Sixteen years ago. And while I don't imagine many readers would rattle their papers and say, "Heyyyy, I read this already, in 2007!" I do have my pride. I'm glad I wrote it down then, because memory is fallible. Remembering it now, it was the boy, not myself, who found the chemical house selling the acid. Anyway, best let that column tell the story.
This was when the column filled a page, and I've left in the original subheadings, and the lame joke at the end. I hardly need to point out that the opening argument is now sadly untrue, as portions of the country have decided that failing to teach children our nation's tragic racial history will somehow make them feel better, when all it does is guarantee that their children will be as ignorant as themselves, a safe bet already, no action necessary.
OPENING SHOT . . .
You want to feel good about this country? Talk about slavery.
How, you may ask, can this shameful peak of human cruelty, whose lingering bad effects are felt to this day, be a source of pride to the nation that tolerated its existence for nearly a century?
Because at least we recognize it. We are aware of it; we teach about slavery in schools. We can talk about it. And if we don't face facts as much as we should, then at least debating them isn't against the law.
Compare that to Turkey. A nation of 72 million people, Turkey is the most westernized Muslim state in the world. And yet, a Turkish writer would commit a crime and risk prison just by writing this sentence: "in 1915, Turks oversaw the murder of 1.5 million Armenians, the largest European genocide before World War II."
To Turkey, this is slander. So now, our alliance is endangered -- Turkey has recalled its ambassador, and is threatening to stop helping us wage our losing war in Iraq -- just because a House subcommittee voted to label the 1915 deaths a "genocide.''
Why do they act this way? National pride, and inability to process difficult truths. A too common problem in this world. The United States might have its moments of shame, like any other land. But at least we can talk about them. We should be proud of that.
Footnote:
I do think about this stuff, you know. I don't just toss some Boggle cubes and transcribe the result. When I wrote above that this nation tolerated slavery "for nearly a century," that is because the United States came into existence in 1776 and the Emancipation Proclamation was issued in 1863. Before 1776, we were English colonies, and slavery was legal in England until 1807.
Some try to stretch it to centuries, beginning with the moment that Columbus set a toe in America in 1492 up until yesterday. That seems disingenuous to me. The truth is bad enough; no need to stretch it.
1 DOWN, 127 TO GO . . ."
There's that moment when a dad hears a phrase from his kid for the very first time and thinks: "Oh boy. I wonder how many more times I'm going to hear that?"
A bit of background. A while back, when Son No. 1 started growing his hair long, I made a conscious decision not to make him cut it.
"I'm not fighting about hair," I kept telling my wife, thinking back to all the pointless, get-a-haircut-hippie arguments that have been tearing up families for the past 40 years. I'm not going there. This isn't timidity -- not entirely -- I want him to listen to me because when I put my foot down about something, it's important. No, you can't drive the car. No, you can't play with hydrochloric acid unsupervised.
How long a boy's hair is isn't important.
Friday morning, he's hustling out the door to school. I say goodbye and try to plant a kiss on top of his head -- tougher to do lately, but sometimes I pull it off.
"Don't touch my hair!" he says, twisting away.
"He's got it just the way he likes it," my wife explains helpfully.
"OK, then," I say, watching him as he hurries out the door.
THE CHEMICAL PARENT
That line about hydrochloric acid, by the way, isn't some bit of comic fancy I pulled out of the air, but a real issue from daily life that actually occurred and merits mention.
Normally I like to present a united front with the wife when it comes to child rearing. Even when I might have decided differently about a situation, I tend to back her up once she has laid down the law.
Otherwise, the boys play us off each other and things get nuts. Yet somehow, in this particular situation, inspiration struck me, and I felt compelled to break ranks.
My wife was busily seeing how many ways she could say "No" when I butted in.
"Sure, we can get some hydrochloric acid for you to experiment with," I told my 11-year-old son, who must have read about it in Stephen King. "I'll go online right now and find a place that'll sell it."
His face lit up. "Really?" he said. My wife shot me a look that itself was rather acidic -- say a pH1 -- as I retired to the office to scout cyberspace.
To be honest it took some doing -- most chemical shops want only to send acids to schools, but I finally located an industrial chemical outlet that asks only for assurances its products will be used for an educational purpose -- which is the plan.
Four ounces of acid, by the time we paid for special delivery and hazardous materials handling, would cost about $50.
"That's a lot of money," I said to him. "So if I'm going to shell that out, I want to make sure you know what you're doing."
I handed him a sheet of guidelines for the handling of chemicals printed off the Ohio State University Chemistry Department website.
"Familiarize yourself with these," I said. "And study this." I set down a piece of paper explaining acid, base and pH. "Then I want you to write out what acid is and exactly what experiments you intend to do with your acid. And as soon as you've done that, I'll place the order."
Needless to say, he never mentioned hydrochloric acid again, to my mingled relief and disappointment. And I felt I had made a strategic parenting breakthrough. So if next time he comes and says, "Dad, can we get a grizzly bear?" instead of arguing about it, I'll say, "Sure, but a bear like that will need a big pen: you'd better start building. But first, research the law regarding keeping wild animals in suburban yards . . ."
TODAY'S CHUCKLE. . .
A joke from Robert Hawkins in honor of the Army hitting its recruiting goals by lowering its standards:
I joined the Army because I was 18 and bored with the 10th grade.
OPENING SHOT . . .
You want to feel good about this country? Talk about slavery.
How, you may ask, can this shameful peak of human cruelty, whose lingering bad effects are felt to this day, be a source of pride to the nation that tolerated its existence for nearly a century?
Because at least we recognize it. We are aware of it; we teach about slavery in schools. We can talk about it. And if we don't face facts as much as we should, then at least debating them isn't against the law.
Compare that to Turkey. A nation of 72 million people, Turkey is the most westernized Muslim state in the world. And yet, a Turkish writer would commit a crime and risk prison just by writing this sentence: "in 1915, Turks oversaw the murder of 1.5 million Armenians, the largest European genocide before World War II."
To Turkey, this is slander. So now, our alliance is endangered -- Turkey has recalled its ambassador, and is threatening to stop helping us wage our losing war in Iraq -- just because a House subcommittee voted to label the 1915 deaths a "genocide.''
Why do they act this way? National pride, and inability to process difficult truths. A too common problem in this world. The United States might have its moments of shame, like any other land. But at least we can talk about them. We should be proud of that.
Footnote:
I do think about this stuff, you know. I don't just toss some Boggle cubes and transcribe the result. When I wrote above that this nation tolerated slavery "for nearly a century," that is because the United States came into existence in 1776 and the Emancipation Proclamation was issued in 1863. Before 1776, we were English colonies, and slavery was legal in England until 1807.
Some try to stretch it to centuries, beginning with the moment that Columbus set a toe in America in 1492 up until yesterday. That seems disingenuous to me. The truth is bad enough; no need to stretch it.
1 DOWN, 127 TO GO . . ."
There's that moment when a dad hears a phrase from his kid for the very first time and thinks: "Oh boy. I wonder how many more times I'm going to hear that?"
A bit of background. A while back, when Son No. 1 started growing his hair long, I made a conscious decision not to make him cut it.
"I'm not fighting about hair," I kept telling my wife, thinking back to all the pointless, get-a-haircut-hippie arguments that have been tearing up families for the past 40 years. I'm not going there. This isn't timidity -- not entirely -- I want him to listen to me because when I put my foot down about something, it's important. No, you can't drive the car. No, you can't play with hydrochloric acid unsupervised.
How long a boy's hair is isn't important.
Friday morning, he's hustling out the door to school. I say goodbye and try to plant a kiss on top of his head -- tougher to do lately, but sometimes I pull it off.
"Don't touch my hair!" he says, twisting away.
"He's got it just the way he likes it," my wife explains helpfully.
"OK, then," I say, watching him as he hurries out the door.
THE CHEMICAL PARENT
That line about hydrochloric acid, by the way, isn't some bit of comic fancy I pulled out of the air, but a real issue from daily life that actually occurred and merits mention.
Normally I like to present a united front with the wife when it comes to child rearing. Even when I might have decided differently about a situation, I tend to back her up once she has laid down the law.
Otherwise, the boys play us off each other and things get nuts. Yet somehow, in this particular situation, inspiration struck me, and I felt compelled to break ranks.
My wife was busily seeing how many ways she could say "No" when I butted in.
"Sure, we can get some hydrochloric acid for you to experiment with," I told my 11-year-old son, who must have read about it in Stephen King. "I'll go online right now and find a place that'll sell it."
His face lit up. "Really?" he said. My wife shot me a look that itself was rather acidic -- say a pH1 -- as I retired to the office to scout cyberspace.
To be honest it took some doing -- most chemical shops want only to send acids to schools, but I finally located an industrial chemical outlet that asks only for assurances its products will be used for an educational purpose -- which is the plan.
Four ounces of acid, by the time we paid for special delivery and hazardous materials handling, would cost about $50.
"That's a lot of money," I said to him. "So if I'm going to shell that out, I want to make sure you know what you're doing."
I handed him a sheet of guidelines for the handling of chemicals printed off the Ohio State University Chemistry Department website.
"Familiarize yourself with these," I said. "And study this." I set down a piece of paper explaining acid, base and pH. "Then I want you to write out what acid is and exactly what experiments you intend to do with your acid. And as soon as you've done that, I'll place the order."
Needless to say, he never mentioned hydrochloric acid again, to my mingled relief and disappointment. And I felt I had made a strategic parenting breakthrough. So if next time he comes and says, "Dad, can we get a grizzly bear?" instead of arguing about it, I'll say, "Sure, but a bear like that will need a big pen: you'd better start building. But first, research the law regarding keeping wild animals in suburban yards . . ."
TODAY'S CHUCKLE. . .
A joke from Robert Hawkins in honor of the Army hitting its recruiting goals by lowering its standards:
I joined the Army because I was 18 and bored with the 10th grade.
— Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 14, 2007