A person could do worse than have pretty thoughts. Sometimes it’s all we have8212;and always when we’re most vulnerable.

Take the winter of 1995. It hadn’t snowed, and though the ground had frozen hard and deep, I was starting colts into December. My facilities were outside, but I’d figured to hang on until my round pen drifted in.

One afternoon as I was urging a young gelding into a gallop, his rear feet slipped out from under him. He fell on his side, leaving my left leg pinned under him. Although this wasn’t uncommon, the idea of riding unsteady horses on frozen ground scared the shit out of me. It was only a matter of time until I got injured.

I decided on a move to the city and took a job with a temp agency in downtown Minneapolis. I was a “coder,” building a bibliography relative to a class action lawsuit. In a matter of days I was promoted to “advanced coder.” This meant I could manage the work of other coders without the concomitant raise in pay associated with the managerial team.

Standards were good at first but as the call for more documents grew, the temp agencies began to just fill the chairs. A core group of largely competent workers devolved into chaos.

At peak, my group included about 75 people; some from gangland, some illiterate, a few recovering drug addicts, a lawyer recovering from a stroke, musicians making a few dollars between gigs, immigrants beginning their forays into the land of liberty, and everyone else. It was cultural diversity at its most meaningful.

My job was heartbreaking. One woman had AIDS. Another man suffered from fast cycling bi-polar disorder. Still another woman had schizophrenia. When it became clear (to her at least) she could trust me, she confided that the computer companies filled their machines with bones. I advised her to just do her best.

Most painful was the morning bus trip. Each day we passed a man whose home8212;in the dead of winter8212;was a steam vent. He was often just awakening and displayed advanced Parkinson’s8212;like behavior. This soul became what seemed my personal representative of the city–maybe even the world.

It came to a head when a woman who was particularly disruptive shoved the schizophrenic woman into a desk as we got up for afternoon break. It was, for all purposes, an assault8212;but one that could never stand up in court. I’d informed my supervisor of her earlier behavior and he’d told me the next time she upended the office to let her go. And so I did.

She who assaulted the mentally ill woman, however, was black. She pulled the race card. My supervisor, who was white, backed away, apologized to the offender, and in doing so undercut my credibility to the point where it became an office-wide joke.

The stroke survivor said the people still respected me8212;but it didn’t appear that way. Managing an office full of wounded people8212;who were working at dead-end jobs while dealing with the betrayal of my supervisor, made it unbearable.

One morning, as I was walking into the building, I decided to quit. That’s what I did8212;first thing.

“I don’t blame you,” the shift manager told me. I went to my group to say goodbye. Many expressed disappointment. I was then given a standing ovation, led by the stroke survivor. I wondered whether it was in appreciation for my work or in appreciation for my exit. Since I had only $70 to get on, it was prettier to think the former.

The Tai Chi guy who monitored those who showed up for work told me not to worry, that I was destined for better things. I wondered where he’d received his information. Still, it was a pretty thought and I took it.

It was all I had. It was hope. Maybe it was a moment close to nirvana8212;but I doubt it. It was like stepping away from hell.

Keith is an SDSU alumnus and a journalism graduate student. Reach him at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

In a matter of 18 days, a non-violent populist revolution led by no one in particular toppled the authoritarian regime of Egypt’s President Hosni Mubarak.

Beginning Jan. 25 with a Twitter feed protesting the death of Khale Said spreading through the air like the pollen of a germinated seed, people began to gather in Cairo’s Liberation Square. Hundreds became thousands. Thousands became hundreds of thousands. The military was called in 8212; but the military did not fire on the protesters. Thugs were organized to beat the protesters into submission. Thousands more became involved and the thugs retreated.

Egyptian citizens organized watchdog groups to protect their homes, businesses and families 8212; thus discouraging the looting, vandalism and violence that often accompany these things. Human Rights Watch estimated 300 hundred people were killed by Mubarak-organized thugs. Hundreds more were whisked off the streets, disappearing into the Egyptian police gulag. Torture was reported.

The protesters stood their ground and thousands more filled the Square. The military did not fire.

On Feb. 10, rumors spread that Mubarak was going to step down, and Liberation Square erupted into exultation. Joy morphed into outrage when Mubarak did not step down, but instead appointed Vice President Omar Sulieman as de facto Head of State. The protests grew 8212; both in size and intensity.

On Feb. 11, the tension and outrage exploded into joy when it was announced that Mubarak was transferring all powers to the Egyptian military’s High Council. Then began the largest party the world has experienced.

The Egyptian revolution has been coined by political activist and Google marketing executive Wael Ghonim as the first Internet revolution. This is partly because Internet technology played a key role in organizing the protests. Just as important were the Internet and satellite communications beaming images of the protests and countermeasures across the globe in real time.

Never has anyone witnessed something even near this. The social and political ramifications are beyond everyone’s ken. No one can predict how this will eventually pan out 8212; just as no one was able to predict that such an event would even happen. In the meantime, the Egyptian military has announced its role as one of only transition, promising free democratic elections leaving a civilian government in place.

These are wild and woolly days with as much anxiety as hope. The Chinese character for crisis, I’m told, is the same character for opportunity 8212; and what remains is who will seize the coming days? A new government for Egypt is certain, but what type of government remains to be seen? Will sectarianism arise? Will fundamentalism prevail? Or will Egypt’s young and educated continue to influence and guide Egypt’s ship of state toward reason, thus setting an example for everyone?

Not least in the mix is the question of order. Early on in the protest, the Obama administration called for an immediate and orderly transition. This seems to me a contradiction in terms. Nothing immediate has ever been orderly and the live news feeds streaming from Egypt confirmed this. But chaos, at least for the time being, has been averted . . . with the future remaining uncharted.

I was once told only two statements are made without qualification:

1) Everything is what it is and not something else instead. 2) There’s the bit where you say it, and then there’s the bit where you take it back.

At this writing, the bit in Egypt is one of hope, joy and promise. I hope that bit will never be taken back.

Still, the situation reminds me of the rancher who was asked in September what kind of winter we’d be facing.

“I’ll let you know next spring,” he said.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and a journalism graduate student. Reach him at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

#1.1999897:1722308729.png:egyptprotest-GALLAGHER.png:Egyptian SDSU students and faculty members held a demonstration concerning the current situation in Egypt Feb. 3 in front on the corner of Sixth Street and Medary Avenue.:Collegian Photo by Robby Gallagher

I’m headed for the Stock Show8212;and I don’t care how cold it might be. As the song goes, “I’ve got a heater in my truck and I’m off to the rodeo . . .”

This is the Black Hills Stock Show in Rapid City: conceived by SDSU alumnus Jim Sutton, son of James Sutton and second generation of “Sutton Rodeos”, who incidentally has provided the rodeo stock for the Jackrabbit Stampede since . . . well8212;forever.

I was a freshman in high school when I climbed on my first bareback horse, one of about seven Jim had lent the Lemmon High School rodeo team to use for practice horses and it was there, in 1970 when I managed to hang on long enough for what would’ve been a qualified ride. For good or bad the joy alongside the adrenaline rush was enough to sustain me over the next 9 years.

I shifted focus in 1979. I took work as a timber cutter the next winter in the Bear Lodge Mountains near Sundance, Wyo. That’s when I attended my first stock show. I remember seeing Lynn Weishaar, SDSU alumnus and auctioneer extraordinaire. I said hello. Lynn asked what I knew. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, not making much money and feeling very much alone.

“You’re breathing aren’t you?” Lynn had a way of putting things in perspective. “You’re still healthy?”

The logic inferred was airtight. The bareback horses hadn’t crippled me. So quicher bitchin’.

Since then I’ve been going to the stock show about every-other year. I showed a couple of stallions one year for Roger Hirsch, top-notch cattle buyer and all around wheeler dealer. I sold saddle horses there for a couple of years at its related horse sales, but mostly I’ve gone to catch up with old friends and to see what’s going on in the world of horses, stockmen, and cowhands. I see it as kind of a convention for those who’ve grown up in the Northern Plains tradition of the west. One year I covered the Great Plains American Indian Rodeo Association rodeo there8212;ending up with a South Dakota Hall of Fame story about Tator Ward, one of this region’s most talented saddle bronc riders.

In all, I can’t say that I’ve ever been disappointed at the Stock Show8212;except that as it has grown, it has become more commercial and less community oriented. That, however, is the way it goes for most successful events and I suppose the only way around that is to keep the idea of community within oneself. Many of my friends still show up. The horse sales in conjunction with the equine events are still considered one of the premier showcases for the best horses and trainers in the region. The BHSS PRCA rodeo is one of the best indoor shows anywhere.

There are also all the other attractions: stock dog trials, cattle shows, AQHA horse shows, ranch horse competitions, ranch rodeos, team roping, reining, and barrel racing competitions. Then there are the bull ridings, reined cowhorse events, veterinary workshops, art displays, and a trade show that can’t be beat8212;not to mention the fashion show. Yes folks, there is indeed something called western fashion8212;and it can be as trendy as any. The last time I paid any attention to it, “horse bling”8212;derived from the hip-hop culture–was competing for supremacy with the neo-traditionalist movement toward slick-fork saddles and silver inlaid spurs. I personally go for the slick-forks and the inlay. Always have and always will8212;except those slick-forks saddles leak more than when I was younger. They also keep making the saddle horns closer to my belly with every passing year8212;and that’s annoying.

So there it is. If you’re even a little bit “western” the BH Stock Show is the place to go. It can toss off those winter blues, dispel some of the anxieties associated with the upcoming calving and foaling season, and even allow one the chance to get “western chic.”

As for me, I’ll just say hello to some folks I haven’t seen in years. If I happen to run into Lynn, I’ll let him know I’m still breathing.

Keith is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student. Reach him at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu.

It wasn’t that tough of a choice. Buy a bronc saddle, get fit, and crack out in the senior saddle bronc riding or buy a guitar. Since I’m scheduled for a hip replacement later this month, I went for the guitar. After two weeks, I can now proudly pick out the melody of “Ode to Joy” with only four or five mistakes. I’m on a roll and I’ll be rockin’ in no time at all. The way I see it, I’ll be able to actually read music and understand a few chords sometime within the next year8212;providing I practice.

This isn’t my first attempt. When I was in the fifth grade, I got an acoustic guitar. The quality, however, left something to be desired and it started to fall apart after only a few weeks. I’d learned a couple of very simple chords by then and my parents thought it wise to repair the broken beast. The closest luthier at that time was in Aberdeen and it seemed like months before he got around to repairs. When the guitar came back, the strings were so high off the frets, I couldn’t even try to play it. I put it away.

I never, however, forgot and when I found that the ball of my hip was wearing grooves in the socket like two pieces of sandstone rubbing together, I figured a guitar was the way to go. And so I bought one.

It was with due diligence, I thought. The more I learned however, the more I realized that guitar buying was as much a crap shoot as buying a used car.

Sure, a person might find a good one at a good price, but the aphorism “you git what you pay for” still holds true.

It’s like the racehorse man’s joke. A tightwad has a horse he thinks might be able to run, so he goes to the track and starts talking to trainers. The first one tells him it’ll cost $50 per day with no guarantees.

“That’s too much,” the miser says, and walks away.

The second trainer offers a discount . . . $25.

“Too much,” he says.

The third trainer tells the guy it’ll cost him only $15 a day. Being always frugal, the money-minded client asks if he can keep the manure for fertilizer.

“At $15 a day,” the trainer says, “there won’t be any manure.”

That’s what it’s like with guitars. The more you buy, the more you get. But not always. There’s always a clunker in the bunch no matter how much money you spend and there’s always that diamond that cost less than a song that nobody pays any attention to.

Consequently, I’ve always tried to follow (with cars and now with guitars) what the Zen folks call “The Middle Way” and I’ve consequently become enlightened. The Middle Way, you see, is the path to wisdom and those who follow it learn that money doesn’t mean jackshit. It’s the process.

I found a used guitar I liked online and ordered it. It wasn’t set up correctly and I sent it back. Then I found a guitar I liked and bought it in person but it has some electrical problems and now I’ll have to take that one back as well. In the meantime, I’m starting to really appreciate guitar construction and I’m considering playing around with installing electronic upgrades. I’m in deep for sure. For the moment, however I have what the “real” guitarists call a GSO, a “guitar shaped object.”

It’s early enough to take it back and exchange it; or I can keep it, try to jazz it up (meaning pour more money into it) and see what goes from there. I can also hang it on my wall to impress my visitors.

When they step into my lair, they’ll exclaim, “Oh my! Do you play the guitar?”

Humble Rock God that I’ll be, I’ll reluctantly take it from its place of prominence, pretend to tune it and then play the acoustic version of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” . . . with FEELING.

Keith is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student. Contact him at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu.

It’s a difficult process; simple in concept but difficult to master. The variables, at least on the surface, are few. As one grows more involved, however, it becomes clear that this is not just cooking; it’s an art form.

I’m talking about frozen burritos. They’ve been around for half a century and with the growth of technology so does the complexity and popularity of burritos. They’re not just for the desperate and lonely. They taste good. So good, in fact that connoisseurs of the microwave burrito are becoming not only accepted into the mainstream of the frozen food community, they’re becoming respected as chefs in their own right and are indeed being called upon for advice and recommendations.

Widespread initiation into the subtleties of all this began in the late 1950s in conjunction with the advent of television. At that time the frozen food world consisted of what were then little more than small, compartmentalized, aluminum covered frozen three-course food portions named “TV dinners.” The idea was that a nuclear tribal unit (then called family) could sit down behind small individual tables (TV trays) facing a screen illuminated by a cathode ray tube, watching moving images beaming in from the Great Unknown. This quickly became an accepted into ceremony with the frozen meals themselves being the sacraments. It was called “supper.”

As for the burrito, it was invented in 1959 by Duane Roberts. At the time, frozen burritos were considered by most 8212; outside the most esoteric of circles 8212; as heretical. Prevailing doctrines considered them not only of questionable nutritional value, but theologically suspect. Since frozen burritos are essentially a one-course deal, they had none of the sacramental qualities of the three-course TV dinner. The only problem with the former was that everything tasted the same. This was later attributed to artificial infusions of monosodium glutamate (MSG) and salt, thus challenging the integrity of the traditional frozen food establishment.

Since then many of the tribal units have disbanded8212;some because of the death of the elders, but most as a result of schisms within nuclear tribal cosmologies. This, the scholars say, was called “divorce.” Contemporary ethnographers maintain these phenomena coincided with the microwave revolution and many cultural anthropologists claim a direct correlation. Microwave ovens no longer required the services of a designated oven monitor (more commonly referred to as wife, mother, husband and/or father.) Any individual could, as long as he or she could count and display a modicum of cipher skills, cook. Frozen foods could now be thawed, heated, and consumed within seconds. Hence, the term “consumer.”

As the frozen food consumer paradigm became gained complexity so did the quality and variety of the thing in itself (frozen foods.) Following the disruption of the tribal units, frozen burritos came into their own. The seeming simplicity of microwaving a burrito became attractive to disenfranchised nuclear tribal members. They also tasted better8212;and it’s here when the frozen burrito community began to thrive.

Theories now abound. Some believe burritos should be heated in stages during which additives such as cheese, salsa, guacamole, sour cream and lettuce are applied. Others maintain that burritos are to be heated8212;and consumed8212;at once. Still others claim burrito quality is related to the burrito makers, thus making brand loyalty a topic of considerable discourse. Throughout it all, however, is the underlying question of whether to follow the heating directions. Should the burrito be mouth blistering hot? Should it be heated only to the point of palatability? These and other related questions continue to dominate the frozen burrito discourse with the issues of personal taste and gastronomical integrity at their foundation.

One truth remains unchanged. The frozen burrito is here to stay and as its popularity grows exponentially, we all can take comfort in the fact that when you eat a burrito, you never eat alone. We frozen burrito eaters are, at any given moment, in the unique company of thousands.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact him at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

“Life,” playwright Randy Achterhoff wrote, “is not about the number of breaths we take, but moments that take our breath away.”

To be sure, the story of Geng Lang Zhou, SDSU instructor of Mandarin Chinese and journalism graduate student, is breathtaking.

Zhou’s father cared deeply about his nation. He became a member of the Chinese Communist Party in the 1940s. It seemed better than the existing regime. With Mao’s promise of Egalitarianism, he chose to remain in China rather than move to the U.S.

He became a Yunnan provincial governmental official. Zhou’s mother, a nurse, founded a hospital in the provincial capital of Kunming. As Zhou’s father became aware of the hypocrisy and brutality of Maoist China, he dissented8212;both in personal appeals and through print.

A journalist, Zhou’s father was arrested during the One Hundred Flowers Campaign of the mid-1950s as a counter-revolutionary during The Great Leap Forward, a period of time when an estimated 10 to 20 million people starved to death. He was sentenced to forced labor and required to carry tons of bricks per day in the construction of a coal plant. Zhou’s mother, also an early supporter of the Maoist revolution and People’s Liberation Army member refused to divorce the man. She was reduced from hospital administrator to wall plasterer in the same hospital.

Zhou remembers the time her mother was bludgeoned by a Party member, a blow resulting in temporary paralysis. A small girl, Zhou literally carried her mother for months thereafter.

Then there was The Cultural Revolution, running from 1966 until Mao’s death in 1976. At least 500,000 people were killed, with some estimates reaching 10 million. Untold numbers were imprisoned. Zhou remembers a woman who chose suicide. Most targeted were so-called intellectuals, and the Chinese educational system ground to a halt.

Zhou’s father spent 16 years in prison. As relatives, Zhou’s mother and Zhou herself became a part of the Party persecutions and suffered. As late as 1991, after befriending the family of the now retired SDSU Journalism Department Head Richard Lee, Zhou herself was denounced and personally spat upon by her neighbors.

Joseph Stalin is claimed to have said; “The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is just a statistic.” This, regardless of who really said it, is the sentiment of tyrants regardless of politics. If enough people are killed, imprisoned, demonized and disappear, nobody will really care. Mao and Stalin each developed a cult of personality with murder, fear and demagoguery as their weapons. Millions of people followed, conforming to the regimes. Their lives are testaments to the stupidity, brutality and banality of humankind’s capacity for corruption and evil.

There are also those whose lives are a testament to freedom and moral integrity. Zhou’s father, who was charged as a counter-revolutionary because he challenged the brutality of Party policy by reporting, among other things, the execution of an impoverished landowner, is one. Zhou’s mother, refusing to follow the Party line by not divorcing Zhou’s father is another. Geng Lang Zhou, who by virtue of being born into a family who actually cared about truth and integrity is still another. These people are by no means statistics

Good journalism, Zhou states, is dangerous. It challenges the status quo. A good journalist reports the truth8212;and the truth can be disturbing. For the family of Geng Lang Zhou, good journalism brought years of suffering. The dedication to tell the truth, however, is what makes Zhou’s story so compelling. She has remained true to her convictions. Her work has been published in the emerging Chinese Republic and that she’s here in South Dakota, a free witness to one of the darkest times of an empire is extraordinary.

I’m now told she’s returning to China soon …partly to care for her elderly mother–but partly because of “differences” in SDSU Administrative agendas. Zhou has never complained8212;but has remained unbent by another’s will. She trusts what she knows and she lives it with honor. It seems appropriate then to quote the ethicist Rollo May: “The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice. It is conformity.” Geng Lang Zhou is no coward8212;and she refuses to conform. She has been, is and will continue to be a woman of influence.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact Keith at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

One of my friends put it this way: “The problem with the perfect woman is that she’s looking for the perfect man … and vice versa.” This requires an assumption that no one is forever perfect. What’s ideal, however one defines it, is fleeting and momentary. Still, you’d think relationships wouldn’t be so difficult. We’re social creatures.

Relationships, however, never came easy for me 8212; and from what I’ve heard and read, the same goes for everybody else. In point, Stephen Hawking has one of the greatest minds in the history of physics. In the recent Time magazine interview “Ten Questions for Stephen Hawking,” Hawking confessed, “I’m no better than anyone else at understanding what makes people tick, particularly women.”

Ray Hunt, a genius of another sort, was considered one of the greatest and influential horsemen of his age. In his book Think Harmony with Horses, Ray wrote that human friendships8212;real friendships8212;are rare. Friendship with horses, however, is a real possibility with every horse we handle. I imagine many long-time dog owners understand this as well. The question however remains: Why is it that a lasting a bond can develop so naturally between different species, but when it comes to people being with other people, we don’t have a clue?

I have some guesses, and though I make no claims to know even a bit of it, my guess is as good as any. Most human relationships are agenda driven and because of this they’re apt to disappoint8212;unless we’re aware of this uncomfortable facet of our nature.

I was once asked what I wanted from life. This was years ago. Having just read a good portion of Thomas Merton’s 1968 Zen and the Birds of Appetite, I countered that only two things were worthwhile: Good work and good relationships. I defined good work as the will to involve oneself in meaningful activity that not only produces a reasonable living and standard of comfort but also induces change for the better. Good relationships develop from the capacity of one to love and be loved in return.

I’ve since enjoyed the good (and the bad) fortune of being able to follow my own lights and may have even produced at least a bit of change for the better. It doesn’t have to be much, you know. I’ve also experienced the joy of loving and being loved. But with the exception of my relationship with my daughter, I can’t say I’ve been able to love anyone without conditions.

It’s here wherein lies the rub. We necessarily set conditions on our relationships in order to emotionally survive. But in setting conditions, we lose the quality necessary for our relationships to thrive, namely that of having no conditions. When our relationships then die, we behave like buzzards feasting on the carcasses of memory until our grief is resolved 8212; and we can then move on to the next one, and then the next.

This, I imagine, is why it’s easier to have good relationships with dogs and horses. With animals 8212; not counting ourselves, there are few agendas and we’re more apt to simply enjoy their company. People however are not so inclined. We want things. We want gain. Ideally, what we want from another is the same as she or he wants from us and what we gain is mutually shared. But we as a species have this awkward tendency to want more and desire more.

There is, as the existentialists Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus suggested, no way out of this 8212; except that in recognizing our selfishness, we strive to become better, more tolerant, less needy, and more sensitive. This leads us to more responsibility and less blame 8212; toward others and toward ourselves. We all, I believe, are doing our best with what we have and if our agendas become more grounded in what we need rather than the whimsies of appetite, our relationships will then become … better.

We have no possibility of becoming perfect but that shouldn’t stop us from trying. Just think of the alternative. And that’s the hell of it.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact Keith at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

I was hitchhiking to the West Coast and back during the last month of summer vacation. I’d been given lifts by a treasure hunter, an economics professor, a vacationing couple from South Dakota and a police officer who’d been kind enough to shuttle me from the east to the west side of Battle Mountain, Nev.

This was during the mid-1970s and hitchhiking still held an allure for we who were intrigued by the freewheeling stream of consciousness Gonzo-type novels and poetry of Jack Kerouac. Like the young Thomas Merton who was similarly inspired by Ernest Hemingway, I wanted pure experience in the raw and held my arms open for anything that came my way. I’d visited my friend, Scot Clark in Sacramento, had hitched part way up the Oregon Coast, turned inland and was invited in for an evening with a carpenter and his family in Eugene. I was on my way back east and headed toward the Great Basin country of eastern Oregon and beyond.

I was still up in the Cascades when a yellow VW stopped. As it turned out, the driver was headed toward a weekend church retreat. The afternoon was getting on and he invited me to spend the night. The rides had been slow in coming and I accepted.

The driver had been involved in hallucinogenics and had a “come to Jesus” experience a couple of years before that. He had done some psilocybin mushrooms, was lying on his back in a park, and pretending to control the movement of clouds. A pair of Dobermans had jumped into his face, literally scaring the Devil out of him. He shortly thereafter gave his life to Christ. His life had since changed dramatically, he told me, and since accepting Jesus Christ as his personal savior, he’d developed a private business, was engaged to be married, and was feeling more fulfilled than ever before in his life.

We pulled off the highway, wound our way into camp, made the introductions and began prayer in preparation for supper.

It was the first time I heard anyone speak in tongues and soon the entire congregation was speaking as one in an evanescent voice that seemed to come from outside the dining hall. It was the sound I’d imagined of angels.

I slept well that night and the following morning after breakfast, the pastor and my friend invited me outside and asked if I was ready to commit my life to Christ. They’d been kind enough to provide supper, a warm place to sleep and breakfast. I figured since they’d been so generous, it was only polite for me to agree. I didn’t, after all, want to seem ungrateful.

And so it was then that I became born again. There was no transcendental experience, no sense of anything … except that as I prayed, I looked down and noticed an anthill. For some reason, it appeared important.

From there I set back on the road. The rides came fast: first from a guy who was running away from his wife and then changed his mind in Twin Falls, Idaho. The second was from a travel agent who’d entered a bad backpacking tryst with a woman he’d met on a cruise. He drove me through Glacial National Park and dropped me off at the junction of I-94 and I-29 in Fargo, N.D. From there I took a ride from a young woman who’d been harassed by her employer and was making a wild run toward home. She dropped me off in Brookings.

When classes started the next week, I met with a philosophy professor, a retired Lutheran minister, a graduate student in counseling, and an English graduate student. When I came to the anthill bit and mentioned that it seemed very important at the time, the philosophy professor asked what I made of it.

“I don’t know,” I said. “They were just ants.”

The Lutheran minister erupted into laughter. I was a fool for Christ.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact Keith at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

It’s never what you think. Spin doctors from the U.S. and NATO paint a picture of slow but consistent progress in the battle against Afghan insurgents and a steady progression toward representational democracy. Afghan citizens however, may see it another way.

Matthew Natuli, a frequent contributor to the Kabul Press points out that the war against Al Qaeda 8212; and hence the Taliban 8212; has been going on for much of a decade in Afghanistan. Although Afghani and NATO forces hold a measure of control over much of the nation, NATO’s supply lines are stretched over lanes that can easily be sabotaged by a well-placed mine. Furthermore, Natuli reports, NATO military equipment is showing up in Pakistani flea markets, presumably taken from corrupt transport contractors. Some 500 trucks carrying supplies, Natuli notes, are unaccounted for. This, is course, implies that insurgent forces have already picked over the best and most useful equipment. And, of course, since the Taliban and other insurgent forces have better knowledge of the terrain, they have a tactical 8212; if not strategic 8212; advantage. Then there’s that pesky little fact that the Afghan government has no power without NATO.

During the 1950′s 8212; 1970′s Afghanistan was not all that unpleasant a place to be. It was a monarchy, and impoverished 8212; but the quality of life, with aid pouring in from both the Soviet Union and the United States, was better than today.

In the late 1970′s a pro-Soviet government came to power and with no means to defend itself against insurgents, Soviet troops came. Since the Soviets were avowed enemies of the United States, the U.S. poured money and weapons into the Mujahedeen resistance, with Al Qaeda head Osama bin Laden being the U.S. paymaster. When the Soviets threw in their cards in 1989, Afghanistan had nothing to fill the void. Since the U.S. was in truth after the Soviets, Afghanistan was no longer our concern.

Civil war incurred until the Taliban, with its skewed interpretation of Islam, came to power. Still the U.S. had no problems with the Taliban until the attack on the World Trade Towers on 9/11/01. Our once friendly terrorist, Osama bin Laden was now our number one enemy and we invaded, as journalist Reese Erlich described it in Dr. Ann Bahr’s SDSU World Religions class Oct. 15, “throwing it all into the air.”

Afghanistan has decades been Satan’s little acre. Nobody 8212; especially Afghan citizens 8212; argue that. The quality of life has diminished horribly since 2001 with an average life expectancy of 43 years. Infant mortality is high.

As Natuli points out, the median age of Afghanistan citizens is only 17.6 years old and since the events of 9/11 happened in 2001, those 17 years and under have very little idea of what’s going on. Memories are short and resentment over what is perceived as occupation, along with extremist propaganda (not to mention the occasional beheading and suicide bomb,) exerts a tremendous influence. Some folks are starting to wonder if things weren’t better when controlled by the Taliban. To complicate issues, an estimated $1 trillion in minerals lays waiting in Afghanistan for the taking. Afghanistan is also a candidate for pipelines effecting more efficient oil distribution from Central Asia.

Rudyard Kipling, in the short story The Man Who Would be King, represented remote Afghanistan as a place of mystery, subject to tribal warfare. He wasn’t far off base. Although The Man Who Would be King is a biting allegory on the nature and consequence of British adventurism, the facts are that Afghanistan has had the bad fortune to be a place of conflict since before Alexander the Great. Its history is rich with occupations, revolts, re-occupations, sectarian violence and atrocities.

Despite it all, Afghanistan seems to now be the testing ground for the virtues of reason, religious moderation,and hope. The pre-eminent religion is Islam 8212; and Islam, like Christianity, is a religion of peace. It’s based on the pre-supposition of a Supreme Being endowed with mercy and beneficence and God knows the people of this ravaged country need it.

The United States now has 100,000 troops serving with honor and distinction in Afghanistan. We’ve committed them to building infrastructure and doing battle. We’re also committed to a withdrawal. We’re unlikely to be pleased with the outcome of the Afghani political process, but since we’re committed to let Afghanistan carve out its place of global influence, we’ve no choice but to live with it.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact Keith at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu

Most of us, when fascism comes up, think of Adolf Hitler. Fascism, however, is a term used by Italian dissidents after WWI culminating in Benito Mussolini’s rise to power. Mussolini for a while, was praised by everyone from American humorist Will Rogers to Winston Churchill, and even Sigmund Freud. It was only after he invaded Ethiopia that Mussolini’s good will came into question. Heck, even Hitler for a while, was admired by some of America’s leading diplomats.

So what is fascism?

In “Liberal Fascism: the Secret History of the American Left from Mussolini to the Politics of Meaning,” author Jonah Goldberg suggests fascism as nothing more than secular religion. He outlines its contemporary origins from Woodrow Wilson’s administration to the present, also referring to the French Revolution’s attempt to bring about a national religion. Fascism, like the term “post-modernism” is a word that has come to mean so many things, it means practically nothing at all. (At least that’s how philosopher Richard Rorty defined post-modernism . . . after being called one himself.)

Goldberg quotes Gilbert Allardyce as saying, “Simply put, we have agreed to use the word (fascism) without agreeing on how to define it.” Goldberg later points out that politicians, academicians8212;and just plain ordinary folk see fascism everywhere . . . except when they look in the mirror. George Orwell in his famous essay “Politics and the English Language” stated in 1946 that fascism has become a term we use to describe something8212;or someone8212;we don’t like. When we call someone a fascist, we no longer have to take that person8212;or that group8212;seriously. It is, to paraphrase Ludwig Wittgenstein’s ordinary language paradigm, a category that prompts one to cease thought. He or she is a fascist, we say, and that’s that. Case closed.

But what, if in doing so, we become the fascists? It turns our smiley faces into frowns, doesn’t it?

Goldberg points out that fascism has become synonymous with heretic, “branding individuals worthy of excommunication from the body politic.”

This means that I8212;or you8212;by virtue of practically anything, can be branded a racist, a homophobe, a sexist, a Christianist, a baby-killer, or any other thing politically incorrect.

All we have to do is say the “wrong” word at the “wrong” time and associate with the “wrong” people. This is why the political correctness movement has fallen into such disrepute. It creates a politic paranoid where one person can say one thing but another can’t say it because he/she/they are of the wrong color, sex, culture or race8212;and are consequently without the concomitant entitlement. In a Facebook debate, I was told my self-description of being a “flaming red-hot heterosexual” was offensive because the gay community views the word “flaming” as derogatory. Also, I was once made painfully aware that being a single, 55 year old, white, Euroamerican male makes me suspect as a sexual predator.

I’ve been on the “wrong” side of cultural discourse for most of my adult life 8212; and maybe even childhood. I was raised in a blue-collar family, and even places like Lemmon, S.D., have their body politic. Thanks to my first grade teacher, I developed a love of history. This, however, was discouraged by my second and third grade teachers.

Perhaps being the son of my working-class parents put me on a different educational track. In any event, I felt a bit guilty every time I picked up a history book that wasn’t part of the public school curriculum for several years thereafter.

When I first came to SDSU, I was a yokel from the outback of northwestern South Dakota. Since I came from a family of stockmen, horsemen, and cowboys, I was an unrefined red neck. Since I rodeoed, working the bareback riding event, I was an abuser of animals. Since I questioned the reasoning behind militant feminism, I was a sexist. And, since I occasionally questioned what I was being taught, I was branded a trouble-maker. I’ve even the honor of being called by the now retired Dean of Education a . . . well, let’s forget that.

Call me crazy. (I’m a certified depressive.) Call me mean. Call me politically incorrect. Hey, you can even call me lazy8212;but don’t call me a liar . . . and don’t, for Christ’s sake, call me a fascist. I’ll leave that one up to God.

Keith Brumley is an SDSU alumnus and current journalism graduate student at SDSU. Contact Keith at kabrumley@jacks.sdstate.edu