i still have hope

wilmore storms

Looking out from our balcony as the storms rolled in this evening.

not so dixie chicken

I have never been a big fan of country music. I tried for a while when I was a student at Texas A&M, where country music is a staple. My friend Eli, who lived across the hall, listened to George Strait all day and night. I think he was truly in love with the country legend, and the music was loud enough to fill the dorm for all of us in our corner to hear, so it grew on me.

But as fast as it grew on me, I threw out any country music that may have ended up in my cd collections. As much as I tried, I couldn’t swallow it whole, mainly because it all tasted the same. The final straw was Toby Keith and his really stupid “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue” ode to being a dumb war hawk, thinking that he spoke for all Americans that the only way to deal with our enemies was to kick their asses. I lumped all of country music - the artists and the fans - into that category. That is, until the Dixie Chicks came along.

For four years, from 5th to 8th grade, I attended a very small liberal arts private school named Glenwood. It was a beautiful place, with an academic structure that really nurtured whatever gifts and talents a student had. I can’t remember most of my high school teachers and college professors, but I can name every teacher I had at Glenwood. While I was there, every interest and talent I had for reading, creative writing, acting, photography and art was worked out and developed (until it all got blown to bits when I was transferred to Jesuit College Prep. School… but that is for another day).

So what does any of this have to do with the Chicks? Well, when my first two years at Glenwood my homeroom, math and reading teacher was a young woman named Robin Macey. She probably had more of an early impact on me than any other teacher in my life. I still believe that every desire I have to write was first seen by and nurtured by her. We did so many things in her class: Read novels as a class, hatched chickens and ducks in incubators, put on a plays, and sang country music. She loved blue-grass music, and I have many memories of our class sitting outside while she (and sometimes along with her sister) would play guitar and banjo and lead us in songs I can’t remember the names of and have never heard since. Classic blue-grass songs that would soon be eclipsed by whatever crap we as teenagers would listen to, but for that moment we appreciated something that wasn’t Top 40, and we loved it.

Years later I read in the local Dallas Morning News that Ms. Macey had started a band called the Dixie Chicks. They were a pretty big hit locally, but over the years Ms. Macey and the Erwin sisters had different views of where the band should go, and so my favorite teacher left the band and the Chicks left the small time.

But I never listened to them until they famously told a small concert crowd in London, right before the invasion of Iraq, that they were ashamed to be from the same state as George W. Bush. Of course, I was saying the same thing here in Kentucky, but I didn’t have the audience they did, and so the chicken-shit hit the fan.

Fans were outraged, albums were burned, Papa Bush unleashed on them in a Texas Monthly article, and radio stations across the country banned their music (even suspending disc jockeys who played their songs). The irony cannot be lost: The Chicks were crucified for speaking out unfavorably against the President as he launched a war against Iraq that was billed as being fought for the freedom of the Iraqi people who could not speak out against their leaders.

I ran right out and bought their two-disc live album. I did it more because I wanted to support the Chicks and what they were standing for more than anything else. But as I tracked though the songs, I found that I actually liked their music. These are three very talented musicians, and I have found that I am putting them up there with some of my favorite bands (U2, David Crowder, Coldplay, Johnny Cash). Maybe it was because, rooted somewhere deep in their music, I could hear those songs from the better years of my childhood.

Their new album Taking the Long Way just came out this week, so I downloaded a copy from iTunes. I have to say that, unless you buy a copy of your own, this will be one of the best albums you will probably never hear.

And that is sad. We are killing Iraqis and American soldiers (and currently rattling our sabers at Iran) to promote freedom throughout the Middle East, but we cannot seem, in principle, to live by the very ideals we are killing for. We attacked Iraq because Sadaam Husain was torturing his people and crushing their voice. We only have to look to Abu Ghraib/Guantanamo Bay and the Dixie Chicks to see our hypocrisy.

So, as their first single is titled, they may not “be ready to make nice.” Someday I hope they do. I hope forgiveness finds a path to and from both sides. But I don’t blame them. One day J.D. had the nerve to play a Toby Keith song in my truck, and I told him to turn it off. “You have to be like Jesus and love your enemies, Omar. Toby Keith is a good place to start."

to boldly go

Today my brother's roommate and I drove my truck up to Long Island to pick up a washer and dryer. I have to say I never thought I would be driving my Texas truck across the George Washington Bridge, with the Empire State building to our right. It is a long way from home. It was such a great feeling, though we joked about the possibility of people throwing stuff at us (they're not big fans of Texans (and their gas guzzling trucks) these days up in these parts... and I can honestly say I agree with them.

There is nothing that will cement your ideas that the conservative, Bible-belt south is missing the point than to come to New York City and talk with a few 20-somethings. I had an epiphany today: Despite the things I have already said, I still hold back way too much. I am so worried what someone back home, or someone at the Seminary, or someone in my family is going to think that I hold back on things that I feel need to be said. That became real to me today when John (my brother's roommate) said to me, "Now why are you, a Christian, not saying these thing? If you don't no one will." Now I don't pretend to think that I am the only one who has the same things to say, but the fact that many people have said, "Please write what you're saying" should be a clue.

And then when, later in the day, what I read on my good friend John David's blog said some things that I wanted to say months ago, the epiphany was complete. That's it. I'm not worried what anyone thinks anymore. The president, the policies, theology, culture, my story... all fair game. I am tired of wasting my energy and time with what my friend Chris calls "mind-rape" (that is where you dangerously base your life on what you think other people are thinking about you). It is time for me to be like my truck: A big presence from Texas who might not always be where he's expected to be.

family reunion

Sofa, all wrapped up and tied down, on the long road to possibly her final home in Middletown, New York.


Ramsey, looking very smooth, sporting the new sunglasses we hunted down in Chinatown. Ladies, let me know and I'll give you the digits.



Ramsey and I with our cousin Ali (whom I met for the first time this weekend). He was born in Baghdad but grew up in Scotland (and he has the accent to match). He lives in NYC now, and so Ramsey and I made the trip into the city to meet him for dinner.

We asked a lady passing by outside the restaurant to take our picture, and while she was focusing us all in the frame she asked, "So where are you boys from?" "From here," Ramsey said. "From Kentucky," I added. "From Scotland," Ali concluded.

"Oh c'mon now, really. Say something like Egypt," she shot back.

We all responded, "Close."

Good times and lots of laughs. And in what might fall under the category of "whaaa?" Ali's girlfriend, who is a student at Princeton, is the roommate of Jeb Bush's daughter. That would be the Jeb Bush who is governor of Florida and brother of our President. Ali was invited to go up to "Grandpa George's" in Main next weekend for Memorial Day, but can't make it.

Damn... because that would have been an awesome conversation...

sofa love

Well... as my little brother once said to me, "I see a light at the end of the tunnel, and I hope it's not a train."

Wraping up finals tonight and tomrrow. Five years of college and four years of grad school and you would think by now I would have learned to not leave everything to the last minute. Nope...

Then I am heading up to New York this week to deliever the family heirloom to said little brother: A sofa.

Not any ordinary sofa. Sofa has been in our family for over 35 years. Sofa was one of the first purchases my mom made when she graduated college. I have pictures of me as an infant with a bottle resting on Sofa. Sofa has been many colors and been in many living rooms and offices in many states.

And oh the things she has witnessed on TV: Sofa has seen Nixon resign, the Berlin Wall, the Space Shuttle, Baghdad, the Twin Towers. Sofa has said good-by to M.A.S.H. and Cheers and Friends.

I had my first conversation with Jenn on Sofa. I first kissed Jenn on Sofa. I first told Jenn I loved her on Sofa. I proposed to Jenn on sofa.

Sofa has been the arms that have held all in our family tightly during the greatest of all moments... the naps (or as my mom likes to say, "resting her eyes". Oh the naps. Sleeping on Sofa is like sleeping on a cloud. In fact, when friends would spend the night they would argue over who got to sleep with Sofa.

It literally took my dad not looking for me to load Sofa into the trailer and move her to Kentucky. He was not happy. Last week Jenn and I purchased our first new sofa together, and so now Sofa is moving on to her last stop in the Al-Rikabi family. This will probably be the end of the line for Sofa because, well... we keep moving her further and further from Texas.

Thank you Sofa. You will be missed.

Got plenty more to say and blog, so stay tuned...



(My father using his menacing cane to get Ramsey up and off Sofa last year)

no phone home

Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both. – Benjamin Franklin

When my dad first started traveling to Egypt on business over twenty years ago, his calls home only came once a week. A phone call from Cairo to Dallas cost a pharaoh’s treasure, and so he would usually call just once a week on Saturday morning, rapidly saying hello to my brother and me, and then spending a few more minutes talking with my mom about bills and what not.

We always knew the second we picked up the phone if the call was from him or the neighbors. We would say “hello” and then listen to a long, static filled silence, followed by the strange beep of a connection being made, and then the voice of an Egyptian operator who would always say, “Hello? Cairo calling. One minute please.” Then my dad would come on the line, and the next ten minutes would be a vocal dance… stepping over each other’s words and cutting each other off trying to figure out how long the delay was as the signals crossed the Atlantic Ocean. And there was always the sound of other voices, other conversations happening on what amounted to a party line on a phone system on both continents that still had some technological glitches to shore up.

I was never allowed to have a phone in my room growing up. My dad didn’t want me doing much more in my room than studying, and a phone was considered a distraction. But, being a stubborn teenager, I worked around it. The very day his plane would take off to take him back to Cairo for the next two months I would go to his side of the bed, remove his phone and place it in my room. My mom didn’t really care because, really… she had bigger issues to deal with, and so she never said anything to either my dad or me.

One Saturday morning when I was about thirteen years old and the allure of waking up early on a Saturday morning to watch cartoons had long passed, I was still hard asleep when the phone rang at the gawd awful hour of 9:00. The ring jolted me awake and I picked up on the second ring.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?”
“Hello? Cairo calling. One minute please.
Cool… Dad’s calling.
“Hey dad!”
“Omar?.... What is the phone doing in your room? Go get your mother and tell her I’m on the phone and then go put the phone back in my room.”

I think I soiled my pajamas. How the hell did he do that? I was so freaked out by his skills that I actually took out our National Geographic coffee table size atlas and figured out that he had to be at least 5,000 miles away and could still tell that I had broken the rules.

It was years later when I figured out that he had to know that at 9:00 on a Saturday morning there was no way I would be awake to answer the phone on the second ring, and that the only way I could have answered so quickly was to be sleeping next to it. I was busted by the master detective.

For the next twenty years, every time he would call from Egypt and I would answer the phone he would never say hello. He would start off with, “Were you sleeping?”

As the years went by the technology evolved enough to where he was calling my cell phone in Dallas from his cell phone in Cairo (I can’t imagine the roaming charges). And of course, with the changes came better and longer conversations… from, “How are you? Good? Good. Let me talk to your brother now, hurry,” to, “So… how are the Cowboys doing this season so far?”

But with greater technology and ease came the possibility of greater danger, and I believe we are starting to realize the jeopardy we now find ourselves in. It has been reported today (and confirmed by the government) that the National Security Agency, the largest military spy network in the world, that tens of millions of Americans phone calls are being stored and mapped out to look for “terrorist patterns.”

Of course, I am confident that the calls made from our home in suburban Dallas are on there somewhere. My parents were not only AT&T customers when this program started, but because of family and business connections we have made and received hundreds of calls from Iraq, Egypt and Syria. And with a name like ours, I’m sure that raised the red flag.

If they ever actually listened to any of those conversations I’m sure they would get either really bored or really irritated. They pretty much consist of arguing over bills to pay, why reports weren’t in on time, when school will be done, when will someone visit and the weather.

But the real issue is that someone is tracking and listening. Now I know that there are many out there who will say that this is a necessary evil to make sure “we don’t get attacked again.” But this country supposedly prides itself on not being like other places in the world where the general populace has to always be looking over the shoulders.

The irony is that as our government monitors phone calls to fight terrorists and wars to bring democracy to Iraq, my father and family would never say anything of any real importance over the phone because the Iraqi government under Sadaam used to monitor and listen to all phone conversations. We are slowly becoming the very regime we have killed to overthrow.

And if anyone doubts the danger in what is happening, remember that once the government puts something in motion and it goes unchecked, it becomes a monster that cannot be stopped. How do we know this? Here’s an easy example that affects everyone: The IRS was created during WWII to help pay for the war effort with the promise that it was a temporary measure to help defend liberty.

How much did you pay in taxes this year?

coexist

news from wilmore: derby day

Well folks, tomorrow is the first Saturday in May, and you know what that means: Mint Julip hangovers.

In other words, it is time for the Run for the Roses (otherwise known as the Kentucky Derby). Yes, the only thing bigger than a horse's ass are the big-ass hats, and the sun should be shining bright enough tomorrow to see the colors on ladies heads and jockye's jackets.

Coverage begins at 9:00 in the morning and goes all day until the actual race at 6:04 eastern time (otherwise known as Satan's time zone... I miss central). Yes, the only thing that has a longer build up for a faster finish is a Baptist preacher losing his virginity.

So who am I placing my seminary tuition on? Well, using my fine-tuned betting skills I picked up last week when my pastor took me to the Keenland race track in Lexington, I have narrowed it down to two options.

At 30-1 odds there is "Jazil". This horse is owned by Shadwell Stable, the same farm that my beautiful wife Jennifer once took me on a tour of (she used to babysit for one of the stablemasters) and which is owned by an Arab sheik who pays tens of thousands of dollars in fines to land his private jumbo-jet at the regional airport here. So this pick is on the wife/Arab connection.

But my top pick is based pretty much on name only. That's right folks, the seminary student is going with "Sinister Minister" at 12-1 odds. How perfect is that? Given the selfish nature and bad theology of most of what I hear these days, I fiqure it is a good fit for someone training for the pulpit. Like I said, I did base it on a name, which was a tough call with "Steppenwolfer" in the mix (30-1 odds).

So bust out your hat, suck down your julip, lay down your money, and kiss two minutes good-by. It's derby time in Kentucky... the biggest thing to happen to this state since bourbon and basketball.

And that's the news from Wilmore. We've got two traffic lights now and that's called progress!