shows up on December 6th, giving children barely enough time to mend their ways and be worthy of presents.
Thankfully we moved to France before I was introduced to Mikulás’ assistant ‘Krampusz’, a horned, hairy creature with fangs and a tongue a mile long. Krampus’ job is to scare the bejesus out of children. If you are lucky, you just get a raw potato in your sock, but the really bad children get stuffed in Krampus’ backpack and taken to his ‘lair’, somewhere deep in the forest, to be eaten alive.

In France, Santa is called 'Père Noël'. He had swapped his Bishop’s miter for a floppy looking hat with a pompon. Père Noël wasn't very generous in those post-war days, especially when he came down a poor refugee family's chimney. I started to connect the dots between the lack of heat in our apartment and Père Noel’s reluctance to leave us presents. Should I have a heart to heart with him, as he was climbing down our chimney? I decided that my French wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t have added weight to my argument and he might not have left me any present at all!


When my family moved to Holland, I was introduced to the Dutch version of Santa. Over there, Santa plays second fiddle to a far less benevolent character named Sinterklaas. He must be a relative of the Mikulas of my native Hungary; same figure with a big pointy miter and a staff, riding a big white horse.

Every 5th of December, he arrives from Spain on a steam boat, accompanied by his 'helpers'. These helpers called ‘Zwarte Piet’ (black Peter), are a more benevolent version of  the Hungarian Krampus. Theirs befalls the thankless task of selecting good and bad children. Good children get candy of course, bad children get coal or a branch in their socks. But if you have been particularly bad, you get stuffed in a canvas bag and shipped back to Spain. No wonder the Dutch are so stoic. Early on they are taught to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Needless to say I was especially good around December 5th. I couldn't care less about the presents, I just wanted to avoid the fate of those very bad children at all cost.

Had we decided to move to Iceland instead of Holland, a fate far worse than death might have awaited us, the Kando children. Iceland is the home of Gryla, a giantess. She leaves her cave, hunts for bad children, and carries them home in her giant sack and devours them. If you are lucky enough to escape her, a huge and vicious cat known as Jólakötturinn, comes down the snowy mountain slopes at Christmas time and finishes the job.

Back to Vigilantism?

Tom Kando 

 The other day, my wife and I walked by one of the movie theaters at the Galleria shopping mall, the Caremark theaters. We were stunned when we saw a sign posted at the entrance, stating in big black letters: “Do not bring in your own food, drink or fire arm.” 

That’s it, I thought. This country is going back to the days of Tombstone and the O. K. Corral. The Wild West is coming back. It’ll soon be Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday against the Clanton brothers. Except that it won’t be clear who is Wyatt Earp and who is Billy Clanton. 

Lead by states such as Texas, more and more states are now “open-carry.” This means that we all have the right to run around while visibly packing pistols. Vigilantism is on the rise. it is increasingly accepted and even encouraged. Kyle Rittenhouse was acquitted after murdering two men, as was George Zimmerman in 2012 after executing Trayvon Martin. As in many other cases, self-defense was the winning argument. 

The self-defense chimera is what drives this country’s insane proliferation of fire arms. Americans are becoming universally armed. Vigilantism is on the rise. “Stand-your-ground” laws are increasingly used to justify murder under the guise of self-defense. 

In fact, death is more likely to happen when both the aggressor and the victim are armed than when the victim is unarmed. You are more likely to be shot to death if you own a firearm than if you don’t. Some protection! 

Should we Get Rid of Term Limits?

by Tom Kando

When you look at the history of various countries around the world, you see success stories,  failures, and cases in-between. You also see, within the history of individual countries, periods of peace, progress and  prosperity, alternating with  dismal conflict, regression and misery. For example, less than a century ago, Germany went through a terrible phase, becoming a monstrous country, whereas today it is doing better than most; countries, economically, morally and in terms of its quality of life.

Probably what matters the most in determining whether a country does well or not is the quality of its LEADERSHIP, right? For example, President Franklin Roosevelt  took us out of the Great Depression and won World War Two. President James Buchanan got us into the Civil War.

And combined with that, there  is also the longevity of leadership: Good leadership is precious. So isn’t it possible that countries that hold onto their good leaders for longer periods of time will thrive more than countries that switch leaders frequently?  Other things being equal, longevity of leadership offers the advantage of stability.

We obviously want good  leadership, but in addition we might  re-think our infatuation with things like term-limits. Isn’t there  something to be said for experience, expertise, learning and getting better on the job?  Why must we get rid of a president after  four years or at the most eight years? Wouldn’t it be nice if  President Kennedy had lasted longer, or President Obama?  The only leaders in this country who stay in power for the rest of their lives are the Supreme Court Judges. Maybe it should be the other way around - longer presidential terms and shorter Supreme Court terms.

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Fee-fi-fo-fum. A Smelly Adventure

by Madeleine Kando

We are at our friends, the Millers’ for Thanksgiving. They live the super rural life in Northern New Hampshire, in what is called the Great North Woods. There is snow up here already. Just a dusting, but soon our friends will be buried under a thick pack of the white stuff which will remain until the spring.

 

There is a magic feeling about ‘the North Country’, even though it was declared poor enough to qualify for Federal Assistance. People live in trailers, old cars and rusting tractors strewn about on their properties. As we drive towards Canada, big posters with Trump’s grimacing face are visible from the road. This is Trump country through and through. Are they not aware that we have a new President?

This time, our friends had no room for us, so we booked a room online at a local B&B, which looked quite charming, with a panoramic view of the hills and valley. As we are shown our ‘suite’, the pungent odor of some kind of air freshener dampens my enthusiasm.

 

‘Do you mind if we crack a window?’ I ask the hostess. ‘Unfortunately the windows are winterized’ she says. ‘You could keep the door ajar, but make sure you lock it when you leave’.

We unpack and drive to our friends’ house to spend the rest of the evening. It is hidden amongst tall pine trees, at the end of a mile-long driveway. They slowly built a little kingdom on their 200-acre property, which they bought for a pittance many decades ago. There is the barn for their horses, a new building to house an indoor lap pool and a sauna and a structure to house a giant wood furnace. Nathan, the Lord of the Manor, missed his calling by becoming a psychiatrist rather than an architect. He just loves building things.

Late at night, as we drive back to the B&B, we see a large buck stand still in the middle of the road. It doesn’t move, so we slow down to a crawl. Our headlights show every detail of this magnificent creature, and I feel sorry for him. There is a good chance he will be shot the next day or the day after.

 

I can’t sleep because of the pungent odor in the apartment. My husband always says that I should work in the perfume industry because of my excessive sensitivity to smells. I leave my snoring husband’s side and start to comb the apartment. The small fake plug-in Christmas tree on the table looks suspicious, sitting in its metal bucket. A prolonged sniffing does not result in a guilty verdict, but I unplug it anyway and put it outside. I crawl back in bed, but the smell is still there. I get up again and wave my arms like a scarecrow to activate the automatic night light.

  

In the corner of the room, shamelessly emanating fumes, is an electric air freshener. I unplug it, put it in the bathroom and close the door, convinced that I found the source of my misery. I crawl back in bed, but the smell is still there.

 

Now, the gloves are coming off. They must have put a scent tablet in the small, humble looking vacuum cleaner. Out it goes, next to Christmas tree. Back in bed, but the smell persists. I get up for the third time.

 

I notice two empty trash cans next to the sink. Out they go into the dark, cold night, but the smell is still there. I am frantic by now, but have enough common sense to stop myself, before I dismantle the entire suite.

 

As the day breaks, I finally fall asleep, the nauseating smell filling my nostrils. I lost the battle, but not the war. Tomorrow is another day.

   

I dream that I am stuck in quicksand. My back is slowly sinking down, like in a hammock and soon my body will jackknife, my toes touching my nose. As I slowly bend into a giant letter I, I hear little gnomes in the ceiling tap dance and bang on pots and pans. They stand on a blindingly lit stage, their big faces grinning at me. The sound wakes me up and I find that my mattress, which has the firmness of a marshmallow is preventing me from turning on my side. My back is stuck in the dip in the middle. The clanging in the heating system gets louder and faster, until it suddenly stops. The blindingly lit stage in my dream must have been the two porch lights outside the bedroom window, which won’t go off until daylight.

 

It is Thanksgiving morning. I get up, groggy after a sleepless night, and as I drink my morning coffee, I glance out the window. The banned Christmas tree and vacuum cleaner stare back at me, but they don’t look worse for wear. The porch lights are finally asleep. I envy them.

 

We drive the short distance to the Millers’, ready for Joan’s fabulous Thanksgiving meal, which I will selectively participate in, since I have become a vegetarian. ‘How did you sleep?’ asks Joan. The bags under my eyes speak for themselves, but I don’t want to share my nocturnal adventure, for fear of everyone finding out how neurotic I am. ‘Not too bad’ I lie.

 

After dinner, we go for a walk down to one of the ponds. Since it is hunting season, we all wear orange or red, just to be on the safe side. Nathan tells us that it is not uncommon for hunters to drive their truck while they shoot at anything that moves. There is no comfort in knowing that it’s against the law, since hiring a lawyer after you are shot, is not very practical.

 

Nathan is hard of hearing, but he often pretends he doesn’t hear you, when he embarks on one of his long monologues and doesn’t want to get interrupted. He is a born story teller, but his rhythm is slow, with a lot of ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’. By the time he finishes a sentence, it’s hard to remember the beginning. I wonder how he manages to keep his patients awake, as a practicing psychiatrist. Still, his stories are fascinating and full of humor. He is a transplanted New Yorker who didn’t have to learn to be funny. He would have been a great stand-up comedian.

 

Joan, his wife, functions as his mirror. She is not flamboyant, a bit self-effacing, but when push comes to shove, you can tell she wears the pants at their house. She enjoys cooking, smoking dope and yoga. She swims daily in her indoor pool, goes in the hot tub and writes in her journal. She used to make wonderful paintings, but somehow, the creative juices stopped flowing.

 

Their horses, Patrick and Max, are part of the family. Patrick, the pony, is the undisputed boss. Max, a sweet appaloosa, does what he is told. They both look furry this time of year, their winter coats nice and thick. They require a lot of care and are included in Nathan’s will. He gave detailed instructions on by whom, how and where they will be taken care of when he no longer can do so.

It's time to go back to the dreaded B&B. My husband promised he would blow up our air mattress, so I wouldn’t have to spend another night in marshmallow land. He resigned himself long ago to living with a neurotic wife and I see his sleepy eyes follow my progress as I transfer the bedding from the marshmallow bed to the air mattress. I move it around in the living room, like pulling a row boat in the water, to find the best spot. Finally comfortably settled, I am confident that this time, the sandman will not pass me by.

  

I fall asleep and dream that I am sitting in a bar. A group of hunters in camouflage gear are smoking cigars, while they exchange stories about killing. I wake up coughing from all the cigar smoke, my nose filled with the smell of stale tobacco emanating from the couch.

 

I lug the blankets, the sheets and the pillow back to the bed. I am so tired by now, that no amount of marshmallow can keep me awake. Ok. So I lost the war, not just the battle. How was I to know that everything in the apartment was sprayed to mask the smell of tobacco? Even Napoleon would have lost this one, his infantry outnumbered by thousands of enemy soldiers suddenly sprouting out of the battle field.

 

Back home in Boston, I crawl into my king-sized bed, covered by a rock-hard futon. No hint of marshmallows here. No trace of any fragrance in the air. A blissful olfactory void.

 

My husband, who is really good at calling out my obsessive behavior, sets me straight. He likes to rub my nose in it, so to speak, sniff out the truth of the matter: ‘You never appreciate what you have’ he says. ‘What about all the times you prevented the house from exploding because of a gas leak that no one else smelled? What about the spoiled milk that everybody else happily drank? What about the dead rat in the shed? Stop being such a cry baby. Don’t stir up a stink where there is none.’

 

I read a story of a woman who suffers from Hyperosmia, a heightened sense of smell so severe that she can no longer live a normal life. Who am I to complain of a measly air-freshener in the Great North Woods? I should wake up and smell the coffee.

 

Still, it would be nice to give my nose a vacation. Send it to a nose retreat with meditation classes to learn to be accepting of odors. In the meantime, I have to remind myself to pack a clothes pin the next time I travel. leave comment here

Cosmic Symphony

by Madeleine Kando


I am obsessed with the stars. Really obsessed. It’s not healthy. How can you love something that doesn’t love you back? Not just that, but stars don’t even know about my existence. It’s like being obsessed with the air, the ocean, the Siberian Tundra. That’s what we do, us humans: we become infatuated with things like that because it makes us feel more important than we are. If Jupiter and Mars are out there for us to see, doesn’t that mean that we somehow are part of it? Part of the vastness of space?

That obsession led to a conversation with my nine-year old grandson, Marshall. I told him that black holes sing. Not only do they sing, but they sing in B flat. It’s true. Go here, if you don’t believe me. Marshall and I had to first figure out what B flat sounded like. It sounds like this.

Black holes can generate enormous sound waves. They spew out vast amounts of material traveling at close to the speed of light. When that material slams into the hot gas that pervades the galaxy it is in, they beat a 'galactic drum'. The jet acts as the "stick," whereas the surface of the gas is the "drum”.

The problem is, that a black hole sings 52 octaves below middle C, or one million, billion times lower than the lowest sound audible to the human ear! But even if there were such a super-duper baritone-detecting creature, it would have to wait 10 million years between each sound wave (tone) to reach it. It would be a very slow symphony in B flat. (For a better explanation, see: Strange but True: Black Holes Sing).

We are so used to looking up at the night sky and marvel at the magic of it all. It is amazing how far our eyes can see. We see the moon at 239,000 miles. We have no trouble seeing the sun, at 93 million miles. Saturn, at 746 million miles, is visible in the night sky, and we can even see the entire Andromeda Galaxy, which is 2.5 million light-years away.

The Hubble Deep Field (HDF) image taken by the Hubble Telescope, shows galaxies so far away, that it allows us to travel back in time. It shows us the universe the way it was in the very beginning. Still, Hubble needs assistance to transpose those parts of the light spectrum that our naked eye can not detect, to give us a full picture of these stellar objects. Even the visual images we see, are always rendered in full color—converted from invisible X-rays or radio waves to visible light so we can see the universe in all its splendor. They might be a lot more boring if we limited ourselves to the visible range.

Critical Race Theory

by Tom Kando

There has been a big brouhaha about “Critical Race Theory.” The people on the Right (heinous figures such as Tucker Carlson) are on a rampage to censor this subject from schools. The label “C.R.T.” joins “Socialism” on the list of American political taboos. States that are currently legislating such censorship include Texas, Oklahoma, Tennessee., Idaho, Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and Arizona. 

I have been wondering why the Right has chosen this particular topic as the special target for its wrath, over and beyond its obvious perennial opposition to civil rights, “wokeness,” and all steps towards racial equality. 

Shouldn’t we find out what Critical Race Theory actually IS? There is probably no more sociological topic than this, so I will try to shed some light on it. 

I am once again stimulated by an excellent New Yorker article, The Man Behind Critical Race Theory by Jelani Cobb. The main name to associate with C.R.T. is Derrick Bell (1930-2011). He was a lawyer, professor and civil rights activist. He worked for the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, became the first tenured African-American law professor at Harvard in 1971 and ended his career as a visiting professor at the NYU School of Law. He and his writings are the most influential source behind what is now known as Critical Race Theory. 

First a brief definition of C.R.T.: This is a legal movement which seeks to explain the intersection of race and US law. It is critical not only of the conservative response to racism, but also the liberal approach. It stresses that racial inequality is the result of social, institutional and legal realities rather than that of intentional individual prejudices. 

A Review of ‘Citadels of Pride: Sexual Assault, Accountability and Reconciliation’

by Madeleine Kando

The American philosopher Martha Nussbaum has written many books on the subject of Justice and Morality. The title of her book ‘Citadels of Pride’ made me curious, not only because of its subject, but the title itself. What does the word Pride mean in the Context of Sexual Violence?

As Nussbaum explains, pride, which is actually the first of the seven deadly sins in Christianity, (followed by greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth) is the inability to see others as real, because you feel you are above them. There are many kinds of pride: class pride, race pride, national pride and gender pride. Gender pride is so deeply baked into our society, that we are not even aware of it.

The central features of what makes for a ‘full human being’, are autonomy and subjectivity. Autonomy means that you can make your own choices in life. Until recently, women were denied voting rights, choice in marriage and access to education. Subjectivity means that everyone has a right to their own inner experience, their own way of looking at the world. That is why we have Freedom of Religion, Freedom of Speech and Freedom of Association.

When it comes to sexual assault and harassment both of these essential ingredients are violated. The victim is treated as an object and their autonomy is denied. Their feelings and emotions are treated as irrelevant compared to the need for gratification of the aggressor.

Not only do women suffer when their autonomy and subjectivity are denied, this denial has the power to transform a person’s self-image. If you never experience autonomy, how can you even know of its existence? If your subjectivity is constantly denied, would you not think that it really shouldn’t exist? It prevents a woman from ‘wanting’ anything more than what she has, like the fox in famous fable. The fox, unable to get at the grapes, finally decides that he didn’t want the grapes to begin with.

In many (if not most) societies, being born a male already guarantees your claim to an unearned privilege over half of the world’s population. You are proud of something that you did not achieve on your own merit. Isn’t that the worst kind of pride?

The Red Queen Effect

The Red Queen by Sir John Tenniel 

by Madeleine Kando

In Lewis Carroll's ‘Through the Looking-Glass’, the Red Queen and Alice are constantly running but remain in the same spot. 

They finally stop and Alice says, still panting a little: "Well, in our country, you'd generally get to somewhere else—if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing."

"A slow sort of country!" says the Queen. "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!" 

That is exactly how I feel about my life right now. Like being on a treadmill, running and running, just so I can stay in place.

My days are filled with exhausting activities like taking a shower so I won’t get lice, get dressed so I won’t freeze to death, eat so I won’t dwindle away and sleep so I won’t keel over during the day. All that just to stay in place!

The abyss called entropy is lurking behind me, threatening to swallow me up. Who wants to let their fingernails grow into claws, get scabs on their scalp for want of washing their hair, have their teeth fall out if they don’t brush them.

The Red Queen is right: ‘If you want to get somewhere, you have to run twice as fast’. But who has the energy these days? I am quite content to stay in place. It’s exhausting enough.

In evolution, the Red Queen Effect, means that species have to constantly adapt in order to avoid extinction. A rat race, if you ever saw one. That also applies to me and you.

Let me give you a brilliant example: If you are unfortunate enough to be born without dimples in your cheeks, you are never going to have a go at being on TV. I wrote about that before here. But since all anchors on TV have dimples, who is going to keep their jobs? The ones with the deepest and most disfiguring dimples. They are all running in place, dimples and all, to keep their job.

Nature-Nurture: Are we born Intelligent or Stupid?

by Tom Kando

 The September 13, 2021 issue of the New Yorker has an interesting article titled “Force of Nature” by Gideon Lewis-Kraus. 

It describes the work of Kathryn Paige Harden, a University of Texas psychologist. Harden’s research is about the importance of genetic inheritability of intelligence. In other words, she addresses the age-old “nature-vs.- nurture” question: Are our behavior, our personality and our achievements the result of the environment and socialization (nurture), or are they the product of inborn and inherited genes (nature)? 

 As a sociologist, I have dealt with this issue in many of my classes. That nurture is more important than nature has always been axiomatic to sociologists. How successful you are in life depends much more on environment than on heredity. However, biological determinism (nature) has gained a lot of ground in recent years. Psychology’s holy grail is the identification of the PHYSICAL location of mental faculties, whether in the brain or in one’s genetic make-up. 

There appears every decade or so research that challenges the conventional wisdom that nurture counts for much more than nature. This research suggests that genetic inheritability of things like intelligence plays a much bigger role than we are willing to admit. 

For example, in 1969, Berkeley psychologist Arthur Jensen published an article in the Harvard Educational Review   in which he argued that there is an I.Q. gap between the races, and the reason for this is at least partly genetic. Nobel laureate William Shockley agreed with this, stating that “my research leads me inescapably to the opinion that the major cause of the American Negro's intellectual and social deficits is hereditary and racially genetic in origin and, thus, not remediable... by practical improvements in the environment.” 

Kauai

by Madeleine Kando

We are on Kauai, my husband Hans and I. It is the oldest and most beautiful island of the Hawaiian chain. If you could wave a magic wand and wish for a total sensory experience, you would certainly conjure up Kauai. The trade wind coming from the vast ocean, softens the harshness of the blazing sun. The sound of the surf is better than any lullaby. The foaming crests of the waves lapping on shore puts one in a trance.

Then, there are the clouds. They turn pink at sunset, slowly moving across the horizon, like slow motion ballerinas in pink tutus. The coral shines through the turquoise water while the feral chickens strut about, totally indifferent to the beauty around them, getting impertinently close to get fed. All of it is so intoxicating that our life back in Boston seems like it is on another planet.

Is it pathological to be infatuated with an island? Isn’t that feeling reserved for teens and film stars?  But I cannot help it. Since we first came here, almost 20 years ago, Kauai has captivated my heart.

Today, we are taking a helicopter ride. It takes us over the interior, the jungle where Jurassic Park was filmed. We approach the ‘five sisters’, a group of waterfalls on Mt. Waialeale, the second rainiest place on earth. The pilot is having fun with us. He flies straight into the huge vertical wall of jungle, but at the last minute, veers up to the top, to avoid a fatal crash. It is an exhilarating ride, plunging into the center of the volcano. It has been dead for millions of years and is now covered with green, a deep gaping hole, where all the rain from the swamp plateau above, accumulates.

Over 5 million years ago, Kauai was born, when magma spewed from a hot spot beneath the Pacific Tectonic Plate, creating a volcanic island. Like dragging the links of a chain away from the hotspot, the island moved away and Kauai’s volcano slowly became extinct. A new island moved in its place, creating another one of the Hawaiian Islands. A map of the ocean floor shows this long chain called the Emperor Sea Mount Chain, which reaches all the way to Alaska.

It is hard to imagine that for most of her life, this beautiful island was nothing but black rock. Everything that we see, blew in with the wind, on the waves, or in the belly of a bird that lost its way. Then, millions of years in the making, as if the island was ready for inhabitants, the Polynesians came in their canoes, fell in love and established a society.

The older Kauai gets, the more beautiful she becomes. But one day, she will sink into the ocean and only an atoll will remain, like a gravestone to mark the spot. How many of these gorgeous islands have sunk beneath the waves over the past millennia?

Kauai has only one road that hugs the coastline and does not connect to itself, which protects it from the worst damage that tourism creates. On the north shore, where we are staying, there are small, funky towns, like Kapa’a and Hanalei, reminiscent of the 60’s. There are shops that sell designer rash guards and other fancy beach attire, overpriced restaurants and shave ice stands.

The Best and the Worst States

by Tom Kando 

I have ranked the world’s countries in terms of quality of life several times on this blog. Today, I want to do that   with America’s own fifty states. There is as much  chauvinism at this level as there is internationally. Just as most Europeans feel that they are better than Americans and vice versa, so Texans feel superior to Californians and vice-versa.

For the facts, I examined a recent USNews and World Report study: Best States Rankings

The study ranks the states on eight criteria:

Health Care

Education

Economy

Infrastructure

Opportunity

Fiscal stability

Crime and Corrections

Natural Environment

First, I wanted to compare blue states and red states, something which  USNews and World Report does not do. The country’s political climate is  extraordinarily polarized, and I was curious to see whether the data confirm one of my  preconceptions, namely that overall, blue states are better than red states. Well, they most certainly do:

According to 270towin, there are 18 blue states, 22 red states and  10 “mixed” states. They are located as follows:

West:   4 blue states: Washington, Oregon, California and  Hawaii.   1 red state: Alaska.

Midwest: 4 blue states: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois and Michigan. 5 red states: Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Kansas and Missouri. 3 mixed states: Iowa, Indiana and Ohio

Rocky Mountains: 5 red states: Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and Arizona. 3 mixed states: Colorado, Nevada and New Mexico.  ZERO blue states.         

New England: 5 blue states: Massachusetts, Vermont, Connecticut, Maine, Rhode Island. 1 Mixed state: New Hampshire. ZERO red states.   

The South: 11 red states: Georgia, Tennessee, Texas, Kentucky, South Carolina, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Alabama, West Virginia, Mississippi, Louisiana. 3 mixed states: Virginia, Florida, North Carolina. ZERO blue states.

Atlantic Coast: 5:  blue states: Maryland, New Jersey, New York, Delaware, Pennsylvania. ZERO red or mixed.

These six regions are those used by the US Census Bureau.

Afghanistan

by Tom Kando

This week, the crisis is Afghanistan. Last week it was the Haitian earthquake. For a year and a half, it’s been Covid. Things are not going well on planet Earth, or in the US. 

I don’t mean to trivialize what’s going on in Afghanistan. It’s a mess, a tragedy, and it was inevitable. 

First, let’s be clear about one thing: The Taliban are the equivalent of the barbarians that were held at bay for centuries by the ancient Romans. 

There are in the world, always, advanced civilizations that expand their sphere of influence and bring progress (as well as exploitation) to outlying regions. And then there are tribal societies that are several hundred years behind in their historical and moral development. Their treatment of women alone puts the Taliban somewhere at the beginning of Europe’s Middle Ages. 

The 14th century Arab sociologist  Ibn Khaldun  described the relationship and inherent conflict between advanced urban civilizations and more primitive nomadic groups, and the cycle of rise and fall of the former at the hand of the latter. 
Now don’t misunderstand me: I am not saying that the Taliban is about to take over the White House (although a Taliban-sponsored group did “take over” the New York World Trade Center in 2001). 
What Biden just did is the equivalent of decisions made two thousand years ago by intelligent Roman leaders such as the emperor Hadrian: He abandoned his predecessors’ expansionist policies. Instead, he invested in “defensible borders and the unification of the empire’s disparate peoples. He built Hadrian’s Wall, which marked the northern limit of Britannia.” As Voltaire said, one must cultivate one’s own garden. 

Worrying

by Madeleine Kando

It’s really hard to be me. I slept for four hours and woke up wondering what came over me when I bought a $100 bathing suit. I am on Maui, and I see all these fancy bathing suits prance about on the beach, so I figured I need one too, instead of looking like a blue sausage in my racing suit.

I saw one on a mannequin at the mall across our condo and I was sure it would make me look like a film star, but when I came home and put it on, I looked more like a flower pot with arms and legs.

So, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. There is no stopping it, once I get the worrying bug. It’s like a virus, infecting every nook and cranny of my already neurotic mind. I worry about my daughter back home, about spending too much money, about the bags under my eyes from not sleeping because I worry about not sleeping.

 
Why some people don’t worry is a mystery to me. There must be something seriously wrong with them. People like that let the worriers do all the worrying for them. They get a free ride in this valley of tears, going about their business happy as clams, while us worriers do all the heavy lifting, leading us to an early grave.

They will say stupid things, like: ‘worrying does not do anything. It’s a useless, self-destructive habit.’ But they don’t really know, do they? Since they never worry. It’s like saying: ‘I know what it’s like to be poor. My grandfather was poor. He told me all about it’.

Which are the Best and the Worst Olympic Countries?

by Tom Kando

Halfway through the recent Olympic Games, I came across  an article by a Dan Wetzel, titled

Sorry, America: China’s leading the real Olympic medal count.

Dan complained  that most of our media  rank countries by their TOTAL number of medals, regardless of whether they are gold, silver or bronze. This puts  America on top and China second. However, Wetzel  felt that  countries should be ranked by the number of GOLD medals they win. He claimed that the entire rest of the world agrees with this.

As it turned out, America ended up with BOTH the largest number of total medals AND the largest number of gold medals. So Wetzel’s gripe is moot.

Nevertheless, I want to point out  that Wetzel was wrong. The differences between gold, silver and bronze performances are often in the milliseconds. It’s often absurd to dismiss   silver and bronze  performances as far inferior to  gold performances. The three  are often extremely close. So the total number of medals is more meaningful than just the number of golds.

Furthermore, I have long used a compromise between Wetzel’s position and mine, one which I think is reasonable and could satisfy both sides of the argument: We can WEIGH the three colors by awarding a country 3 points for every gold medal, 2 points for every silver and 1 point for every bronze.  Then, rank countries by their total  number of points.

America Needs a Strong Socialist Party

by Tom Kando

We have been brainwashed to believe that Socialism   is bad. 

You can get a good flavor of this by Googling words such as “Socialism,” “Socialism USA” or “Democratic Socialism.” 

While the search results include some factual definitions such as Wikipedia’s, by far most of what comes up consists of scathing critiques of “Socialism.” You get articles with titles like “Democratic Socialism Failures - Prosperity to Poverty,” “Real Socialism, Real Suffering - Real Socialism Failed,” “Venezuela Socialism” and “The Dishonesty of Real Socialism.” What is so nauseating is that this multitude of anti-Socialist diatribes is not counter-balanced by positive search results. The anti-socialist bias revealed on the Internet is overwhelming. 

I cannot do justice to all the nuances of socialism. Suffice it to say that the kind of socialism which I favor is “democratic socialism” or “social democracy.” By this I mean a robust degree of government involvement and regulation of the economy, albeit not outright government ownership of the means of production. I mean the sort of “mixed” capitalist/socialist system which exists in the rest of the Western world. I mean a society where taxation is progressive, where the government’s policies are redistributive, so as to reduce poverty and inequality, and where the public sector makes up a large segment of the economy, as much as 50%. 

In other words, I favor a higher degree of socialism than what we currently have. Obviously, this country is by no means free of socialism. Income taxes, Social Security, Medicare and innumerable other governmental functions are “socialism.” “Socialism” is a matter of degree. 

My Floppy Eyelids

by Madeleine Kando

My left eye is irritated. I wanted to make sure it is not a sign that I am slowly turning blind, so I paid an emergency visit to the eye doctor, before I embark on a month long trip to Hawaii.

She was short and masked. She asked for my age, although it said it right there, on my chart. She probably wanted to make sure that my porch lights were still on at my age.

She looked over the notes that her assistant just jotted down before her majesty walked in.

‘You should drink more’ she said. ‘I already drink too much’, I thought. ‘Look at the bags under my eyes’. She meant water of course, that substance I detest with a vengeance. Unless I am in the middle of the desert of course, which is never.

‘I drink a lot of tea, some coffee and orange juice’, I said in a defensive tone. ‘Coffee and tea don’t count’ she said.’

She started to type vigorously, so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. I am sure, in her profession, limiting eye contact with the hundreds of eye balls that roll into her office every day is essential. Until she is stuck to them like a siamese twin during the exam. Safer to type and talk to the screen.

‘You are dehydrated. Drinking is good for you. Stops wrinkles. 6 cups a day, at least.’

A long telegraph style conversation followed:

‘Do you have pets?’

‘Yes, I have a cat.’

‘Where does he sleep?’

‘I have had my cat for 10 years.’

She repeated curtly:‘Where does he sleep?’

‘She sleeps where she wants’, I said cheekily.

‘Do you wear make-up?’

‘Yes’

‘You shouldn’t come to an exam with make-up on’.

‘Who do you see?'

‘Xcuse me?'

‘Who is your regular eye doctor?'

‘I don’t remember her name’.

She reads on the chart. ‘Dr. Rankin’.

(Inaudibly)‘So why do you ask me?’

‘Why do you take doxycycline?’

‘Never heard of it.’ 

'It says here you take doxycycline.’

‘Does it go by another name?’

‘No’

‘Is it related to tick bites?’

‘Yes.’

‘I only took it once. For a tick bite’.

‘Do you have dry mouth in the morning?’ 

‘Yes’ 

‘That’s because you don’t drink enough.’ 

‘Could it be because of my medication?' 

… silence …

‘It’s important that you drink at least 12 ½ cups a day. Tea doesn’t count.’

She wheels her stool adroitly to that insanely complicated piece of equipment called a phoropter and taps on the chin rest. For some reason, she has decided to switch from speaking to gesturing. The previous eyeballs must have belonged to a midget, so I have to hunch over to follow her command. Her finger points up, I look up. She taps impatiently to the left of the lens, I look left. Her finger points down, I look down.

She opens my eye vigorously, pulls on my eye lid and (gasp) folds it over. She then presses on my eye lids with great force. She makes a shooing gesture, as if I was a fly, meaning I can sit back.

‘You have occular rosacea. Very common with people who don’t drink enough.’ I want to ask her how much she drinks and how many times a day she has to pee, but then she says:

‘You also suffer from floppy eyelids. When you sleep your lids flop and let stuff in that irritates your eyes. You should massage and use warm compress.’

I am speechless. How can they be floppy? Do they flop about like dog ears in the wind? Or is it a misnomer, like so many other medical terms ? Floppy usually means that something is so flexible that it flops about, like a flag in the wind. Should I do eye lid strengthening exercises?

‘And chia.’ She said, without interruption.

On Language… Yet Again

by Madeleine Kando

I have a thought which I want to convey to my Dutch husband. English is my language of choice, but then he asks me to write my thought in Dutch. I grew up in Holland, so you would think it wouldn't be such a difficult task. I find myself grappling for words, trying to construct logical sentences that mirrors what I think. I feel like an arthritic contortionist. It doesn't meet my expectations but that's the best I can do. 'I could say this a lot better in English, you know' I tell him.

But is language in general the best conduit for the multi-dimensionality of our mental world? I have to transpose something that is happening on multiple levels into one linear dimension. A thought is not just verbal, it has colors, a shape, a smell, a taste, speed and much more.

Wouldn’t it be truer to reality if we had a means of communication that includes all these dimensions in one package? I know what you are going to say: ‘that’s why we have art, music, dance, mathematics, etc.’ But aren’t those also limited by their own range? Can I do justice to quantum mechanics when I express it in music? Can I express the beauty of a sunrise using mathematics?

Couldn’t all these forms of expression be rolled into one super-language. This reminds me of ‘More than Human’, a science fiction story by Theodore Sturgeon. Even though Sturgeon’s story is about several ‘freaks’ (with telepathic, telekinetic and superhuman intelligence) that join forces to create a ‘Gestalt’, i.e. the next evolutionary step in mankind, it wouldn’t be too farfetched to artificially create a ‘language’ that would do more justice to our multi-dimensional ability to form thoughts.

The Isle of Wight Music Festival,1970

by Tom Kando

 In the summer of 1970, I was twenty-nine. My life was going in the right direction. I had received my PhD from the University of Minnesota the previous year and I was in my second year as an assistant professor at Cal State. 

I had also become a US citizen a year earlier. I was ecstatic. I had waited ten years to be naturalized. Before that, I was a stateless United Nations refugee, ever since my family fled from Hungary during my early childhood. My legal status was a monumental pain. It made international travel almost impossible. My family and I had settled in Holland, but even a foray into neighboring Belgium required a visa and other paperwork. I had been admitted to the US on a Fulbright student visa after waiting five years, followed by another five years on a green card. 

To celebrate my new status and all the things it made possible, I went back to Europe for the summer. I had not seen my family in five years. 

By then, my sister Juliette had moved from Amsterdam to London, so after seeing my mother in Holland I went to Juliette in England. Madeleine, my other sister, was also visiting there. 

As it so happens, the Isle of Wight Music Festival was scheduled to take place between August 26 and 31 of that year, and my brother-in-law Iain had secured tickets for the four of us. 

So we grabbed our sleeping bags, a tent and some supplies, drove down to Portsmouth, crossed over to the Isle of Wight and made our way to the festival site. The 1970 Isle of Wight festival turned out to be a Woodstock repeat a year later, a Woodstock on steroids. It became the largest rock festival of all times, with an estimated attendance of 700,000. It was a surrealistic experience. 

It took nearly a day just to get in and settle down on the grass somewhere in the middle of the field. The seven hundred thousand other hippies around us could only be described as an OCEAN of people. The population was almost as large as San Francisco’s. It temporarily increased the Isle of Wight ‘s population sixfold. The field was a rolling hill, so that you couldn’t see the end of the crowd. It literally stretched to the horizon. The stage was half a mile away and you needed binoculars to recognize the musicians, although loudspeakers broadcast their sounds loud and clear to the farthest corners of the enclosure. 

Leaving: A Bittersweet Affair

by Madeleine Kando

Leaving has played a constant role in my life. I got my first taste of leaving when I was four, when my parents left Hungary, the country where I was born, to settle in Paris.

Back then, I already considered leaving a place as something positive, like a soldier who adds stars to his uniform. The more places you leave, the higher you rise in the ranks. It was exciting and my age safeguarded me from seeing the risks that are always attached to leaving the familiar.

In a poem ‘le Rondel de l’adieu’, French poet Edmond Haraucourt writes the famous phrase ‘partir c’est mourir un peu’ (leaving is dying a little). It best describes the true meaning of farewell. Each time we say farewell, it is as if we die a little.

For me, even leaving on vacation feels a bit like dying. My old self is dying to make room for my new, yet undiscovered self. The thought of going shopping for a new self always brings a smile to my face, even at my age.

After moving from Hungary to France in my toddler years and from France to Holland when I was 11, I gave a much-needed new self another go when I turned 18. I lived in England for a while and I liked my new English self a lot, but like a run-away train, I couldn’t stop. Off to Spain I went.

The Mediterranean Madeleine didn’t appeal to me all that much, since I couldn’t really chop off some of my height, so my Spanish self never really took shape..

So, you see, I already had a lot of practice leaving. But compared to my previous little hops from one European country to another, moving to the New World felt like jumping off a high cliff, not knowing whether I would land on my two feet or my derriere.

The Madness of Anti-Vaxxers

by Tom Kando

I have to write about Covid again. I have to say the obvious.

Anyone who hasn’t been asleep for the past few weeks should already know this: The pandemic is gaining steam again. We are blowing it. And this time, there is no excuse. It’s not the virus. It’s those people who are not vaccinated who are causing this.

 
All the numbers are going in the wrong direction again. I’ll spare you the exact figures, you can check them out yourself. But here is a summary of the sad story: Daily number of infections worldwide: rising again Daily number of deaths worldwide: rising again Daily number of infections in the US: rising again Daily number of deaths in the US: rising again Daily number of infections in California:: rising again Daily number of deaths in California: rising again Daily number of infections in Sacramento: rising again Daily number of deaths in Sacramento: rising again  We all know about the new, more virulent variant(s), etc.

 
But here is the thing: Variant or no variant, we HAVE THE SOLUTION IN HAND, but some people refuse to use it! What lunacy is this? 

Six months ago, we started a massive vaccination campaign which promised the speedy end of the pandemic. And then, for some unfathomable reason, half the population began to drag its feet, dilly-dallying or outright refusing to take the vaccine.

 
HALF the population remains unvaccinated! That is, only 48.4% of the population has been fully vaccinated, while 55.9% has received one dose. The daily number of vaccinations has declined by 80% over the past three months! 

In Defense of Abortion

Philosopher Judith Jarvis Thomson

by Madeleine Kando

For most of history abortion was regarded as a necessary evil, but not as an illegal act. The old philosophers believed that a fetus does not begin to have ‘life’ until the 4th month of pregnancy and even the Old Testament refers to the fetus as ‘property’, but not necessarily ‘endowed with the sanctity of life’.

In the Western world, abortion was accepted if it was carried out before ‘quickening’, i.e. once the fetus moved in the womb. Until then it was regarded as part of the mother, so an abortion was not considered unethical. It was performed by trained midwives who specialized in female anatomy.

By 1880, the Church and the medical establishment decided that abortions should be illegal. Under the pretext that it was unsafe (which it was not, since midwives were highly skilled practitioners), they pushed for legislation that would criminalize abortion under any circumstance, except to save the mother’s life.

Thus, for an entire century (until Roe vs. Wade (1973), women had to turn to illegal means. The mortality rate jumped up and figures from the late 1920s show that some 15,000 women a year died from illegal abortion procedures. (Abortion in American History)

These days, the topic of abortion has become so politicized that it is almost impossible to say anything sensible about it without rousing the ire of anyone with an opposing view. The debate is mostly fueled by the question of how ‘moral’ it is to have or perform an abortion. Does that mean that we have become more moral as human beings? Or is the whole morality argument a smoke-screen for less lofty motivations?

The Pro-abortion argument goes like this: 1) making abortions laws more restrictive has terrible consequences for women (illegal abortions), and 2) denying access to abortion is to deprive a woman’s right to control her own body.

The Anti-abortion arguments are: 1) A fetus is a human being and has the right to life. Therefore abortion is murder, regardless of the consequences of restricting its access. 2) Mere ownership of your body does not give you the right to kill an innocent person inside your body.

Somogy Döröcske: My Escape From Hell

by Tom Kando

I was born in Budapest at the beginning of World War Two, and I spent my first seven years in Hungary. 

By the end of the war, much of Budapest was reduced to rubble - like Dresden and other cities. The battle for Hungary’s capital between the Soviet Red Army and the Germans lasted from December 1944 to February 1945, and it cost 100,000 lives, including those of some of my relatives.. 

My parents had been good patriots in the struggle against the Nazis, so the post-war government rewarded them. And guess what the reward was? A “farm” of some sort, way out in the boondocks! 

My mom and dad knew less about farming than most Americans know about Hungarian poetry - Nothing. My mother was a photographer and my father was a painter. They were through-and-through urban intellectuals who could probably not distinguish between a horse and a mule. 

But bureaucracies being what they are, plus the end-of-war pandemonium, resulted in this surrealistic scenario: The government allocated a farm to my parents. 

Instead of politely turning down the offer, my parents accepted. They assumed, rightly, that we might be safer in the countryside, and also less likely to starve to death. 
And the countryside it was - with a vengeance! The “farm” consisted of a small vineyard plus an enclosure with two pigs. 

The village was called Somogy Döröcske. It was so small and tucked away in the most backward part of rural Hungary that it wasn’t on any map available at that time. It is somewhere halfway between Budapest and the Croatian border. I recently Googled it. Today, it has a population of 133. Wikipedia says that in the early 18th century the area was listed as “uninhabited,” and later owned by a noble family. 
My parents, my sisters Madeleine and Juliette and I moved there in the summer of 1946. I was five and a half.

Somogy Döröcske is located at the edge of the great Eastern European plain called the Alföld. The summers are long, hot and muggy. Fields of maize and green beans stretch to the horizon in all directions. Flocks of cranes fly in formation in the cloudless skies, and one can see in the distance those unique Eastern European landmarks: Wells, topped by long, slanted wooden arms sticking skyward, each with a a bucket dangling from the top. 

Thomas Nagel: Is the Mind just a Piece of Flesh?

by Tom Kando

I just reread a classic: Thomas Nagel’s 1979 anthology Mortal Questions. This book consists of fourteen amazing articles by that author. Each raises a fundamental philosophical issue. Nagel’s fourteen articles can be bunched into two major areas, plus a couple of other disparate topics: 1. Articles 11, 12, 13 and 14 are about the Mind and Consciousness. 2. Articles 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 are about Morality, Ethics, Values and Judgment. 3. Article 1 is about Death and article 2 is about the Absurd. 

Some may say that much of what Nagel (and all other philosophers) write(s) is just so much verbiage. That in the end, nothing they write makes any difference. Such an accusation applies to someone such as Nagel a fortiori, as his writing is extremely convoluted and esoteric, peppered with expressions such as Sub specie aeternitatis (meaning: “what is universally and eternally true"). But I have chosen to take this in stride, and to join his game. I enjoy it. Who knows, some of you may do so as well. 

Nagel’s Preface: Labels and Philosophical Schools 

Nagel is classified as belonging to the school of Analytic Philosophy. This is the dominant orientation in the Anglo world. Its adherents include Bertrand Russell, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Karl Popper. It emphasizes language, as well as math and science. It is distinct from continental European orientations such as Existentialism and Phenomenology. 

I first thought that Nagel might be labeled a “phenomenologist,” because his central preoccupation is Consciousness, which he describes as subjective experience. However, I was wrong. Phenomenology, founded by the German Edmund Husserl, is a method for the investigation of phenomena as consciously experienced. It is an epistemology, a theory of knowledge. Nagel’s quest is ontological and metaphysical: He asks questions about the fundamental nature of reality, for example the relationship between mind and matter. 

My Little Viking

by Madeleine Kando

June 9, 2021

It is early here in San Francisco, the sound of a bus drumming by, slightly shaking my laptop. Hans, my husband, is snoring away next to me. My 9 year-old grandson Marshall is still deep asleep under his Star Wars comforter. All his stuffed animals are neatly lined up at the foot of his bed. It takes him a while to arrange them just so, before he is ready to say good night. They all have names, Avoman is the most recent addition to this family, a little stuffed avocado with a chain, so you can hang it from a belt loop. And Boba.

Boba almost didn’t make it to Marshalls bed. My grandson had to put on his charm suit while we were walking down Pier 39, saying how 10 dollars would not break Oma’s bank account. When that didn’t work, he pushed his superpower charm button and skipped over to Opa, to try his luck there. And of course, it immediately worked. After all, isn’t it the sole job of grandparents to spoil their grandchildren?

Last night, after we read a story, we both lie on his bed, looking at each other while he puts his little index finger on the tip of my nose and says ‘beep’. He asks me why there are black lines in the crease of my eyelids. I tell him about badly applied eye shadow. He has now developed an all-consuming interest in make-up, something foreign to him, since his mother doesn’t wear make-up. So I get my make-up kit, which is now transformed into a treasure pouch. Everything has to be tested and applied, including lipstick. He looks like a doll. Applying it was fun, but taking it off turns out to be a struggle. He doesn’t like the feel of cotton balls on his skin.