Image provided by: Clackamas Community College; Oregon City, OR
About The Clackamas print. (Oregon City, Oregon) 1989-2019 | View Entire Issue (June 2, 1993)
É SHARDS What are the pieces of our society that ad up to a totality of wholeness? Does every indi vidual really count? How do we know when our society is healthy? Perhaps to understand a healthy society, we need only look at the conditions that con tribute to societal sickness. Pov erty, ignorance, and prejudice are certainly illnesses thatundermine the wellbeingofourcountry. We can judge the “soul” of society by its treatment of the weakest, most vulnerable members. Cer tain target groups have often been scapegoats when economic times gettough. People of color, women, homosexuals, people with dis abilities, die very old, the very young,or those lacking education are often targets for discrimina tion. The prejudice can be subtle or overt,but it ultimately destroys the society upon which it feeds. If we believe the tenets that our founding fathers declared, that “...all men are created equal,” then each member of our society deserves the best that society can provide for the “pursuit of happi ness,” as long as that person does not violate the rights of others. Everyone deserves equal op portunity under the law. Not only does a healthy society maintain a “justice for all” attitude, but it can transcend that. In a society that operates on a “dog eat dog, every man for himself” philosophy, fear and adversity are the expectednorms. Even “eye for an eye” justice can instigate an unhealthy spirit of competition, demanding no just win ners, but losers. Win win situations result from a higher level of thinking that sees all of society as “our brother’s (and sister’s) keeper.” Diversity then is seen as enrichment, not as threat. Our perceptions must include all members of society in the good life we envision for ourselves. The shards that divide us (sex ism, homophobia, ageism, racism, dis ability discrimination, and special ism) must be cleared away from the road to opportunity. The suspicions and fears of people we perceive as different from ourselves can be changed as our knowledge and un derstanding grow. By Connie McFarland WHENTHERE WAS AN EAST AND A WEST As I drove up to Checkpoint A on ahot summer day in 1986,1could see Russian soldiers stationed in towers along the eastern border, looking atmy car through binoculars. Below them were German shepherd dogs guarding the empty space be tween the two walls that kept die East Germans on their side- of die country. After living in Stuttgart, West Germany,for ninemcnthsjpictured Germany as clean and safe with quaint streets, windowboxes over flowing with red geraniums, castles, ancient churches, snowcapped Alps, and a slower pace of life that allowed leisurely meals at sidewalk cafes. I could tell right away that East Ger many. was going to be different.Travelingwithmeweremy two teenaged sons who stayed in our locked car while I spent a tense fifteen minutes with the Russian soldiers as they looked over our papers, letter by letter, number by number, any discrepancy at all would give diem reason to send us back to the West. Our instructions were clear: We had two hours to travel through East Germany on the autobahn to Berlin. Ifwe tooklonger, they would come looking forus. Ifwedidn’ttake the full two hours, they would ticket us for speeding. If we stopped in rest areas, we were not allowed to talk with the East Ger mans. If our car broke down, we were to ask for help from Russian soldiers, not the East German po lice. A FREEWAY ADVEN TURE As I lay in bed and watched the sun rise above the deep blue ocean, my radio clicked on telling me it was timé to get up. This particularly hot and smoggy day I had Offered to ride along with my friend Ron while he took the repair calls for Jack Stephan Plumbing Co. Shortly after break fast his beeper went off. The calls were slow for a Labor Day. We were able to take time out between calls to eat a leisurely lunch and take a brief dip in the cool waters near the Redondo Beach Pier. At 2 p.m. Ron received a call from the Marina Del Rey area. As we accelerated on North bound In terstate 405, we merged with five lanes of speeding maniacs. All of the sudden the rushing traffic became a snail’s race. One by one each car THE ATHLETIC SUP PORTERS! Coachinga team of any type isn’t an easy assignment; how ever, at game timé athletic sup porters can help lift the load. These followers come in many varieties and may be either a boon or a bane for the coach, but the strangest variety of all is , the "sports mother." The most visible, of the moms is the Brahma Mama; even a wild west ¿how won’t keep her away from the game. A cloud of dust follows her as he charges in ready to stampede anyone at tempting to impede the efforts of herteamtowin. Youcanhearher bellowing over everyone as she berates the opposing team for getting in the way of her “guys,” even if they are girls. But the officials are the ones who really make her see “red” when a call goes against her squad. Even a ruling for her side only receives comments like, “Well, maybe there is more than straw in that head!” Before the game is over the coach is ready to rope and hog tieher. The most important person to any team is the Accountant Mom. Her pencil keeps up a rapid pace as she fills her ledger with plus and minus statistics, crediting all the hits and runs and entering errors under deb its. When the other mothers miss details, she isthe one who always knows the balance. The coach relies on her to apprise him of miscalcula tions and unrecorded entries on the part of the other team, and she up dates information for the umpire ac counting for changes inher team. All would be chaos without her exper tise. Then there is the mother who knows the cqach is a quack, entirely unqualified to nurse any injuries her precious child should incur while un der hiscare. She is Paramedic Mom. She arrives at all competitions equipped with absorbent and elastic bandages, tape,' cleansing washes, disinfectant, cotton balls, ice packs, finger splints, and eye wash in her “doctor’s bag.” Whenever any player seems hurt, even slightly she becomes Dr. Kildare, cleansing, suturing and oth- erwise ministering to the victim. The coach is no match for her! While he may want totranquilize her, the trav eling medical office does come in very handy at times. The mother most welcomed by everyone is the Cheerleader. She is always there applauding good moves made by team members and giving thecoach’s expertise a big “Hip, hip, hooray!” When a play goes awry she claps, waves her pompoms and encour ages, “Next time you’ll make it.” No matter how down the players get, she rallies other around to remind each individualof something good they have done, giving them that “Go team, go!” spirit She bounces in with special treats when there is a good possibility that the team will not win a particular game. The Cheerleader is the coach’s dream. At a school or summer sport ing event, you will see these moth ers or variations thereof. Maybe you even see your mother in one of them. For the coach they are a blessing as well as a curse, but athletic support ers certainly add excitement and entertainment to any event. By Donna Potraty The autobahn between West Germany and East Germany was a corridor through a sparsely popu lated countryside where grey, de serted looking villages could be seen in the distance. There was no sign of life in these villages; not a car, not a child in a yard playing, not a worker in the fields. The few cars on the autobahn were mostly Mercedes and BMWs from West Germany. When ah East German car did appear, it was easy to spot It looked like a small box on wheels with what looked like several generations of a family packed in it like sardines. The children’s faces were plastered to the window looking at our car. Sud denly, I was embarrassed. I felt like a rich person flaunting my wealth, even though our car was. modest by western standards. At the end of the corridorwasCheck-pointB, the door to West Berlin. Again, we had to go through the routine of having our documents checked by the Russians. They fi nally let us cross the border, and the relief was overwhelming. We made it! Berlin, a busy city, full of life and activity, was a beautiful island in die middle of “shark infested waters.” We settled into our hotel, and explored the neighborhood before calling it a very long day. Tomorrow we would go to East Berlin. Early the next day, we entered East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie. Once again our instructions were clear. No taking of pictures, don’t talk to citizens, and be out by midnight or theywouldputusinjail. EastBerlin was considered the “jewel” of the communist block. This was where the Russians and Poles came for their special vacations. But East Berlin was crum-l bling buildings; streets full of card-1 boardcars; expressionlesspeople; I policemen on every comer; cam-1 eras watching us from the tops of I buildings; and lines ofpeople down I the block outsideof grocery stores. I Is this really as good as it I gets for them,we asked! ourselves.Down a sidestreet was I a small bedding shop that sold the I down comforters I had been look-1 ing for. As the cash register to-1 taled my purchases, I noticed an I old woman beside me holding onto! the counter for support. Later I learned that I had just spent the equivalent of one to two I months’ wages for an East Ger man worker. Again I felt embarrassed fori taking my goodfortune for granted. After a full day, we returned to the west side of Berlin. I wasn’t ex pecting to feel so relieved and elated. As I stood on a platform looking over the wall back to East Berlin, I thought about how happy I was to be free again! Usually I am not a flagwaver, but on that day I was extremely grateful to be an American! And then, directly opposite of the way I had felt only moments before, I felt terribly sad. I was standing where they would love to be. All I had to do was drive across the border, butthey couldn’t follow me. Some were willing to risk death to stand where I stood. Many had died trying By Robin Bruce moved into an adjacent lane to avoid back of a list of “Fang” jokes I hitting a misplaced, dusty piece of that had become a trademark of I luggage that was tom and tattered. Ms.Diller. As we approached it I noticed it' I giggled when I realized that was a large plaid navy blue bag that I was holding props, costumes looked new. I decided I would try to and personal belongings of a fa return it to its owner. Ron stopped mous actress. I immediately re die van and I nervously stepped onto turned the bag to its original con the freeway as cars raced by me at dition. The address lead us one dizzying speeds. I quickly snatched block south of Wilshire Boule the bag and returned to the van. The vard, to a palm tree lane trimmed rescued bag had a well worn black ■ with million dollar homes. leather handle with a ratty brown The entrance to the fortress leather identification tag attached. was activated with a speaker sys Both the bag and the identifica tem connected to the main house. tion tag were smeared with road grime. The heavy black gate was open so As I strained to read the name I we continued in. A very classy muttered, “It can’t be.” ’’Can’t be Victorian home was nestled be what,” Rem answered.” It can’t be hind massive white pillars that the real Phyllis Diller’s bag. It’s got were held together with a black to belong to a fat black lady with the wrought iron fence. The home was same name.” I located the address beautifully landscaped with on the company street map. blooming foliage and bubbling The plaid bag belonged to a fountains. Parked near the ga Phy 11 i s Diller that lived smack dab in rage wasaperfectly restored 1952 the middle of Beverly Hills. Silver Mercedes Limousine. I de Ron was skeptical, while I was cided to wait in the van while Ron convinced that this bag rally belonged rang the doorbell. We were both to the Phyllis Diller. He pulled surprised to see Ms. Diller per over and insisted I check inside to see sonally answer her door. if I could find anything to prove my After showing her our find theory. she laughed that cynical laugh, I was hesitant to snoop through cursed her driver and said, “He’s someone’s belongings, but I was also getting so old, I think her forgot to very curious. As I unzipped the bag close the truck when we left the I was overwhelmed with the smell of airport.” I found some paper and bug repellant. After inspecting it I pen and exchanged her autograph realized I was smelling the new per for the bag. fume, “Poison.” Lying next to the As we were leaving she perfume were several mismatched shook both of our hands and asked articles of clothing, including pink us to, “wait just a moment.” She suede Go Go boots and matching returned a few seconds later with western hat. Near the tear was a aneadyfoldedbill. I immediately broken Walkman and a cassette tape placed it into my faded jean labeled simply, “PJD.” There were pocket. six tightly rubber-banded stacks of After we had traveled sev Keno cards, and three disheveled eral miles and the shock of the day groups of boxes. Some of the boxes had started to wear off, I reached were wrapped for gift giving. Others into my pocket and retrieved our were held together by a plain rubber tip. I opened it up to see a $100 band, each with a hand written not bill; Looking back on this warm attached. I quickly read one of the summer day, I remember the cu notes that asked a jeweler to replace riosity, excitement and adventure the entere rhinestones. I peeked in of finding and returning apiece of side at some of the gaudiest jewelry deserted luggage to its famous I had ever see. owner. The note was written on the By Shelly Burck
