Land Enough For Everyone

     Isn't it presumptuous of man to think he can own land? Or to think, “I own this property now and forevermore and no on can share any of it unless I say so 'cause it's mine! All mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!” Or, “I have this piece of paper that proves my ownership rights...” I don't deny the legal authority or benefits of land ownership—I'd like to perhaps own a house myself someday if I feel that's God's desire for me, but come on, own land? What does that mean? 
     Ownership suggests permanence, yet nothing in this life is owned perpetually, not even the plot of land in which our remains are buried. Within hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands years it's inevitable that our burial plots will be destroyed, paved over, or turned over to some other use. Land is just too scarce to think otherwise.
     In terms of the big picture, I believe that God created this glorious, beautiful, wonderful life-sustaining orb that has a limited life span of a few billion years tops. And that he created us modern humans to thrive, multiply, enjoy, and live upon this orb for a little more than a hundred years tops, each. And it seems to me that the entirety of this earthy paradise belongs to God or perhaps to all his creation—not just man alone, or just certain countries, or just certain individuals or entities within each country. After all, man arrived on earth just recently compared to crocodiles, sharks, and tons of other of its long-term inhabitants.  
     Sure, some may claim that none of this is Biblical 'cause God gave Israel the Promised Land as their possession (which they later lost due to repeated disobedience to God, I might add). 
     But one of my favorite passages in the Bible that no one I know of likes to discuss, remember, or even acknowledge is in the Book of Acts in which all the followers sell all their possessions and give freely to everyone in need so that no one lacked anything. This spontaneous repudiation of private ownerships of land and all earthy possessions was one of the greatest miracles ever because the followers—real people—for perhaps one of the few times ever acknowledged that all belongs to God who gives freely to all, that God is sovereign, that God's Holy Spirit can be relied on to guide everyone in all righteousness, and that trusting first in His abundant provision, no one including the givers of all will ever be in want. 
     Whenever I share this with someone—even Godly Christians—I sense a tightening up as if to suggest “What? Just give away my house and years of hard earned savings to lazy scums, drug addicts, and dirt bags, who haven't lifted a finger to help themselves all their lives?”
     There's no easy answers to this, but picture life with the foreknowledge of an inevitable and shared catastrophic doom—perhaps a huge asteroid or comet slamming into earth. It could happen. Now if everyone knew this was going to happened a year, a month, or a week from now, how might people live differently? Would living lives in the obsessive pursuit of accumulating ever more wealth still remain paramount to so many—especially us Americans? Or Hawaii residents? Or my family and me at times?
     No.
     Rather, I think we'd all cash out all our discretionary assets and do those few last major things that must be done before we all die—visit loved ones, carry out commitments, seek forgiveness for past hurts committed, and everything else that has to be done because there just isn't enough time to waste doing anything else. And the excess of such liquidated assets would most certainly go not to loved ones with ample, who don't need anymore because there's no time left to spend it all, but to those in need—who never had and never will during this earthly existence have anything of worth other then life itself. 'Cause at that point why should anyone in need have to go without?
     Yet this science-fiction scenario is not so different from what we all face in everyday life, for we all do share a collective, sudden, certain catastrophic doom: death. For in the life of our universe, a million years is less than a blink of an eye. A thousands years is less than a thought. A hundred years is less than the tiniest increment perceptible on the most precise atomic clock. We're all on the verge of this shared sudden doom, yet we all too often act as if we're immortal. Especially when it comes to our own possessions, which I find puzzling at times. 
     It's easy to imagine how the first possession came into being. There was a caveman—a big, tough, selfish, greedy brute that favored a certain stick, stone, berry plant, cave corner, fishing spot, or watering hole perch. He saw someone else take that favored possession (new words and thoughts) for temporary usage and via a very strong physical effort or display—a shove, snatch, hit, tackle, roar, stare, or threatening movement got it back! And kept it evermore until the next tougher brute came along and took it away from him. 
     Is this God's best for man in a world of plenty but limited prime resources? 
     Antarctica, I think might be the model of sharing. No one country or individual owns or possesses it. It's shared by all for perpetual peaceful purposes. Stuck residents, inaccessible to incoming or outgoing vessels for months at a time, must share with others in need. And residents from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds, and speaking different native tongues do quite well cooperating, for the most part. 
     I'd love to live and see the day when the Book of Acts comes to life again. It would be fantastic to be part of, especially if such ready giving and sharing lasted beyond our lifetimes to our kids' and then some. It would have to be so freeing to not ever have to worry or think about or struggle for the continued accumulation of wealth again. Relying on fellow man at times can be a good thing. Anyone who has experienced a flat tire, empty gas tank, or lost cell phone or wallet and received the help of a kindly stranger knows this—it's a blessing both to giver and recipient. And always relying on God is even better.

Table Manners

     I read in a novel that it's the small day-to-day courtesies—the exchanged thank you's, you're welcomes, good mornings, good bye's, and have a great days, and the shared chores, errands, and responsibilities—that make for happy marriages. It seems like such a simple formula, but I think there's much truth to it, for nobody is perfect and everyone is flawed, so that it's not so much the person someone marries (since we're all filled at times with horrible, shameful, selfish, evil, and hurtful thoughts and feelings) but rather how a person treats his partner despite those shortcomings that matters most, for if a husband treats his wife well, she'll tend towards happiness; if he treats her bad, she'll tend towards sadness. Sort of like a sunflower that reaches toward sunlight when love and acceptance is offered, or droops and collapses when locked in a dark closet where nothing but moribund silence and disregard prevails. And of course the opposite's true whereby a husband will tend toward happiness or sadness depending on his wife's treatment of him. When both sides function well, there's usually ample happiness on both sides. (And there's seldom a glutton for punishment in marriage, at least not for long in happy ones.) 
     And I believe this simple formula also applies beyond marriage to immediate family life, for families, like couples thrive most when members help out, show consideration, and seldom take each other for granted. (It helps me when I struggle with selfish disregard to think that they won't always be here, that I won't always be here, and that I don't live alone anymore.)    
     Common courtesy for our family extends beyond exchanged pleasantries and shared chores to decent manners according to our customs. 
     This has been a struggle for our family and continues to be, for it's not always easy to mind our manners in the midst of hectic schedules, frazzled nerves, disappointments, and endless demands. In short, life's tough and we don't always feel up to it. Nonetheless, its worthwhile lest we neglect, hurt, demean, or offend another by our careless, thoughtless, or crass insensitivity as if no one's there or he or she doesn't matter much, for everyone wants and deserves dignity and respect 'cause no one's beneath another, slave-like, or sub-human. 
     The dinner table's a prime example. Sometimes ours reminds me (or used to) of The Simpsons for its Homer-like belches and burps without so much as an “Excuse me” or hand held over gaping mouth to obscure tongue and uvula. 
     “What do you say?” I ask with astonishment after such an outburst with no apology in the offing. 
     “Excuse me,” Deanne may say after a chuckle. 
     “Elbows off the table” is a common refrain to our kids or “Eat with your lips closed.”
     It may sound harsh, but my dad used to jab my cheek with his pointed index finger when I didn't “get it” and kept chewing open-mouthed after endless, repeated reminders—it even drew me to tears at times and I hated it!
     But I thank him now (Thanks Dad!) for teaching me civility so that I can eat anywhere with anyone with no apparent disapproval (that I'm aware of).
     And I did the same for my children when they didn't get it (especially Braden who was slow to learn), but now, they seldom need reminding even with words. 
     Other corrective reminders that we employ as necessary include:
     “Sit up straight”—no ducking head down to fork like a bird sipping water; no slouching. 
     “Put your plate in the middle”—not angled off to one side.
     “Wait your turn”—age before youth when self-serving; no interrupting when someone else is speaking.
     “Take your fair share.”
     “Eat civilized”—no noodles dangling from mouth to plate; put entire forkful of food into mouth; cut meats to size; no hasty eating.
     “Hands on your lap”—don't rest unused hands on table or gesture inappropriately with them.
     “Sit properly”—unused hand belongs outside the thigh, not crossed over creating closed body language to persons seated on that side of the table.
     “Hold your fork properly”—no hobo hand grips or flipping utensil upside down into mouth. 
     “Sit straight”—no half-turned body or errant leg placements.
     “Finish your vegetables first...” before asking for dessert or seconds.
     “Swallow before talking.” 
     “No more talking until you finish your dinner”—eat and don't just talk. 
     “I can't hear what you're saying”—no side conversations, whispers, or secrets; include everyone in conversational exchanges.
     “What do you say?”—receive permission to be excused before leaving or taking seconds; say please, thank you, I'm sorry, or excuse me.
     “I don't understand what you're saying” or “Does that make sense?”—think before speaking. 
     “I don't know, go look it up”—no endless annoying questions.
     “You don't know what you're talking about”—don't spout off false knowledge like a know-it-all or state wild speculation as fact. 
     “Let's change the topic” or “We'll discuss it later”—said to Deanne for inappropriate subject matter or when emotions run too high.
     It might sound harsh, as if everyone sits in a straight-jacket of formality at our family dinners, but it's quite the opposite: warm, friendly feelings, shared laughs, spontaneity, and positive reinforcements flow through ninety-five percent of most meals. And it's hard to imaging such shared conviviality sans decent manners. For by focusing first on others at our meals with everyone saying, “Can you please pass me the ______” and “Thank you” in turn, we all feel valued, welcome, and a part, and none is excluded or minimized. Good manners is just a nice, easy way to show caring. And as they say, over ninety percent of communications is non-verbal, tons of which include manners. 
     I've told my kids that manners are culturally determined, everywhere interprets good manners differently, and different families set their own standards. Nonetheless, the first time I witnessed uncivilized manners by high school classmates at a formal banquet, I was shocked. But I was also relieved that my parents had taught and trained me well. And I'm sure my kids will feel likewise when the same happens to them. Or when they dine with their girlfriend's or boyfriends' parents for the first time. 'Cause manners do matter and leave big, lasting impressions.

Lying

     I read in a non-fiction, heavily researched book (that wasn't about parenting) that asking one's son certain difficult questions forces him to lie, therefore parents ought not to ask sons such questions because doing so only trains them to become adept liars.
     This struck me as so much dumb psycho-babble advice because if one's child has trouble with such a critical character-defining trait, one ought to instead drill him until he gets it right—before he leaves home and it's too late. 
     My mom, I'm convinced, did this very thing to me when I was in the habit (probably at around age seven or eight) of lying. 
     I find a dime on our hallway floor. Mom, materialized out of nowhere, asks, “Is that yours?”
     “Yes,” I say.
     A look of dismay shrouds her usually cheerful, pretty face and transforms it into a tragic dough ball of worry. And she says “I don't know what I'm going to do with you—growing up to become a liar.” 
     “I was just joking,” I say to reassure her.
     She shakes her head, says, “No, you were serious, I'm worried about you,” and walks away bent double, hand to mouth, as if I were the cause of all her worldly suffering. 
     Asian mothers have a knack for making their children feel guilty and small. Even over the smallest of things. Such as a dime planted on the floor to entrap a lying son. I never felt guiltier in my life. Lousy. Filthy. And unworthy. I couldn't have felt much worse had I raped, maimed, or murdered Lei Hamada—sweet, helpless two-year-old down the street from us. So I knew then for certain that I never wanted to feel that way ever again. Or to disappoint Mom again. And to avoid those feelings and Mom's reproach, I decided never, ever to lie again. 
     For the most part, I've kept that commitment. God has helped me in this, for whenever I tell a doozy, I almost invariably get busted and feel guilty. Or I don't get caught and I feel even worse because of it. Either way, guilt forces me to repent and redetermine to never, ever lie again for the rest of my life! I've got tons of character flaws, but dishonesty ranks low on the list—thanks, Mom and praise God.
     Like me, no kid has to lie. There's no gun to the head or waterboarding involved. It's sinful nature or Satan that tempts a kid to lie. It's the desire to get away with something wrong. Or to steal credit for something good. What innocent kid says, “I stole it”, or what helpful kid says, “I didn't do the dishes”? (In Shindler's List, a boy lies to a Nazi soldier in order to avert senseless killings—a rare good lie that seldom happens in real life.)
     Braden, a trustworthy, honest boy overall has of late become loose with the truth. A week ago on a Monday evening, I find a permission form on my home desk calendar for his end-of-the-year JROTC banquet that Deanne says is due tomorrow. I hate this 'cause I've told him countless times to give me at least two weeks advance notice for such things. I ask him, When did you get this? He says, He gave it to us on Friday. When's it due? I ask. Tomorrow, he says. Why didn't you give it to me on Friday, then? I ask. I forgot, he says. This irritates me even further since his delay tightens the already tight deadline. I decide to make him suffer the consequences of his delay (and figure since the deadline is unreasonable, why rush?) and blow it all off for a day. 
     While I peruse the form at work, its date—nearly a month prior to when Braden got it—pops out at me, as does the due date that's a day earlier than Braden mentioned.  
     I call the school's JROTC class and get put through to an upper classman teacher's assistant to whom I restate what Braden told me, and ask about the mismatched dates and if Braden was lying or was the form really distributed so late with a new due date?
     The guy, who sounds African American with a southern accent says in hurried, slurred speech (Is Braden imitating him when he speaks, I wonder?), “The form was distributed awhile ago and was due yesterday. One of the boys said he lost his form and asked for another...”
     I immediately like the guy for his formal manner, loyalty to cadets, and candor. He thrice apologizes—wholly unnecessary—that he can't answer my question—Is Braden on the list of awardees?—because they haven't yet gotten around to making the list. 
     Braden is already in the doghouse with Deanne and me for talking back, acting disrespectful, disobeying, and violating other rules, and I realize that further time outs, lectures, dinners alone outside in the carport, walks up and down the street, and doing all the chores are losing their effectiveness, so I decide to pull a Mom on him and make him feel guilty. 
     I say nothing, sign the form, ante up the $25, and leave them on his desk. After all, he deserves a treat for taking JROTC as an extra credit elective and following through with it every school morning, I reason. Maybe he'll feel guilty for getting away with the lie. 
     But he doesn't display much, if any, remorse, only apparent smugness for having duped me. So right before bedtime that day I snap at him, “I know you lied to me—get to bed!”
     Only, it's not over yet, 'cause only a few days later, he disobeys a direct command and lies about it.
     Because we live on an older, narrow street without sidewalks, I've told him for years to walk on the left side of the road toward oncoming traffic. When I see him walk on the wrong side to the bus stop one morning, I remind him via angry scoldings that evening.  
     Two days later, I see him do it again! I reprimand him and he mutters under his breath. What did you say? I ask. I was just crossing the street! he growls with a dismissive hand gesture that suggests, “What are you getting so worked up about? I didn't do anything wrong!” 
     I saw you walking up the street! I say.
     He curses me with his eyes.  Caught dead in a lie and confronted with the truth, he hasn little choice.
     Sometimes I get so exasperated by his continued bad attitude, defiance, and disrespectful attitudes, I feel like striking him.
     And sometimes I feel like sending him away.
     Mostly, I try to get him out of my sight when he's fuming about everything so I won't ruin his, mine, and everyone else's day. 
     But we still have to feed, clothe, teach, school, and house him, and provide him with a monthly bus pass. I suppose his lying, disobedience, rebellion, and arrogant disrespect wouldn't hurt so much if we didn't love him so. After all, if we didn't, would we even bother or care? 
     God help us and him! We need you so, God! (I often feel so utterly helpless when no matter what we do or try, it seems we're not getting anywhere with him. I suppose all parents of teens feel that way sometimes. Or frequently. Or always. God help and bless all parents of teens!)

Date Nights—Part III

     For Valentine's Day, Deanne and I watched The Flying Dutchman at the Neal Blaisdel Concert Hall performed with musicians from the Honolulu Symphony Orchestra and dozens of opera singers. I bought tickets by phone through Hawaii Opera Theater for pickup before the show at the will-call booth, thereby optimizing affordability, seat location, and purchasing convenience, for when I called the Blaisdel Ticket Office, $30 bargain seats were sold out (plus tickets had to be purchased in advance in person) and Ticket Master's processing fees were exorbitant.
     It was our first classic opera and here are my impressions: Fantastic music—can't beat Wagner for conjuring images of stormy seas through sound; lighting and staging added to the foreboding mood; the soprano and the humorous night watchman sang with penetrating gusto—very impressive; acting was OK, nothing spectacular (I saw Pavoratti on TV once in a classic opera and his acting stank—I guess for him it's all about the voice); and the engaging story kept me guessing to the end (my guesses were way off).
     Afterward we went for a quick bite at Ward Warehouse where the only kiosk open that Sunday evening was Mr. Eggroll. Its Chinese food was excellent for the price and super convenience (it was getting late), and the proprietress was friendly and generous, giving sample dishes to try and even an extra sample with our meals. 
     On another evening following an exhausting weekend in which we wanted to escape house and kids, we went for a low stress, low hassle dinner at Lee Ho Fook Restaurant, a favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese Cultural Plaza restaurant facing the canal. The six table Hong Kong style mom-n-pop shop serves yummy noodles and soup, has not changed its prices in years, gives generous portions, doesn't add MSG (that makes my hands feel weak and gets me thirsty), and allows the flavors of natural ingredients to come through without overpowering seasonings. Its offerings beat those of numerous fancier restaurants that charge twice or thrice the price, and its casual, relaxed, come-as-you-are atmosphere reminds me of my youth with its Formica top tables, vinyl padded steel leg chairs, and linoleum floors. We slurped up seafood won tons with chilli oil and dug into our egg foo young (a Hawaii classic) and three meat cake noodle with hearty relish, then walked along Chinatown's main thoroughfare past Mauna Kea Marketplace to window shop and burn off calories.  
     Then on Thursday's Kuhio Day state holiday we went to one of Art and Flea's monthly events at an industrial warehouse behind Marukai across Ward Warehouse partly converted into unfinished shabby/chic display areas where sixty tiny start-up vendors peddled their art, jewelry, hand made instruments and toys, used albums, baked goods, snacks, thrift clothes, and other offerings while a DJ spun vinyl disks pumping out young dance music (house, techno, trance—I don't know what). The vendors answered all my questions such as, “Where did you get this from?” “Are you the artist?” “Did you use a long or short lens on this photo?” with enthusiasm and friendly engagement. There was a demonstration outside featuring a very lively and synchronized dance team bedecked in uniform tights, t-shirts, and sneakers, with moves like robot from the '70s and hiphop from the '90s. 
     The crowd was predominantly twenty-something petite female beauties, some hand in hand with a complaint significant other. Entrance fee was $3 each, which was okay for a once-in-awhile thing, and I ended up purchasing a framed original hand drawn acrylic doodles on original photo for $35 that now adorns our dining room wall. When I first saw it, I wasn't sure how it'd been done, the doodles were so whimsically convincing that it made the wave photo beneath seem painted, and I'd never seen a piece quite like it before. The artist with purple dyed hair and large arm tattoo had a lot of different styled work with no set one-trick-pony pattern or theme, so understanding her individual works was a bit more challenging, which I think is great as I love variety partly because it gives me a better sense of who the artist is and how she thinks, which factors into purchase decisions.
     One of the most gratifying parts of the event was its welcoming air—I didn't feel at all intimidated, awkward, or unwanted, or that a pickpocket might target me, or that a seamy underbelly lay hidden, so that later at home I told Deanne that my sense of the youth there was one of innocence, which was hopeful. 
     I pray my sense was accurate and representative and that it bodes well for my kids' futures. I remember my youth when drug abuse (mostly alcohol and marijuana), posturing, and judgmental attitudes and behaviors were rampant among my classmates (and I, except for the drugs, which I didn't do) and how far from innocent we all were. Of course, I knew them and myself tons better than I do today's twenty-something youths, and who knows what I'd think if I knew them better? Probably depends on which “thems” I knew as everyone is different. Yet, in general, I think certain things may have changed for the better.

Second (and Third and Fourth) Opinions

     Decades ago, Dear Abbey's Abigail Van Buren recommended that her readers seek and obtain as many medical opinions as necessary until a satisfactory diagnosis and treatment plan is received because doctors are fallible (and some are less than honest, I might add). I've taken this advice to heart and through the years it's saved me much heart and pocketbook pain. 
     Dentists in particular have been my sometimes nemeses. It started in Seattle in the late 1980's when a dentist I selected from the Yellow Pages, who claimed to offer “reasonable” rates, cleaned and examined my teeth, remarked twice how nice they were, twice asked if I was Japanese (he was Korean), and said I needed fourteen fillings which would be a “big improvement”—despite my having had only four tiny fillings at that point (I still have only four) and I had been doing my diligent daily dental hygiene best, same as always. Not convinced, I asked him to write down which teeth 'cause I wanted to ask my mother who works in a doctor's office her opinion. He said in a doctor's office? I said yes. He nodded and wrote numbers (designating the teeth) on a Post-it note and gave me at my request the more than dozen x-rays he'd taken. 
     Only then did I do the smart thing (I was young) and asked my friend for a recommendation. He referred me to his dentist who worked down the street from where he lived in Laurelhurst. The dentist, who never recommended my friend do anything with his teeth, examined my teeth along with the x-rays, thrice commented how nice my teeth were, and asked could he see the list of suspect teeth because it might provide him clues? I said, Please draw your own conclusions first, then I'll show you the list. He went over each tooth and selected x-rays again and said he couldn't find anything wrong with any of them. I showed him the list and he went over the fourteen teeth plus some x-rays again, commenting as he went tooth-by-tooth on the health of each, then quipped, “your dentist must want a second boat,” which caused my heart to ache with longing to bless him. And he didn't even charge a fee for the over half-hour consultation. 
     A few years later, after I'd moved back to Honolulu, my regular dentist said she'd put in a small filling where I had some gum recession, the first of several that “will be a big improvement.” Yet she and her hygienist always complimented me for my “beautiful teeth.” Since I didn't feel the need for any fillings, I changed dentists to Doctor Franklin Fukuda, who to this day has never recommended a filling. 
     Twelve years later, our family's pediatric dentist said Braden needed two fillings due to tooth decay. I asked him to show me which teeth and he stuck a probe in and touched the chewing surfaces of two molars. (As a youth, I got a cavity once when I forgot to bring my toothbrush to a Boy Scout summer camp when I served on staff for several weeks. Doctor Atebara demonstrated the hard taffy-like stickiness of my tooth's decayed enamel by shoving in the needle point of a probe, then pulling away until it released with a sudden jerk. I wanted to see that happen with Braden's teeth (as proof). He was unable to do it, but rather jerked the probe to one side to simulate stickiness. I had him jot down the teeth in question, then brought Braden to see another pediatric dentist who said that he needed four fillings, but none of the teeth to be filled matched those of the prior dentist! (I didn't show or tell him about the list.)
     I then took Braden to Dr. Fukuda who said, All his teeth look fine. I can't find anything wrong with any of those six teeth. 
     God bless him for his honesty! 
     Finally, Pene's myopia has been progressing so her ophthalmologist, whom we two years ago changed to for reasons of convenience, recommended low dose Atropine eye drops inserted every night for months (or years) on end to help slow the progression and thereby reduce the risk of a retinal tear or detachment. She said studies in Asia showed that “it worked” but that it hasn't yet been FDA approved because “drug companies refuse to sponsor studies because the drug is already generic” (i.e. there's no profit motive). Because Pene and I felt so uncomfortable about the treatment recommendation; because Internet research listed very few studies, none of which were long-term; and because when I asked my ophthalmologist at my annual check-up what he though about the treatment, he said it's tough on patients and parents and the myopia could return once drops are stopped; we took Pene in to see our original pediatric ophthalmologist, who said she doesn't recommend eye drops to treat myopia; the Asian studies happened for two years, then stopped; there are no long-term studies; and the risk of retinal damage from even severe myopia is very low. She also mentioned that only one pharmacy in all Hawaii mixed the Atropine dilute, which I found suggestive of less than wide-spread acceptance or appeal. 
     So for now, we'll forgo the eye drops option, and instead follow the common-sense recommendations gleaned from multiple doctors and staff that Pene get lots of out-door exercise, take regular reading breaks, and read arm's length rather than nose-to-page. I'll pray as always for her health and trust what we cannot control to God, because He is always in control. And as He said, “I give you peace, the kind of peace that only I can give. It isn't like the peace that this world can give so don't be worried or afraid." (I tend to stress about such things...)
     By the way, the upside of all this regarding Pene is she loves to read (as do all our kids) and devours books like tiny bags of potato chips—it astounds me how fast she reads. Largely as a result, she's doing just fine in school—we couldn't ask for more.

Voting—Part II

     There's been ample talk of our nation's broken healthcare system so I won't reiterate that now, but given the U.S. population's repulsion with Congress's handling of its job (75% disapproval rating), greater disapproval than approval of the way the U.S. president and Supreme Court are handling their jobs, and all-time low voter turnouts since WWII in the last national election (37%), the argument could be made that our nation's leaders in all three branches of government are ill-representing the will of the people and that America's system of “democracy” (representative form of government, really, a far cry from true democracy whereby majority rules in all cases) is thereby itself ill, dysfunctional, and/or broken.
     True, America's leaders were never very representative—not back when nearly all were white, well-to-do men, and only wealthy white males were allowed to vote. Yet even today, with half the nation's voters female and minority groups on the rise, why is there still such a dearth of female and minority representation in Congress, the Supreme Court, and the executive branch? 
     I'm not complaining about the overall system as I recognize the value of our Constitution and the rule of law, however, without proportionate representation of women, minorities, teachers, accountants, social workers, blue collar workers, the unemployed, the poor, immigrants, and youth at all levels and in all branches of government, the people's will will continue to be ill-served by elected and appointed leaders. So can citizens be blamed for disengaging and not voting considering how leaders' capricious laws and edicts are passed, signed, issued, and forced upon them by mostly white male attorneys in D.C. and others equally disconnected at all levels of government?
     At the root of the problem lies big money influence in elections and politics, which has gotten obscene—everyone knows this, yet average exasperated citizens feel powerless to do anything about it 'cause past efforts to obliterate, reform, or even moderate such outsized influence have resulted in only paltry, token changes. I believe this can and will change when things get bad enough (yes, things can and will worsen 'cause greed knows no bounds) 'cause all governments, even ruthless dictatorships (as four time Nobel Peace Prize nominee Eugene Sharp pointed out) derive all their powers and privileges from citizens, and citizens always have the ability and power to revoke all such granted powers and privileges. And I'm not talking about voting do-nothing or corrupt politicians out of office, either, 'cause even responsible voting won't change a thing when there are only slim-pickin' just-as-bad alternative candidates to choose from that will change things only to the extent an exterior decorator might who dresses up a ramshackle, beaten down, worn, old, musty, hob-mailed, condemned, termite-ridden shack with a fresh coat of white-with-blue-tint or white-with-red-tint paint, take your pick.
     No, citizens will have to move en masse via a ground swell, a movement so persistent, powerful, and ever building that it can no longer be ignored or contained, a movement that may include but not be limited to recurring gestures, communications, gatherings, protests, marches, sign wavings, firestorm publications, and other campaigns legal and nonviolent, a movement that does not quit despite minor efforts to appease, a movement that continues calm in righteous confidence until those in power finally realize they have no choice, having been effectively stripped of all implied powers and privileges or nearly so, they must step aside or change to conform to the people's will.
     Small gestures from large numbers can mean a lot in aggregate, far more even than big dollar campaign contributions and other influence peddling and lobbying by wealthy individuals, special interests, and corporations. 
     Imagine if the 145 million non-voters in the last election placed one brick each to form a wall around the White House, Congress, and U.S. Supreme Court to symbolize citizens' will to block would-be buyers of influence from those hallowed institutions. I imagined there'd be a pretty high wall. Turns out a ten foot high brick wall would extend 345 miles, long enough to surround all of Washington D.C. city and then some. 
     Or imagine if those non-voting citizens instead mailed their individual bricks to either one of their congressmen, the president, or the U.S. Supreme Court. The resultant 5.6 million cubic feet of bricks would form a solid block 6 stories high and cover two football fields. Picture the highrise construction cranes and dump trucks necessary to move those loads.  
     Or imagine if each of those same 145 million non-voters instead got a bundle of Monopoly or Life play money, dirtied it, and mailed portions (instead of a brick) to each institution and enclosed in the packets a signed declaration that said, “campaign finance reform.” Such a deluge would certainly be unprecedented, the message would be clear and convincing, and recipients would no doubt feel convicted of the need for change, change requiring immediate action lest more demonstrative actions be forthcoming.
     My kids agreed to help me dirty some play money and to write and sign a note each: mine will go to our (local boy) U.S. president, Braden's to the Supreme Court, Penelope's to Senator Schatz, and Jaren's to Representative Takai. It may take awhile, but the removal of dirty money from politics may happen during their lifetimes if not mine. 
     Twenty-seven years ago I said, “No minority will ever be elected president in my lifetime,” yet citizens surprised me and I suppose something similar could happen again with this. Clean elections with attractive, ordinary citizen candidates—what a thought!
     Finally, about non-voters, let's stop assuming they're lazy, indifferent, apathetic, or take-your-pick pejorative label. Perhaps non-voting is their way of demonstrating—effectively boycotting what they consider to be sham elections that only perpetuate the powers of non-representative insiders responsive only to big business and special interest benefactors. My dad would make a better representative than ninety percent of the choices I see 'cause he has real character, integrity, and heart, and as an intelligent, thoughtful, and understanding retired school principal, knows real people and the issues. I always say Barbara Bush would have made a far better and more compassionate and humble president than either of her Bush kinfolk—kept us out of wars at least. And I'm sure everyone can think of an uncle, friend, coworker, grandparent, or other associate who'd make a fantastic and/or superior Supreme Court justice, president, senator, or representative.
     Numbered among nonvoters is now my mom, historically one of the most responsible, up-to-date, knowledgeable, and thoughtful voters around. She has even stopped following political coverages, deeming them all wastes of time. Why the sudden changes? Because, in short, things don't get better no matter what she does or who's in power. I consider her nonvoting proactive and am considering doing likewise (which is different than what I have been doing by not voting in races in which I can't stand any of the candidates which results in lots of blanks in my ballots), for by any reasonable standard, last election's 37% voter participation rate was miserable. How much lower can it go? 25%? 10%? What would be the ramifications of ever lower voter turnouts? Might leaders eventually get the message and realize that wholesale election changes must be made? I am hopeful they would, but if they didn't, what would happen if it fell even lower to only 5%? Or 1%? At what point would election results become so meaningless as to become invalid or illegitimate? .1%? At that point citizens action would by default be forcing government's hand, wouldn't it?
     Election season is fast approaching—get ready for even worse dirty money mud slinging than before. Any good-hearted, level-headed teacher, mother, librarian, nurse, waitress, salesclerk, or student ready to enter that humiliating mud-wrestling rink? I think not near enough and I don't blame those who demur. 
     Hats off, then, to all contentious, nonvoting, election-boycotting protestors, whose nonverbal message will register clear and convincing. One day.

 

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Supreme Court of the United States

1 First Street, NE
Washington, DC 20543

(Check out the U.S. Supreme Court's hilarious website faux pas! Right at the top of its home page is a reproduced image of “We the People”—the opening words of the U.S. Constitution, one of our nation's most beloved documents. But the washed-out looking words are over half-covered by a border on top and “The Supreme Court of the United States” in huge bold letters below. Which begs the question: Is this indicative of a desire for we the people to subject ourselves to the Court? Or a belief that we literally fall beneath the Court? I'm no legal expert, but isn't the Constitution the supreme law of the land to which all, including the Court, are subject? Might the Court's partial erasure of the Constitution's words be indicative of belief that it may alter the Constitution's contents? Or that it may erase those portions that protect we the people's rights? Regardless who designed, vetted, and approved the site, it demonstrates an appalling lack of judgment—tragic considering the source...)

Yum!

     In my mind, finicky eating is one of the worst forms of close-mindedness in children because by limiting what they eat, they deprive themselves of so much joy.
     When Braden was a toddler, he hated lettuce, which he avoided eating and dropped on the floor by “accident.” Neither worked because we insisted he eat what he was served and replaced what he'd dropped with even more. 
     One lunch, he tested our resolve by refusing to eat any more lettuce or rice, insisting he wanted more fish sticks instead. I said, “No, finish that first,” pointing at his food. 
     “I'm done,” he said. 
     Okay, we can't force him, I thought, we'll just save his leftovers for dinner. At dinner, he looked at his leftovers and acted like he wasn't hungry. I said, “Are you sure you don't want any?”
     He said, “I want that,” pointing at our meatballs pasta.
     I said, “Finish this first and you can have that.”
     He said, “No, that.” 
     I said, “Fine, you're not having any”, and stored his plate back in the fridge. Later that evening, I offered him his leftovers and he declined.
     At breakfast the next morning, I placed the reheated rice and ample fresh lettuce before him. Braden always eats breakfast with relish, but this time when he saw his plate, a look of hurt injustice stole over his face. I did my best to hide my self-satisfied smirk (and relief) while he, with slow, deliberate chews, ate. Upon his finishing, I gave him his usual fare of fruits and cereal, which he gobbled down with out-of-my-way-I'm-serious intensity. This was followed by seconds, then thirds, then fourths. 
     We ever after employed this eat-what-you're-served-or-go-hungry regimen to teach all our kids to enjoy all food.
     Because all food is good. 
     All food is a blessing. 
     Anything tastes great to the hungry. 
     No kid ever starved due to finicky taste.
     Occasional hunger never hurt anyone. 
     And the person who never experiences hunger is almost certainly overfed or overweight. 
     More than once, when Deanne fretted about their not getting enough to eat, I said, “We American have warped perceptions about food. Some people in Asia, South America, and Africa survive on only one small bowl of rice and watery vegetables per day. And they labor in hot fields all day long. Our kids aren't malnourished or underweight. Allowing them to pick and choose what they will or won't eat is spoiling them. Everyone in our house eats what they're served—no wasting food allowed.” 
     Which brings to mind a wonderful piece I read awhile ago. A local columnist (I can't remember who) told her friend from China that her mom always said, “Finish your food. Do you know how people are starving in China?” and asked, “How did your mom get you to eat?” Her friend said, “She told us about all the starving people in Africa.” 
     The columnist asked a friend from Africa what his mom did to get him to eat? and he said, “She told us not to waste food like Americans.”
     We try our best not to waste, but sometimes when we're careless, things go bad and have to be tossed, so we're far from innocent. At least we can take comfort, though, that all our kids love what they are served (though Jaren has distastes for freshly made chicken, pork, and beef when prepared with savory seasonings, which reminds me of when I was a kid and Mom prepared foods with MSG that made me feel like throwing up. So every time I see Jaren gag when eating (MSG-free) meat, a part of me empathizes). 
     Also when I was a kid, Mom insisted I eat at least a little of everything I was served, separating a small portion using my fork to show me the amount I had to eat of a detested dish (chop sueyed celery, carrots, and onions was the worst!), saying, “It's good. I don't want you to be a finicky eater and at dinner at a friend's house say, 'I don't eat that,' and they have to fix you something special. It's such a hassle.” 
     To this day, I'm thankful for my open-minded palate (thanks Mom!) and for Deanne's introducing me to so many fantastic South-East Asian cuisines, including Indonesian, Malay, Hokkien, Thai, and my favorite of all, Indian—many of which I may never have otherwise encountered, tried, or appreciated, and the joys of hot spicy curries sauces, and seasonings. Yum!

Letter Writing

     Ninety percent of last week's In Their Words essay was written by my kids who wrote their portions with enthusiasm sans complaints. How was this possible? Do they love writing? you might ask, to which I reply: They've written so many letters through the years, such assignments outside school are given, plus getting published on the Internet for the first time provided ample motivation. 
     I started them writing letters once they were able to assemble sentences (before that they drew pictures). Mostly they've written thank you letters for Christmas or birthday presents received from relatives, but also for overnight stays at Grandma's, Uncle Norm's or Auntie Joan's. They've also written Christmas, get well, how-are-you-doing, and hope-you're-having-a-nice-time greeting cards to elderly shut-in church members (whom we've never met), young adult attendees away at college, and other friends and relatives. 
     I've been writing letters since college and my enthusiasm for it has grown, so I suppose their writing letters in due course following (or leading up to) special occasions is natural (though I'm always the initiator). For all my letters, as well as theirs, are hand written—no computer print-outs, e-mails, or short-cut phone calls allowed. And all their Christmas and birthday cards to relatives and friends must be designed, constructed, and decorated by hand with lots of pretty pictures, colors, and/or designs—sloppy slip-shod efforts won't do. 
     Of course the greatest difficulty for them when they started was determining what to write. I'm not a big fan of vacuous letters, devoid of news or meaningful connection, so I've told them, “Tell them something they don't know about you,” or “Talk about something you enjoyed doing with them.” Upon such prompting, they've come up with appropriate news, often of a personal nature, or fond shared memories.
     I suppose writing of self can come across as somewhat egotistical, but as long as it's not braggadocio, I don't think of it that way. Rather, sharing a bit of self with others is about as good a gift as they can give right now. And people like hearing news of what's going on in other people's lives, or at least I do.
     Whenever our Japan relatives write—usually only towards year end—it's a special treat. My dad's cousin's daughter is always the correspondent who writes in broken, printed English only a few short sentences with photos, but they always bring us in an instant to their whole different world in Japan. (Deanne and I have visited twice—once as newlyweds and once with Braden and Pene for a reunion with Japan relatives and friends at Japan Disneyland; Jaren wasn't born yet.) With just this teeny-tiny window into their lives, and my return correspondences, our connection remains strong whereby we make it a point to meet up in Hawaii or Japan every so many years.
     I was taught that letter writing is common courtesy—no excuses that you already thanked them in person or you'll remember to thank them the next time you see them. And although I don't actively look for slights in our lives, not having seen hand written anythings from close relatives or fiends for years means we just don't get much fun mail anymore. I don't much mind; it's more the kids that miss out. And the would-be letter writers themselves. For I think whatever part of self gets poured into a letter, God refills and then some with blessings. 
     Apostle Paul suffered the worst privations imaginable—as a prisoner of war in horrific conditions might—yet his New Testament Epistles—letters to the church—shine with joy, hope, faith, and love, including some of the most beautiful, cherished, and oft-quoted passages anywhere. And he makes clear that he feels so blessed despite his hardships and sufferings, for having died to self, God's abundant joy has suffused him.
     Now, I'm as similar to Paul as an ant is to an elephant, yet when I write a letter with true love, which sometimes can be draining, I often sense peace and love flood in to fill the void recently vacated as if God noticed, cared and blessed me for this tiny bit of faithfulness. Not that I deserved it, I never have. As Christians, we know that we deserve death and it's only through God's infinite grace that we live and are blessed.

In Their Words

     As a kid, I enjoyed Family Circus comics. The convoluted ways the cartoonist's kids went about carrying out the simplest assignments such as fetching the newspaper or mail as depicted by dashed line routes and diversions—birds nest, garden hose, mud puddle etc.—were some of my favorites as well as when Bill Keane's son supposedly filled in for Dad as cartoonist-for-the-day (even though it was obvious no such thing happened and Dad just wanted to do the strip as if through Billy's eyes). Following his lead, then, here are my kids' writings. (No, joke, they did them themselves and I didn't change a thing except for a few added line spaces for readability.) The only ground rules were minimum word counts of a hundred for Jaren, four hundred for Penelope, and five hundred for Braden. And they had to be works they'd feel proud of and wouldn't later regret for bad spelling, grammar, or punctuation. 
     Braden and Penelope asked, Can we do it on computer? 
     I said, Okay, but you have to touch-type, you can't look at the keys. 
     I caught Braden looking at his hands while typing, so I covered them with a dish cloth. He seemed amused, but continued so I guess he knows the keys well enough. 

Flu + Virus

     Now here's a question: which is better a flu or disease? Any ways, Do you know if there's a new flu and/or virus? Yes or no? I do. If you do than whats the flu? ________________________ If you didn't catch the flu - than your lucky. AND helpful to the hospital workers and medicine-makers. Getting back to the flu question did you answer it? If not, please do. Here's another question: Have you seen the inside of an hospital? Yes, I have No, I didn't. (and please answer this once you see it!) And by heart I find it troubling that a new flu is here and there is no vaccine for the flu.

                                Best wishes for you,

                                Jaren 

(Penelope essay)

Just Something To Think About

     Living in Honolulu, HI isn't all that's it cracked up to be. As a not-so-typical teenager, it definitely has it's ups and downs. But it isn't necessary to go into that, since that's not what I'm writing about. I want to tell you a story. A story about someone that's maybe a bit like you. 

     You know what drives me crazy? When people act like they can control their life. And maybe they can-to a certain extent. But things won't happen just because you say so. Reality check-in people. For instance, when I was little, I announced to all that cared to listen that I would never have to wear glasses. And now in the year of 2015, here I am with-you guessed it-glasses. Morale of the story? Don't tempt fate that way, people.
     Another thing that drives me nuts are my siblings. I'm writing a little bit about them even though they won't be happy. It's my essay. I'll write what I want about them. And they can't stop me. Hah! But to prove that I'm not totally heartless, I'll stop writing about them.
     I'm a reader at heart. I read and dream and (occasionally) take the pen to the paper and write. I've read tons and tons of books. Books that make you cry and books that'll make you laugh and some very solemn and silly books. But I won't read just any book, just like you won't read anything your parents set before you. I have a criteria for my books. Every time I pick up a book, I run through a mental criteria, as shown below:

My Criteria for Books

1. Is the book fiction? If no, then I probably won't read it. Refer to #4. If yes, keep going.
2. Is the book a series? Is the series recent? Keep going if yes or no.
3. Is the book weird in any way? If yes, then return to shelf. If no, keep going.
4. Does it have any basis in history? If nonfiction and no to last question, return to shelf.
5. Does the synopsis scream absurd? If yes, return to shelf and us

     And what I don't like about reading so much is that my teachers keep pestering me to read nonfiction. I despise having to read nonfiction. It's so, so... dull. Like the other week when my English teacher assigned us an article on this website called TeenBiz300. It consists of nonfiction articles that supposedly prepare us for our standardized tests. Do I look like I want to waste my time doing some standardized test?! 
     Anyways, the article I mentioned earlier is about this art collector who bought this relic of a painting and paid some money for it. Then later these guys find a fingerprint and decide that the painting was worth three times as much money than the retail price was. Blah, blah, blah. Incidentally the article was soooo very boring that I nearly fell asleep doing it. I told my teacher that my score is determined by my interest level because she was lamenting the fact that so many of her students did poorly on it. But she scoffed it off. However, I'm positive that its at least a bit true. Back to the article, another reason why I don't like it is because I wasn't the one who was ripped off. I mean, sure I have some sympathy but in the end, I don't care. Bad luck for the retailer. Do you understand what I mean about nonfiction?
     While we're on the topic of school, you might be able to empathize when I say that I detest standardized testing more than nonfiction. I feel that standardized testing is ridiculous. To what extent do colleges check what you got on a test that you did in elementary and middle school? It's a complete waste of time to take those tests, but in the end you still have to take them. Sigh.
     Alright, back to the other things or else I'll just keep on ranting. As you know I like fiction books and dislike nonfiction books. I also like movies, comics and trivia books. When it comes to comics, my family enjoys Peanuts. Really, what's there not to love about Snoopy? He'd make a great person, but a horrible dog. Such is the irony, since Charlie Brown, Snoopy's owner, would make a wonderful dog but a horrible human. 
     When the kids were little we would read Peter Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh. Winnie the Pooh and his friends are now the source of countless very naughty jokes, like: Why did Tigger look into the toilet? Answer: He was looking for his friend Pooh. ( Get it? Poo, Pooh) But something interesting I was told by my older brother was that everyone in those books had a human-like trait. Tigger can't sit still, Piglet is always afraid of everything and is timid, Eeyore is constantly depressed, Kanga has OCD, and Rabbit is always upset about something or someone. Go figure.
     I also read trivia books (as mentioned before) that are usually filled with interesting and (pretty useless) facts. So, actually, I do read nonfiction, just not the type of nonfiction my teachers want me to read. I learn quite a few different things. Things like:

• the secret recipe for Coke isn't so secret
• all of the numbers share a letter with the numbers that follow (one, two, three, four, etc)
• there is no speed of sound
• bulls don't get angry at the sight of the color red
• camels don't store water in their humps.

Interesting, no?
     My reading has it's ups and downs. I can't tell you who won the football game but I can tell you what is a good book. I can't tell you what my favorite video game is but I can tell you something I think I know about the states. I think. Maybe you should try to read a book. See how far you get. 
     How did you like my story? Perhaps I'll come back another day and tell you more. But for now, I think you have enough to think about. Aloha!

(Braden essay)

The Different Benefits of Computers in School

     Computers are very useful tools. They can be used for an almost endless amount of things, from word processing to sending information across the world in the blink of an eye, to solving equations that can take humans countless days to solve to cracking complex codes. All of these things can prove very useful for students to use. Of course students probably will not be solving super hard equations that they will need a computer to solve nor will they be cracking complex codes.

     However students can use computers for other things, such as accessing a countless amount of useful websites, sending information to each other and even using it to revive information.
     All of these thing can be done with a simple computer. Now, one does not need a top of the line high speed processing computer to do this, a simple basic computer will do that. With that computer they can do all of this and even more. In fact, the usefulness of a computer is only limited by one's imagination and one's open mind.
     Because of all these possible things to do with computers I believe students can greatly benefit from being issued a computer to use for his or her studies. Like I said it does not have to be some top of the line name brand computer, a simple inexpensive laptop will be useful and very helpful as well.
     Other than the educational reasons, computers can be used for other things a well. Taking care of a computer will teach students responsibility. They can also learn other life skills as well such as the ability to use technology effectively and efficiently. Also, with the internet, they can learn about what other common people think about a matter and not just a group of “experts” said in some textbook students can benefit from this by learning to keep an open mind. Other benefits can include, being able to use technology in a way that will keep the interest of a student and by using technology a teacher can teach students in new ways. Also, using a computer can also teach important and necessary skills that people will need to have in the future.
     Of course there are many downsides to using computers, but they can be neutralized. Probably the most common thing that will come up is the fact that the computers can be abused and not used properly. To counteract this all you have to do is to put some tracking program in the computers and insure that the students know about it, to eliminate secrecy issues (you can also set up an firewall to prevent students from accessing inappropriate sites. Another concern would be the security issue but, a good firewall should be able to prevent hackers form making trouble.
     (Another thing to think about is the fact that the exact same thing can be said about the teachers and the computers that they are issued.)
     For all of these reasons a computer should be given to each student to use for educational reasons. I strongly believe that students can and will benefit from using computers for school.

     It's I again. 

     It's my belief that good writing is imprinted with the soul of the writer and like a finger print, can not be replicated by any other. My kids' above writings, though not good—in fact, they repulse me—are fair and indicative samples of their current psyches. 
     My inside observations: All three went about their assignments without complaint and even with marked enthusiasm, which alone made them worthwhile. 
     Jaren speaks and writes sloppily. He can do well when he tries, but seldom bothers. 
     Rather than produce quality, Pene went for quantity.
     Braden at age fourteen knows it all including my error in thinking computers don't make kids smarter. 
     All three did age appropriate work, especially considering I gave them only one afternoon and evening to complete their assignments because I wanted them to enjoy them and not feel burdened, for writings often reflect the author's feelings. And I wanted their essay tones to be fun and light, not serious and heavy. (Based on what came out, perhaps next time I'll tell them to try a lot, lot harder and force them to edit again and again and again! Even though I, at their ages, couldn't have done any better, they, by now, should be able to do lots better considering they're far more studious at their ages than I ever was because of today's foolish academic more-is-always-better attitudes toward student achievement. Deanne blames their poor writing on their schools' deemphasis on writing. I blame it on society's over-emphasis on standardized tests, which forces schools to teach-to-the-stupid-tests as opposed to sticking to the tried and true fundamentals—reading, writing, and arithmetic.)

The $735 Popsicle Stick Wound

     The United States health care system is broken largely because of patient fears of cancer and other horrible diseases and practitioner fears of getting sued for missing serious diagnoses.  Such fears then drive seemingly endless series of expensive followup appointments, referrals to specialists, and diagnostic tests for things as simple as wounds that take a bit long to heal, curious lumps, or headaches. 
     For example, after completion of Braden's recent regular dental cleaning the dentist called me in, shone a light on the soft palate toward the back of his mouth, and said, “I don't know what it is,” about a dime-sized whitish-gray lesion with a small poke hole in the middle. He said, It's probably nothing—perhaps a wound from a fork or pizza burn—but I want to see him again in two weeks because if it's not healed by then, I'd like to refer you to an oral surgeon. 
     Normally I blow off such follow-up appointments if I feel the doctor is being overly cautious and instead monitor wounds/sores myself for obvious signs of improvement such as reduced size and improved color. Absent other symptoms such as fever, swelling, puss, loss of appetite, change in sleep patterns, lethargy, pain, etc., with obvious improvement I'll assume its healing and cancel the visit, which is what I did for these very reasons after a week-and-a-half of monitoring. But a few days later, the wound had not improved and looked even worse, with an additional new poke hole beside the original. 
     When we went back to the dentist, he said, It still doesn't look serious, but I'll refer you to an oral surgeon who'll know better what it is and how to proceed. 
     To his credit, he didn't charge us for this follow-up examination. 
     Before the appointment with the oral surgeon, Penelope and Jaren had annual check-ups with our pediatrician, so we asked him to also examine Braden's wound. He said, I'm not sure what it is. To me, it looks like a Popsicle stick wound or something like that. The oral surgeon will know or possibly order a biopsy. If he wants to do more, see an E.N.T. (Ear, Nose, Throat doctor) for a second opinion.  
     The oral surgeon was a bummer because he refused to accept our medical or dental insurance coverages, obviously because he can charge more that way, so we had to pay out-of-pocket and settle for a puny fifty percent reimbursement from our carrier. After taking a look, the doctor said, I don't know what it is, though it's not likely to be cancer as that usually strikes older patients age sixty-five and older who've smoked all their lives. We can either wait two more weeks and see if it heals on its own or do a biopsy now if you prefer. 
     He did point out a new purplish, dime-sized blemish closer to the front of the mouth that concerned him even more as the back one appeared to be a typical wound which sometimes takes months to heal.
     Because of the low likelihood of anything serious with the back wound and because the front wound was recent and looked like a simple bruise to me, I opted to wait and see. 
     Before the appointment, both things looked a lot better, the back one nearly healed, but not quite. However, when the doctor shone his light on it, the back wound obviously had a ways to go. He said, We can wait two more weeks and do a biopsy then if it's not fully healed or do a biopsy now. Since two months have already passed since it was first discovered, time will be of the essence soon, because for serious things, the sooner we act, the better. 
     Because I knew it wouldn't fully heal in two weeks I said, Go ahead and biopsy it now. 
     After the surgery when I looked at the wound I noticed a neat, half-inch incision with a couple stitches, which surprised me as being much larger than what I'd expected given a minimal biopsy sample. Braden said that the doctor said that rather than take a small sample, he decided to take out the whole thing. I felt he should have at least told us of this beforehand, but he did do a good job, so I let it pass.  
     To his credit, the oral surgeon called us at home the following day to see how Braden was doing. 
     In the coming days, the surgical wound opened after the stitches self-dissolved and appeared dime-sized like before, but a lot cleaner, and the holes and purplish blemish which the doctor hadn't touched were gone. 
     At the follow-up visit, the doctor said, Queen's Medical Center's report shows the biopsy is normal. That means something poked or burned it. I'll see Braden again in two months to check its progress. 
     At that point I was relieved, but sick of doctors' visits. As long as the wound continues to improve I have no intention (having already had to pull Braden out of school early twice) to see any more doctors about it. 
     When I was a kid, my dentist would not have made a fuss over such a thing, perhaps only saying avoid aggravating it and call him if it gets painful or looks worse after a few weeks.
     Today, four doctors (including the one that analyzed the biopsy), on six separate occasions, had looks at it before the one that looked at it beneath a microscope finally had the courage to say in essence, It's nothing; don't worry about it.
     A couple years ago, I had a lump on the floor of my mouth looked at by a dentist, an oral surgeon, and an E.N.T. The E.N.T. said it wasn't a tumor, just a trauma wound that would heal on it's own, but ordered a CT scan to check for blockage in a salivary duct which wasn't even a concern of mine. I blew that off and things returned to normal in a couple weeks.
     I had a friend with minor headaches and his doctor ordered a half-hour MRI brain scan. This was a couple decades ago when MRIs were perhaps even more expensive and high demand than now. I knew his headaches were minor—probably tension or diet or lifestyle-related—and the MRI found nothing. 
     In short, our health care system seems to lack common sense judgment because it is obsessed with ruling out the often one-in-ten-thousand worse case scenario lest an error in judgment be made that comes back to bite everyone. And no one wants that to happen. Thus, it's no wonder health care costs continue to rise unabated as doctors milk the system with more and more follow-up visits, expensive procedures, referrals (do they get referral fees? Or reciprocal referrals?), and tests. My doctors are good and responsible, but even for something as simple as a Popsicle stick wound, we and my insurance carrier sure paid a lot.