a placeless world

With the minutes on the display of his miniature cell phone ticking up to test time, Andy Deesing is a tad frantic.

But the 20-year-old history major is still fairing better than many of the other university students crowded into an Einstein Bros. Bagels shop on this sunny Friday morning. And none of them had their notes pilfered a week before finals.

Car break-ins are a staple annoyance of city life. Not unlike pigeons, panhandlers and base jumpers. Thieves snatch stereo equipment, cash, trendy items of clothing — or whatever they can find. In Deesing's case, that meant a pair of sunglasses, a Beta Theta Pi fraternity checkbook, some fishing gear — and his class notes.

"With everything that was gone, I didn't even realize it at first," says Deesing, who sports a short blonde beard over an easy-going smile. "But when I got home, my mom said, 'It could have been worse. They could have taken your school books.'"

As the loss of his notes dawned on him, Deesing cussed in front of his own mother.

It may not have been a devastating blow to students of other ilk, but history majors are veracious note takers. In the one book thieves didn't get, Deesing's notes are meticulous: scripted in tidy capital letters with page numbers in the upper margins. There are no doodles.

"The good news is that everyone's been really great," Deesing says, taking a sip from his grande iced coffee — his second cup of the morning.

The bad news, he says, is that class notes are a personal thing. Sitting alone in the only corner of the bagel shop not yet soaked in morning sun, Deesing is surrounded by photocopies of other students' notes — some of which might as well be in Arabic — and may very well be.

He thumbs through the class text, "A Concise History of the Middle East" — concise at 600 pages. Deesing's first exam is a three-essay review on colonialism, nationalism and independence in one of the world's more complicated regions. On Monday, he faces back-to-back examinations on Vietnam and Soviet Russia.

He looks down at his phone. Test time. He stands and stuffs the notes into a brand new satchel. His smile fades just slightly.

"Here goes," he says.

Never mind Bob Woodward's contention that, during President Bush's first top secret intelligence briefing, the commander in chief was more interested in scoring a handful of peppermint candies left on the table by Pentagon staff than scouring the differences between Al Qaeda and Al Yankovic.

No, the big news in The First Journalist's latest book is that Colin Powell was sitting the bench during the Bush team's sprint to war.

That's the talk of the morning — every morning — since the Pulitzer winner announced the findings he reached after exhaustive, but mostly anonymous, source interviews. Seems Woodward uncovered a timeline strongly suggesting that before Powell knew of Bush's decision to go to war, the President had notified a prince from a nation that gave us — and may have provided financial aid to — most of the Sept. 11 hijackers.

The revelation has Democratic critics and Republican faithful alike rhetorically wondering what Powell could have possibly done to earn such a snub by his boss. The not-so-well-kept answer is that the career soldier did not see the same value in rushing off to war in Iraq as did Bush and his cadre of career civilian advisors.

Given the clarity of hindsight — especially the eye-numbing view of Saddam's nonexistent arsenal of chemical and biological weapons — many are wondering why the most respected politician in America didn't take his squeaky clean image and run before the president marched him out before the United Nations to announce, with prosecutors confidence exactly "what the United States knows about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction."

Veteran White House correspondent Helen Thomas went so far as to suggest that, had Powell resigned in protest of Bush's plans, he may have earned himself a "profile in courage," a term taken from the title of another Pulitzer winner's book. In the epilogue to that piece of work, then-Senator John F. Kennedy wrote "In whatever arena of life one may meet the challenge of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he faces if he follows his conscience… each man must decide for himself the course he will follow."

Kennedy wrote that historical examples — such as the profiles of eight stouthearted senators in his book — could be used as a guide, "but they cannot supply courage itself. For this, each man must look into his own soul."

Some have opined that the dovish Powell did look, and having done so found the depth of his being lacking.

In a light more favorable to Powell, Thomas has concluded that even good men sometimes fail to act when history calls for their courage. "Maybe," she wrote, "the real Powell will stand up someday."

But the answer to why Powell remained a team player in spite of his conscientious objections won't be found in Woodward's book, nor in Kennedy's. Powell may now be painted as a mysterious man with mysterious motivations, but the answers are hardly hidden. In fact, the answers are in a far-more conspicuous place: Powell's autobiography.

Thomas ignores and Woodward derides Powell's persona as "a good soldier" — and in doing so they miss a concept that is at once simple, elegant and extremely explanatory as to the secretary's motives — seemingly because they believe the facts contradict the image.

If Powell was such a good soldier, after all, he would not have made his opinions known in such a way that would earn him the contempt of his boss and war council peers. Soldiers do not ask questions. Soldiers do not contradict authority. Soldiers follow orders. Period.

Or so the thinking goes. But "My American Journey" is a homage to a different kind of military. Powell contends his career was built in an Army that is, in many ways, a significantly more amicable place for dreamers, visionaries and even opinionated skeptics than our hyper-compartmentalizing civilian society.

The true crime in Powell's Army was not stating an dissenting opinion but stating it in an inappropriate time.

And the true rewards came to those officers, like Powell, who were keenly able to bring brilliant results even while executing plans with which they had stated vehement disagreement during preparational phases.

In other words, Powell's Army rewarded those who could separate their passions from their duty.

But Powell's Pentagon paradigm fit like a a square peg in an oval office. To see that, we need look no further than Woodward's description of Donald Rumsfeld and his ever-intense chorus of "Why? Why? Why?" The song rings loud in Rumsfeld's dealings with all those he encounters — except Bush, who likes his yes men set to yes mode.

Powell — operating under the premise that his questions and doubts were acceptable until Bush told him "put your war uniform on," at which point the secretary snapped to attention and did as ordered. Not good enough for Bush, who still forced Powell to prove his loyalty by bringing to the United Nations an extremely flimsy case for ridding Iraq of its purported weapons of mass destruction. Even then, according to Woodward, Bush continued to allow his inner harem of hawks to snicker behind the secretary's back.

Kennedy predicted that men would most often fail to make history due to an unwillingness to make a decision to sacrifice friends, fortune, contentment and the esteem of fellow man.

Powell seems to have has lost all of those things, not for his unwillingness to make a decision, but rather for his incapacity to do so.

Still, his lesson may be used as a guide. Not for those who aspire for courage, but for those who aspire to bridge military and civilian ideas of what courage entails.

As a young white man undoubtedly angered over all of the things young white men get angry about, David Williams found solace in Leonard Pitts' words.

Pitts, a Pulitzer-prize winning columnist for the Miami Herald, appropriately chided his fellow African Americans for plastering unconditional support upon famous black athletes, actors and singers whose actions should earn them jail time, not praise.

Williams used the column as a model for his own rabid ramblings in The Daily Barometer at Oregon State University. Within hours, he was labeled a racist. Within days, he was fired from his post at the nationally recognized college newspaper.

If the liberal outrage spawned by Williams' words was a fire, the conservative reaction to his ouster was a napalm attack. To nationally syndicated radio talk show host Lars Larson and those of similar ilk, the young columnist was a still-bleeding martyr to the great conservative cause of proving bias in the nations of Academia and Journalia.

They called Williams' firing an affront to the First Amendment and criticized Barometer Editor Niki Sullivan for robbing the young man of an opportunity for scholarship.

As usual, the reactionaries on both sides of the fence missed the big picture as they took small portraits of the controversy.

As a columnist who has been fired from The Barometer — by a guy who now ranks among my very best friends, by the way — I'd say getting canned can serve as a learning experience.

The longer I've been in this business, the more I have come to understand a very simple principle: Our editors and publishers do not always agree with what we write or the attitude we take with us to work. We and others are free to judge the judgement of those who run newspapers. But we would be wrong more times than not if we always assumed that their decisions are made without due thought and consideration to their community, readers and paramount obligation to the First Amendment.

To be certain, the same words next to a different colored mug shot would have produced a very different reaction from the OSU community. Were Williams' comments unrefined? Certainly. But no more so than most other college editorialists, many of whom take the opportunity to write a column as a right to spew opinions regardless of fact, experience or relevance. As such, Williams was wrongly villainized for voicing his opinion, flawed as it may have been.

But in much the same way, Sullivan was wrongly villianized for her decision to terminate David's employment with the paper. Having read over OSU adjunct professor Steve Bagwell's analysis of the situation, it seems clear that Sullivan made the decision after full consideration of both the content of the column and the content of the author's character. In short, she took care to consider what she felt was in the best interest of her community, readers and paramount obligation to the First Amendment.

The protests will subside. The pundits will move onto other controversies. But the experiences Williams and Sullivan are sharing are preparing both students for careers in this profession, should they choose to take this road.

It's a bumpy one, by the way, but the scenery is damn beautiful.

I suppose it's appropriate that Hollywood is removed from Washington D.C. by the length of a vast and diverse nation.

It helps explain why Presidents Sheen, Kline, Douglas and Ford seem so far removed from Presidents Bush, Clinton, Bush and Reagan.

Truth is, for the most part, you couldn't tell one set from the other. Thespian Reagan once quipped that the greatest role he ever played was that of the president. Polls taken throughout George W. Bush's first term in office have "West Wing" President Josiah Bartlet up several points on his real-world counterpart.

And just like the real thing, Hollywood's presidents spend the majority of their time making decisions based on money, polls and partisan politics, listening to their advisors and generally playing it safe.

There's really just one difference — the reason why we leave the movie theater with shivers down our spine but leave the voting booth feeling like jellyfish. It's that one scene — usually near the end of the film — when everything changes. When most powerful man on the planet steps before of the TV cameras, looks America in the eye, shuns the advice of pollsters and political advisors…

… and admits vulnerability.

Here's Michael Douglas — as first-term President Andrew Shepherd — in the second-to-final scene of Rob Reiner's "The American President":

"I've loved two women in my life," he says, ending a policy of not talking about First Hottie Annette Bening and ending a policy of avoiding conviction in favor of election. "I lost one to cancer, and I lost the other 'cause I was so busy keeping my job I forgot to do my job.

"Well that ends right now."

Cliché? Sure. But there's a reason it is. There's just something about watching a big egomaniacal warmonger admit a mistake that's so touching, so poignant, so inspiring.

So presidential.

And yet so far removed from reality. Take Tuesday evening, when President Bush stood before the Whitehouse Press Corps for only the third time in his presidency. (Incidentally, big brave Bush's average of one press conference per year is the lowest in the nation's history.)

Bush promised the nation he would stay the course in Iraq. Promised to bring democracy, whatever the cost. Promised to "bring security to what has been a troubled part of the world."

All promises without plans, mind you. Then again, what good is a map if you don't even know where you are? Bush proved that he had no clue where he was Tuesday when he told the nation he was still holding out for "the truth on the weapons."

"I look forward to hearing the truth as to exactly where they are," he said.

Where they are, he said.

The President still believes he'll find a cache of VX gas hidden in a coffee can buried under a sand dune 20 miles southwest of Tikrit.

More power to him. I've got an uncle who thinks he's Judy Garland. It makes him happy, so we don't tell him otherwise.

While unabashedly maintaining such a delusion isn't exactly presidential, per say, it really doesn't matter. A strong percentage of America also believes Saddam Hussein was stirring up an evil concoction somewhere, and continues to have scores of scientists and soldiers so scared that no one is saying a thing about said solution.

And besides, speaking purely in terms of what's "presidential," Bush more than made up for his numerous flubs with some passionate talk about freedom.

"I believe that freedom is the deepest need of every human soul," he said, "and if given a chance, the Iraqi people will be not only self-governing, but a stable and free society."

But for an America that secretly — and sometimes not so secretly — desires a president more like the ones it gets at the box office, Bush fell short. Because even when given a big, fat, vulnerable softball to hit out of the proverbial park, he failed to act even the slightest bit human.

Question: "Two weeks ago, a former counterterrorism official at the NSC, Richard Clarke, offered an unequivocal apology to the American people for failing them prior to 9-11. Do you believe the American people deserve a similar apology from you, and would you prepared to give them one?"

Answer: "Look, I can understand why people in my administration are anguished over the fact that people lost their life. I feel the same way. I mean, I'm sick when I think about the death that took place on that day. And as I mentioned, I've met with a lot of family members, and I do the best to console them about the loss of their loved one.

"As I mentioned, I oftentimes think about what I could have done differently. I can assure the American people that had we had any inkling that this was going to happen, we would have done everything in our power to stop the attack."

Buuuuuuuuut…

"Here's what I feel about that: The person responsible for the attacks was Osama bin Laden. That's who's responsible for killing Americans. And that's why we will stay on the offense until we bring people to justice."

In other words: "No, I don't think I should apologize. Why should I apologize? It was only the single greatest number of casualties on American soil since the Civil War. And sure it happened during my watch, but I'm just one guy. What can I do? Don't look at me, it was bin Laden's fault!

"And yeah, maybe I'd do things differently, but does that mean I should apologize? That's just so… so… so… unpresidential."

And perhaps, outside of Hollywood, admitting vulnerability, fallibility and even mistakes is unpresidential.

But not un-Christian. And from a president who claims to hold Jesus Christ — a man who advocated the asking of forgiveness as a central tenet of his teaching — as his top political hero, we would be right to expect more.

And since even Christ seem to be more Hollywood than Holy Land, lately, why not?

The water was just this side of ice. So cold that I had to pull my fly out of the river every few minutes and flick off the frozen crystal bubble that kept forming around the hook.

My knees shook. My hands ached. But I was in heaven.

The first man on the river.

I'd left home with the moon still high and bright in the black Utah sky to ensure an arrival just before the sun broke over the Uintas.

I stepped out of my car. Into my waders. Onto the path. Into the river.

I set the fly onto the water's surface, just behind a long stretch of white ripples. I watched her glide downstream, yanked her into the cold morning air, listened for the snap as the line stretched out behind me, and set her back down.

An hour and several spots later, I hadn't so much as a bite. No fish. Or, more likely, no interest in my choice of lures.

Didn't matter. I was still alone. Still working my line to set the fly down on the perfect spot, right behind the ripples on the river's frigid surface. Still in heaven.

And then, in one misstep, a cold day in heaven became a cold day in hell.

The Middle Provo doesn't look very intimidating. It's narrow, in most spots, and not so very deep. As such it makes a very good fishing river.

But looks can be deceiving. The spot where I fell was shin deep, if that, but the current hit me like an ocean tide. Before I could turn my body upright I was fully submerged.

And my rubber waders were filling with water.

I kicked my legs together and broke the surface. Now I'm quite sure I should have gasped for air, but in the moment, as my body burned in the frigid water, I laughed.

And then, back under once again.

The same current that dragged me under swept me into a shallower spot. I climbed out of the river — on the bank directly opposite from where I fell in — soaked to the skin. I pulled off my vest and sweater and loosened the belt on my waders, sending a rush of water onto the ground.

I shivered violently as I walked up stream, looking for a shallow spot to cross.

In the car, wearing a pair of short pants and socks — the only extra clothes I had in my trunk — I leaned into the dash and pined for the days when my car was new and my heater warmed more quickly. I passed a McDonald's restaurant and thought about the woman who burned herself on the hot, hot coffee and won a million-dollar verdict. "Coffee that hot would be good right about now," I told myself.

I pulled into the parking lot. Inside, an old couple was enjoying a breakfast of hashbrowns, flatcakes and orange juice. I looked to the door.

"No shirt? No shoes? No service."

I wondered whether they'd make an exception for a frozen young man. Then I thought about all the times that I've tried to purchase breakfast at 10:31 a.m. Say what you will about McDonald's employees. They know how to stick by the rules.

I turned into the drive-through entrance. The sign above the menu board read: "Cash only." I dipped my finger into my ash tray.

23 cents. 28 cents if you include the Canadian nickel.

I drove on. Went home. Walked up the stairs in my socks and shorts and bare skin. I slid under the down covers on my big, big bed.

And wondered whether my waders would be dry in time to fish again the following day.

"The most violent week since the start of the war in Iraq."

That's what she called it — the Botoxed blonde bombshell on the 6 o'clock news.

I long ago pledged to stop screaming at the office television. It doesn't seem to make the news anchors any less repugnant. And it doesn't seem to make the correspondents any more accurate, ethical or compassionate.

But I made a special exception this evening. Leaping from my chair, I paced the cubicle-lined aisles, grunting like an angry silverback.

"The most violent week since the start of the war in Iraq." The ignorance. The arrogance.

I mourn the loss of the soldiers and civilians killed in Iraq this week. I'm anguished by the scenes of hostages taken in this dreadful war.

As an American, I pray for the safety of my fellow countrymen. But I've never tried to fool myself into thinking that they alone should occupy my prayers.

I stare up at the small TV screen. "The most violent week? The most violent week?

"How…" I demand of the cake-faced anchor, "…could you forget the first weeks of this war? The weeks when U.S. bombs fell from they sky? The weeks when U.S. soldiers emptied their weapons into the bodies of Iraqi soldiers… and sometimes civilians?

"And how could you forget the intervening months? The months when wayward bombs and wayward bullets buried countless innocents?"

And with that, I'd answered my own question. I returned to my seat without further a word.
Countless innocents.

I've yet to hear a suitable explanation as to why the United States government does not account for those it kills in military action. As a former GI, I'm well aware of how accurately the boys in supply account for every spent bullet, for every used swab, for every last pair of shiny-toed boots.

And yet the U.S. military will not account for the bodies it creates.

Not for those of Iraqi innocents — killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because they were in the right place at the wrong time, or because they were in the wrong place at the right time.

Not for those of enemy soldiers — conscripted, by the way, to fight for a dictator whom they probably did not support.

And not even for those the U.S. calls "insurgents" who have taken up arms against what the U.S. calls a "liberation."

But U.S. soldiers are counted. Counted and honored and given due respect in death, if not in life.

Of course the dimwit anchor believes this to be the most violent day since the start of the war. She has no account to the contrary.

And most of her viewers don't want one. Most will not dispute that they value one American life over 1,000 others. Perhaps 10,000 others. That's their understanding of patriotism.

The American media does little to discourage such beliefs. A soldier returns as a hero when he lives. He returns as a legend and a martyr when he dies.

Even those professing anti-war politics enforce this paradigm. To them, a dead soldier represents the "failure" of the American war effort.

What of the others? What of the countless innocents? Are they not failures of the American war effort?

It doesn't matter. Thirty seconds have passed and the anchor is onto another story, taking her audience of hundreds of thousands along for the ride.

It's Good Friday, and some crazies in some foreign country have nailed themselves to a cross.
Look at those crazies. Look at them go.

At some point, Beto's parents promised him they would stop sticking needles into their arms. Beto took their word for it — what else is a 7-year-old boy supposed to do?

Then, on the afternoon of March 31, he walked into the kitchen and learned that his parents had lied.

His 8-year-old sister, Alisha, ran to a neighbor's home to call 911. Beto returned to the family kitchen to pull the needles out of his mother's body.

Their efforts went for naught. Paula Castillo was dead on the scene. Armando Roman survived, but may as well have been dead. He soon left town for Boston — Mecca for the heroin faithful — leaving his children in the custody of Utah's Department of Human Services without so much as an apology for his failures as a father.

I struggle to comprehend a lust so strong that it supercedes a parent's natural desire to protect the lives of his children.

Perhaps Melissa Rowland could explain. Her drug of preference was cocaine. Her victims were her unborn twin children — one stillborn, the other nearly dead at delivery.

Her rationale for dismissing a doctor's demand that she undergo an emergency C-section to save the life of her children? A scar would ruin her sex life.

Activists have turned Rowland — whom the Salt Lake County prosecutor unwisely charged with murder — into a postergirl for a woman's right to choose. But I tremble when I think of what would have happened if she had chose.

What if she elected to take the doctor's advice? Both children's lives would have been saved, but for what? So that they could live like Beto and Alisha? Forever afraid of walking into the kitchen to find their mother dead on the cold tile floor?

Half of us are perfectly satisifed with telling a woman what she may and may not do with her children before they are born — and just as satisfied to ignore those children once they arrive.

The other half is content to let a woman do whatever she wants to her unborn children — and recoils in horror when they are drugged, neglected and otherwise abused once they're here.

Rowland's surviving child is too young to know she has been failed. Beto and Alisha are old enough to know they've been failed, but think it's their parents' fault.

They don't yet know, and perhaps they never will.

We've all failed them.