The.American.Word.

It’s hard to make sense of so much of the news without some kind of basis for determining what, exactly, each of us really deserves. We mean that in the most literal sense. Certainly a maid cleaning a hotel room deserves some kind of security in her own person, while a man accused of a crime is entitled, as well, to the presumption of innocence until proven guilty. The process of reconciling these seemingly-at-odds principles takes time and thought, but not much more than that. A bit of social trust is what makes it work – that and, as our thought began, a sense of what we all deserve.

John Locke laid the right foundation for all this, we think. Beginning with the idea that all of the earth had been given, collectively, by God to all of mankind, he then asked how any one of us could rightly claim a slice of it for ourselves. His thought experiment in response involved plucking a single fruit from a single tree, and taking a bite. Making that small part of creation a small part of ourselves held some propriety for him. More than we can digest would be too much; as much as we need, and can find and grasp on our own, a good amount. And the land itself had a similar logic within it. As we reach out hands into the soil, mix our blood and sweat with it, and most importantly make it better, we earn some right to that small piece of the earth.

Make it better, then, becomes our demand of those who seek our trust, and certainly our demand of those who seek our votes. Make it better.

The beginning of an important – and very engaging – essay by my friend Len Davis, from The Chronicle of Higher Education, a few years ago.

The full essay is here: http://www.lennarddavis.com/downloads/gainingadaughter.pdf – PT

I look around and find myself, strangely enough, in the women’s lingerie section of the Kmart in an upstate New York town. I am with my 19-year-old son, who is comparison shopping for a pair of black tights. Some farm ladies are regarding us with dubious glances. My son asks if I think medium is too large for him. He stands at about 5 feet 11 inches. I really have no idea what will fit him. Trying to be helpful, I suggest that he might want to wear the fishnet stockings, which seem to me a bit more goth, but he sticks with the regular
ones. Then we move on to the cosmetics section for lipstick and hair dye. As I help him pick out a L’Oreal shade called Parisian Black, I wonder to myself how I got here.

How indeed? A few days earlier, my son had arrived back from his first year at college. The following morning, he sat me down at the kitchen table and announced that he had a big thing to tell his mother and father. My wife was on the telephone, and as we waited for her to finish talking, my son whispered, “I’m getting married.” Then he added, “No, just kidding.” He was jumpy with nervous intensity. When my wife sat down, he spoke: “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and I wanted to tell you — I’m transgendered!” He looked pleased with himself and somewhat triumphant. My wife and I looked at each other, confused and horrified.