Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Long Time Since Dr. King
Originally published in the New York Mills Herald on 4/10/08 and credited to my alternate identity, Elisa Korentayer.
Dr. Martin Luther King is one of those people that we all think we know about, but when it comes right down to it, how much do we really remember? I’d always known Dr. King was an important civil rights leader, but, like so many lessons that I learned in grade school, the actual details of his life escaped me. I didn’t remember more than two facts: that he had given the “I Have a Dream” address in the civil rights era and that he had been assassinated. Last week, when National Public Radio started running stories related to the fortieth anniversary of his death, I realized just how little I knew about this man who changed our nation and the face of civil rights for the world. I was embarrassed by my ignorance.
It so happened that the New York Mills Regional Cultural Center was featuring a one-man show titled Dr. King’s Dream last Friday. I figured I ought to go to renew my acquaintance with the history of this great man. As an added bonus, the Center was offering a free afternoon show for students and their accompanying adults. Having no children of my own, I borrowed a child and went to the show.
The Mixed Blood production of Dr. King’s Dream was sponsored by a collaboration between the New York Mills Public Library and the Cultural Center and were funded, in part, by a grant from the Lake Region Arts Council through a Minnesota State Legislative appropriation. The play is an hour-long monologue in answer to the question posed to him by his friend, “When were you most frightened?” as they wait to leave the Memphis motel for dinner on the evening that Dr. King was killed. Dr. King is played by Warren C. Bowles, a veteran member of the Mixed Blood Theater Company.
Upon entering the Cultural Center on Friday, one saw a makeshift stage in the middle of the gallery that was set with a simple gray cloth backdrop, a wooden chair, a black rotary phone on a stand, and a lectern. The play began with a recording of gospel music, and then a flesh-and-blood Dr. King walked onto the stage.
Ninety percent of the play is composed of Dr. King’s own words as assembled by the Mixed Blood Theater Company. Besides “I have a dream,” most of Dr. King’s words were new to me. Each sentence was a revelation of a man who stood up to the racist status quo and created a movement against the might of a powerful government, a movement that was characterized by King’s abiding commitment to nonviolence. King was a man who changed the face of America with only his will and his words and was then violently killed for daring to do so.
Dr. King was assassinated at the age of 39, and this fortieth anniversary of his death marks a turning point. From now on, his life will always have been shorter than the amount of time since he was alive. Perhaps it is even more essential, then, that we remember the legacy he left, and Dr. King’s Dream was a moving and engaging way to celebrate the highlights of Dr. King’s life.
Born in 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia, King followed his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to become a pastor. He attended segregated public schools in Atlanta, received a B.A. from Morehouse College, a B.D. from Crozer Theological Seminary in Pennsylvania, and a doctorate from Boston University. In 1954 he accepted the pastorale of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. By that point, he was already a member of the executive committee for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. In 1955, he accepted the leadership of the first great Negro nonviolent demonstration of contemporary times in the United States, a bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama. After Rosa Parks defied the existing law and refused to give up her bus seat for a white person, King led the blacks of the entire city to boycott the buses. Local people would walk for miles, hitchhike, and carpool instead of riding the buses, causing the city to outlaw hitchhiking, carpooling, and loitering in an effort to increase bus ridership. The city was unsuccessful, despite the arrest of Dr. King and the bombing of his home. After 385 days, the bus segregation laws were overturned, and Dr. King joined the black community on their first bus rides in over a year.
In 1957, King was elected president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization formed to lead the civil rights movement. The ideals of the organization were based in Christianity, but King took its operational techniques from the nonviolent philosophy of the Indian leader Gandhi. Between 1957 and 1968, King traveled over six million miles, spoke over twenty-five hundred times, and wrote five books and numerous articles. He led a massive protest in Birmingham, Alabama that caught the attention of the entire world and directed the peaceful march on Washington, D.C. of a quarter million people for whom he delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Over the course of his life, King was arrested upwards of twenty five times and assaulted at least four times.
In 1968, King traveled to Memphis, Tennessee to support the black sanitary public works employees. They had been on strike for higher wages and better treatment after the senseless deaths of two black workers crushed by the mechanism of the very garbage truck they were forced to shelter inside of. In his last speech at a church in Memphis, King hinted that he knew he might not have long to live. Five days later, at 6:01pm on April 4, 1968, King was shot by James Earl Ray while standing on the second floor balcony of room 306 at the Lorraine motel. The assassination led to a nationwide wave of riots in more than 100 cities.
Dr. King’s Dream was a one-hour window into one-man’s lifetime world-changing accomplishments culminating in an ear-splitting gunshot. After the show, I had a chance to speak to the actor portraying Dr. King. Bowles explained that the response to the show has changed over the eighteen years he has performed it. As Dr. King has become more distanced from the people in time, so have people become less engaged in his story.
I was curious to learn how the New York Mills youngsters felt about the show. The afternoon performance was not full, but I was pleased to see that all the students who were in the audience remained attentive and focused throughout the hour-long performance. I had the opportunity to speak with some of them after the show to hear their impressions. Aaron Arno was moved by the piercing sound effect of the deadly gunshot in the final scene, and the story as presented was new to him. He “hadn’t heard this version before.” Will Pajari had already known a bit about Dr. King before, specifically he “knew most that his children would not be judged by the color of their skin.” Leah Roberts felt that the performance “was really interesting” and “realized how difficult the black people lived.”
Though the children of our small town have never had to face the challenges that black children faced during the time of segregation, I am glad that a few of them had the opportunity to glimpse a less fortunate world through the production of Dr. King’s Dream at the Cultural Center. I hope that more of them will be at the next event.
Dr. Martin Luther King is one of those people that we all think we know about, but when it comes right down to it, how much do we really remember? I’d always known Dr. King was an important civil rights leader, but, like so many lessons that I learned in grade school, the actual details of his life escaped me. I didn’t remember more than two facts: that he had given the “I Have a Dream” address in the civil rights era and that he had been assassinated. Last week, when National Public Radio started running stories related to the fortieth anniversary of his death, I realized just how little I knew about this man who changed our nation and the face of civil rights for the world. I was embarrassed by my ignorance.
It so happened that the New York Mills Regional Cultural Center was featuring a one-man show titled Dr. King’s Dream last Friday. I figured I ought to go to renew my acquaintance with the history of this great man. As an added bonus, the Center was offering a free afternoon show for students and their accompanying adults. Having no children of my own, I borrowed a child and went to the show.
The Mixed Blood production of Dr. King’s Dream was sponsored by a collaboration between the New York Mills Public Library and the Cultural Center and were funded, in part, by a grant from the Lake Region Arts Council through a Minnesota State Legislative appropriation. The play is an hour-long monologue in answer to the question posed to him by his friend, “When were you most frightened?” as they wait to leave the Memphis motel for dinner on the evening that Dr. King was killed. Dr. King is played by Warren C. Bowles, a veteran member of the Mixed Blood Theater Company.
Upon entering the Cultural Center on Friday, one saw a makeshift stage in the middle of the gallery that was set with a simple gray cloth backdrop, a wooden chair, a black rotary phone on a stand, and a lectern. The play began with a recording of gospel music, and then a flesh-and-blood Dr. King walked onto the stage.
Ninety percent of the play is composed of Dr. King’s own words as assembled by the Mixed Blood Theater Company. Besides “I have a dream,” most of Dr. King’s words were new to me. Each sentence was a revelation of a man who stood up to the racist status quo and created a movement against the might of a powerful government, a movement that was characterized by King’s abiding commitment to nonviolence. King was a man who changed the face of America with only his will and his words and was then violently killed for daring to do so.
Dr. King was assassinated at the age of 39, and this fortieth anniversary of his death marks a turning point. From now on, his life will always have been shorter than the amount of time since he was alive. Perhaps it is even more essential, then, that we remember the legacy he left, and Dr. King’s Dream was a moving and engaging way to celebrate the highlights of Dr. King’s life.
Born in 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia, King followed his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to become a pastor. He attended segregated public schools in Atlanta, received a B.A. from Morehouse College, a B.D. from Crozer Theological Seminary in Pennsylvania, and a doctorate from Boston University. In 1954 he accepted the pastorale of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. By that point, he was already a member of the executive committee for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. In 1955, he accepted the leadership of the first great Negro nonviolent demonstration of contemporary times in the United States, a bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama. After Rosa Parks defied the existing law and refused to give up her bus seat for a white person, King led the blacks of the entire city to boycott the buses. Local people would walk for miles, hitchhike, and carpool instead of riding the buses, causing the city to outlaw hitchhiking, carpooling, and loitering in an effort to increase bus ridership. The city was unsuccessful, despite the arrest of Dr. King and the bombing of his home. After 385 days, the bus segregation laws were overturned, and Dr. King joined the black community on their first bus rides in over a year.
In 1957, King was elected president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization formed to lead the civil rights movement. The ideals of the organization were based in Christianity, but King took its operational techniques from the nonviolent philosophy of the Indian leader Gandhi. Between 1957 and 1968, King traveled over six million miles, spoke over twenty-five hundred times, and wrote five books and numerous articles. He led a massive protest in Birmingham, Alabama that caught the attention of the entire world and directed the peaceful march on Washington, D.C. of a quarter million people for whom he delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Over the course of his life, King was arrested upwards of twenty five times and assaulted at least four times.
In 1968, King traveled to Memphis, Tennessee to support the black sanitary public works employees. They had been on strike for higher wages and better treatment after the senseless deaths of two black workers crushed by the mechanism of the very garbage truck they were forced to shelter inside of. In his last speech at a church in Memphis, King hinted that he knew he might not have long to live. Five days later, at 6:01pm on April 4, 1968, King was shot by James Earl Ray while standing on the second floor balcony of room 306 at the Lorraine motel. The assassination led to a nationwide wave of riots in more than 100 cities.
Dr. King’s Dream was a one-hour window into one-man’s lifetime world-changing accomplishments culminating in an ear-splitting gunshot. After the show, I had a chance to speak to the actor portraying Dr. King. Bowles explained that the response to the show has changed over the eighteen years he has performed it. As Dr. King has become more distanced from the people in time, so have people become less engaged in his story.
I was curious to learn how the New York Mills youngsters felt about the show. The afternoon performance was not full, but I was pleased to see that all the students who were in the audience remained attentive and focused throughout the hour-long performance. I had the opportunity to speak with some of them after the show to hear their impressions. Aaron Arno was moved by the piercing sound effect of the deadly gunshot in the final scene, and the story as presented was new to him. He “hadn’t heard this version before.” Will Pajari had already known a bit about Dr. King before, specifically he “knew most that his children would not be judged by the color of their skin.” Leah Roberts felt that the performance “was really interesting” and “realized how difficult the black people lived.”
Though the children of our small town have never had to face the challenges that black children faced during the time of segregation, I am glad that a few of them had the opportunity to glimpse a less fortunate world through the production of Dr. King’s Dream at the Cultural Center. I hope that more of them will be at the next event.
Being Nice is a Luxury
Originally published in the New York Mills Herald on 3/27/08 and credited to my alternate identity, Elisa Korentayer.
I just returned from ten days in Israel where I went to visit my family and old friends. There is much to say about Israel. It is a fascinating country with complicated politics, a rich culture, and mind-boggling amounts of history. However, I would like to talk about something else. I would like to talk about how the behavior of Israelis is perhaps the polar opposite of the behavior of Minnesotans, and how observing this taught me that being nice is a luxury. Let me elaborate.
When I arrived in Israel, my mother wailed over my decision to rent a car. “Drivers are crazy here,” she cried. “You don’t know what kind of danger you’ll be in!” I scoffed at her overprotectiveness, and rented a car anyway. “They can’t be worse than drivers in Mexico. Anyway, I drove for years in New York City, there’s no better schooling than that.”
How wrong I was.
Each driver in Israel has one goal—to control the road. To this end, drivers tend to drive on the lane-divider lines, so that no car can pass them on either the right or the left. Drivers do not signal, not because they forget, but because they do not want to let others on the road know their plans and have the chance to foil them. If a driver were to signal a lane change, the car in the next lane would move up and close off the gap so he couldn’t pass. This creates an environment where drivers make life-threatening moves. Without signaling, drivers will pull in front of you into openings that are half their car’s size, forcing you to slam on your brakes. Drivers will come at you at high speeds and hover only inches away from the vehicles in front of them. Drivers will choose to stop and wait anywhere that it pleases them on narrow roads in busy cities. Should they block your passage, well, that’s really your problem, isn’t it? I thought that New York drivers were bad, but there is one key difference between New York and Israeli drivers: New York drivers pretend not to be scared of dying; Israeli drivers are truly fearless.
This aggressive, self-centered, goal-oriented behavior is reflected off the road too. If you want to buy an ice cream, say, and there are twenty others who do too, then there is no point in trying to wait on a queue. There is no queue. There is a mob of ice-cream-craving combatants. Whoever screams the loudest and pushes herself ahead of you will be served first, no matter that you’ve been waiting there patiently for the last half hour and this bozo just walked in. As my Minnesota-native fiancé learned with me, nice just doesn’t pay. If a person behaves as a Minnesotan would—waiting politely, quietly, and patiently until the person wielding the ice cream scoop looks his way—then he might wait till closing time and still not get an ice cream cone. I waited for a good twenty minutes as people who came in behind me shoved ahead of me and got their ice cream cones first. I only got my ice cream because my Israeli aunt intervened.
Why are Israelis so rude? I believe it’s because the people of Israel don’t have the time to wait their turn or consider others. When you live your life knowing that any minute a suicide bomber could end your journey on this planet or that an enemy state could decide that it is time to wage war and destroy your home and the life you’ve known, then why wait for your ice cream cone? You have only this moment to enjoy it. Israelis live in a place where everyone is out to get them—neighbor nations, the guy across the street, the government. There is no peace in such a world. Conflict is a part of life, and one has to keep one’s battle skills honed. Israeli culture helps keep its people ready for conflict. Israelis are trained to be tough from their infancy. Besides the daily hassle of getting through a day in Israel, all Israelis are required to serve in the army. Every Israeli citizen, save the extremely religious or the citizens of Israel who are Arab, has been through basic training and a two- to three- year stint in the Israeli Defense Forces, one of the most effective armies in the world.
Israelis are not embarrassed about their tough, take-no-prisoners approach to life. In fact, my Israeli aunt scoffs at the sensitivity of Americans, what she describes as our “gentleness.” She gets frustrated at how she has to pad her words and pussyfoot around her point when speaking to her American siblings, nieces, and nephews. “You’re skin is too thin,” she tells me. “You need everything to be gentle, supportive, and kind. I can’t be direct with any of you. You need to toughen up.” Needless to say, my aunt drives on the lane-divider lines and orders her ice cream by pushing to the front of the line and yelling her order. She is a master at navigating the ins and outs of Israeli culture, and there is a kind of grace in her roughness. When sparring with ticket takers or other drivers, she generally has a smile on her face and a flirtatious sneer in her tone. She gets things done.
I came back from our visit to Israel with a real appreciation for how good we have it in the United States and particularly in our little corner of Minnesota. Here, we are not afraid that at any moment an F15 will bomb our home. We do not worry about missiles coming across the Canadian border and hitting our schools. We are not required by the government to serve in the army or build weapon-deterring safe rooms in our homes. We have the luxury of being nice to one another. This is a luxury that I vow to appreciate more.
I came home from Israel looking forward to my return to this small town where people are Minnesota-nice. I dreamed of driving on Highway 10, where cars leave wide swathes of space between each other and generally respect a person’s right to turn. I imagined getting my coffee at the Creamery, where people wait their turn to order, gently ask their neighbors how they are, and Cheryl greets you with a smile instead of a growl. Most of all, I looked forward to being in a place where I do not have to live in fear.
I just returned from ten days in Israel where I went to visit my family and old friends. There is much to say about Israel. It is a fascinating country with complicated politics, a rich culture, and mind-boggling amounts of history. However, I would like to talk about something else. I would like to talk about how the behavior of Israelis is perhaps the polar opposite of the behavior of Minnesotans, and how observing this taught me that being nice is a luxury. Let me elaborate.
When I arrived in Israel, my mother wailed over my decision to rent a car. “Drivers are crazy here,” she cried. “You don’t know what kind of danger you’ll be in!” I scoffed at her overprotectiveness, and rented a car anyway. “They can’t be worse than drivers in Mexico. Anyway, I drove for years in New York City, there’s no better schooling than that.”
How wrong I was.
Each driver in Israel has one goal—to control the road. To this end, drivers tend to drive on the lane-divider lines, so that no car can pass them on either the right or the left. Drivers do not signal, not because they forget, but because they do not want to let others on the road know their plans and have the chance to foil them. If a driver were to signal a lane change, the car in the next lane would move up and close off the gap so he couldn’t pass. This creates an environment where drivers make life-threatening moves. Without signaling, drivers will pull in front of you into openings that are half their car’s size, forcing you to slam on your brakes. Drivers will come at you at high speeds and hover only inches away from the vehicles in front of them. Drivers will choose to stop and wait anywhere that it pleases them on narrow roads in busy cities. Should they block your passage, well, that’s really your problem, isn’t it? I thought that New York drivers were bad, but there is one key difference between New York and Israeli drivers: New York drivers pretend not to be scared of dying; Israeli drivers are truly fearless.
This aggressive, self-centered, goal-oriented behavior is reflected off the road too. If you want to buy an ice cream, say, and there are twenty others who do too, then there is no point in trying to wait on a queue. There is no queue. There is a mob of ice-cream-craving combatants. Whoever screams the loudest and pushes herself ahead of you will be served first, no matter that you’ve been waiting there patiently for the last half hour and this bozo just walked in. As my Minnesota-native fiancé learned with me, nice just doesn’t pay. If a person behaves as a Minnesotan would—waiting politely, quietly, and patiently until the person wielding the ice cream scoop looks his way—then he might wait till closing time and still not get an ice cream cone. I waited for a good twenty minutes as people who came in behind me shoved ahead of me and got their ice cream cones first. I only got my ice cream because my Israeli aunt intervened.
Why are Israelis so rude? I believe it’s because the people of Israel don’t have the time to wait their turn or consider others. When you live your life knowing that any minute a suicide bomber could end your journey on this planet or that an enemy state could decide that it is time to wage war and destroy your home and the life you’ve known, then why wait for your ice cream cone? You have only this moment to enjoy it. Israelis live in a place where everyone is out to get them—neighbor nations, the guy across the street, the government. There is no peace in such a world. Conflict is a part of life, and one has to keep one’s battle skills honed. Israeli culture helps keep its people ready for conflict. Israelis are trained to be tough from their infancy. Besides the daily hassle of getting through a day in Israel, all Israelis are required to serve in the army. Every Israeli citizen, save the extremely religious or the citizens of Israel who are Arab, has been through basic training and a two- to three- year stint in the Israeli Defense Forces, one of the most effective armies in the world.
Israelis are not embarrassed about their tough, take-no-prisoners approach to life. In fact, my Israeli aunt scoffs at the sensitivity of Americans, what she describes as our “gentleness.” She gets frustrated at how she has to pad her words and pussyfoot around her point when speaking to her American siblings, nieces, and nephews. “You’re skin is too thin,” she tells me. “You need everything to be gentle, supportive, and kind. I can’t be direct with any of you. You need to toughen up.” Needless to say, my aunt drives on the lane-divider lines and orders her ice cream by pushing to the front of the line and yelling her order. She is a master at navigating the ins and outs of Israeli culture, and there is a kind of grace in her roughness. When sparring with ticket takers or other drivers, she generally has a smile on her face and a flirtatious sneer in her tone. She gets things done.
I came back from our visit to Israel with a real appreciation for how good we have it in the United States and particularly in our little corner of Minnesota. Here, we are not afraid that at any moment an F15 will bomb our home. We do not worry about missiles coming across the Canadian border and hitting our schools. We are not required by the government to serve in the army or build weapon-deterring safe rooms in our homes. We have the luxury of being nice to one another. This is a luxury that I vow to appreciate more.
I came home from Israel looking forward to my return to this small town where people are Minnesota-nice. I dreamed of driving on Highway 10, where cars leave wide swathes of space between each other and generally respect a person’s right to turn. I imagined getting my coffee at the Creamery, where people wait their turn to order, gently ask their neighbors how they are, and Cheryl greets you with a smile instead of a growl. Most of all, I looked forward to being in a place where I do not have to live in fear.
Fishing for Cash: A Fable
Originally published in the New York Mills Herald on 3/6/08 and credited to my alternate identity, Elisa Korentayer.
Two Minnesota fishermen traveled to a Caribbean island to fish far away from the cold Minnesota winter. Not expecting to find a cash machine on the island, each of the fishermen brought along the cash he needed for the week. When the fishermen reached their motel rooms, each faced a dilemma. Should a person take all his cash with him and risk it getting lost or stolen? Or should he leave the cash in the room and risk it getting stolen? The first fisherman decided to leave his cash in his room, but, as he was a clever fisherman, he hid the American bills in places where troublemakers were unlikely to find them. He took a couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them inside socks in his drawer. He took a couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them under the mattress. He took the final couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them in the hiding place he was most proud of: a few inches deep in his fishing rod case.
First, the fisherman spent the cash on top of the closet. Then, because food and fishing guides were expensive, he reached for the cash hidden in his socks. Finally, the fisherman needed the cash in his fishing rod case. He peered in amongst the folds of fabric that made up the lining. He saw two one-hundred dollar bills peaking up at him from a few inches down, just past where his fingers could reach them. He took the top two-foot-long section of his fishing rod and pushed it into the case to pull up the cash. The fishing rod came up. The cash didn’t. When the fisherman peered into the case again, he saw that the fishing rod had pushed the bills to the bottom of the case.
The Minnesota fisherman sat on his unmade bed in eighty-five degree heat and ninety percent humidity. He had already been sweating. Now he was sweating more. He needed to focus. He pushed his fishing rod into the case again. He peered in with a flashlight, aimed the fishing rod into the section where the cash was curled up, and started to scrape upward from the bottom of the case. He heard the crunch of paper as the wood of the fishing rod scraped the bills. He managed to pull the bills up a millimeter. He repeated this process. This time the bills didn’t budge. He scraped and he scraped. He peered and he peered. No cash. Three days of eating and fishing and a trip to the airport left to pay for. He was in a foreign country with no access to money. He tried to pull the bottom off the rod case. It was glued tight. He tried to pull the fabric covering off of the case, it went down about an inch. He figured that maybe his friend might have a tool that could reach down into his case, grab the bills, and pull them back up. He went to his friend’s room.
The first fisherman came back from the second fisherman’s room with a hemostat, a scissorlike instrument with a foot-long beak that ended in a tweezer-like grabber. He pushed the hemostat into the case, and tried to reach the bills, only to find that the bills were now too far into the case for the hemostat reach. If only he’d had this instrument when he first reached into the case! The second fisherman came by and asked whether the first fisherman had gotten his cash. No luck, said the first fisherman. Let me try, said the second fisherman.
The second fisherman peered into the case. He was a strategist. He hypothesized that, if one could pull the lining up and out of the case, the cash would come with it. He used the hemostat to grab the top of the lining, and pulled upward with all his strength. The sound of seams ripping could be heard, but the lining remained stuck to the case. Ah hah, the second fisherman said. It must be attached at the bottom as well as the top. Let’s cut the lining off of the top of the tube, and then pull it again. The lining is sure to come out of the case, bringing the cash with it. Where’s your scissors? The first fisherman looked slightly sick at the incipient destruction of his new fishing rod case, but he handed the second fisherman his scissors anyway. The second fisherman started cutting. Pretty soon, the lining had been shredded away from the top of the tube, but it was still stuck to the case. The second fisherman pulled and pulled. He passed the case over. The first fisherman pulled and pulled. The lining wouldn’t budge. Twist!, said the second fisherman. The first fisherman twisted. And he twisted. And he twisted. The nylon stayed securely attached to the bottom of the case. The second fisherman shrugged. I was sure this would work. The second fisherman went back to his room to check that he had enough money to feed himself till the end of his vacation.
The first fisherman looked at the frayed insides of his new fishing rod case. He saw the white PVC plastic through the wounds in the fabric that once lined his case. He went back to his original plan. He reached into the case with the tip of the fishing rod. He peered into the case again and learned that the attempt to remove the lining had only succeeded in trapping the cash underneath the fabric that separated the compartments. Without a two-foot long tweezers the bills were unreachable. The case was now a shambles, and the fisherman was still broke.
Upon asking around, the first fisherman learned that there was one lone cash machine on the island. Hallelujah!, he thought. I’ll be able to eat! He found his credit card. He walked to the other end of the island under the boiling sun. He saw a bank with a door marked with the universal symbols for ATM. He quickened his pace and came closer. Next to the ATM symbols was a handwritten sign that said: Out of Order.
The first fisherman trudged back through the hot sand to his motel room. He picked up his fishing rod case, which—though its insides were a shambles—would still be able to protect his new fishing rod from breaking during the trip back—if he could make it back. He imagined the two one-hundred dollar bills, so close to where his hand clutched the bottom of the case, but as yet unreachable. His stomach rumbled. He looked at his precious fishing rod, which still needed to be protected on the trip home. He stared longingly at the bottom of the rod case where two one-hundred-dollar bills rested in all their American green glory. His stomach rumbled again. He went out and asked the motel owner for a hacksaw. Ten minutes and one fishing rod case later, the first Minnesota fisherman went out to dinner.
Moral of the story: Don’t put your cash in a fishing rod case when in a foreign country until you’re sure that the local cash machine is working. Or bring along a two-foot long tweezers.
Two Minnesota fishermen traveled to a Caribbean island to fish far away from the cold Minnesota winter. Not expecting to find a cash machine on the island, each of the fishermen brought along the cash he needed for the week. When the fishermen reached their motel rooms, each faced a dilemma. Should a person take all his cash with him and risk it getting lost or stolen? Or should he leave the cash in the room and risk it getting stolen? The first fisherman decided to leave his cash in his room, but, as he was a clever fisherman, he hid the American bills in places where troublemakers were unlikely to find them. He took a couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them inside socks in his drawer. He took a couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them under the mattress. He took the final couple of hundred-dollar bills and put them in the hiding place he was most proud of: a few inches deep in his fishing rod case.
First, the fisherman spent the cash on top of the closet. Then, because food and fishing guides were expensive, he reached for the cash hidden in his socks. Finally, the fisherman needed the cash in his fishing rod case. He peered in amongst the folds of fabric that made up the lining. He saw two one-hundred dollar bills peaking up at him from a few inches down, just past where his fingers could reach them. He took the top two-foot-long section of his fishing rod and pushed it into the case to pull up the cash. The fishing rod came up. The cash didn’t. When the fisherman peered into the case again, he saw that the fishing rod had pushed the bills to the bottom of the case.
The Minnesota fisherman sat on his unmade bed in eighty-five degree heat and ninety percent humidity. He had already been sweating. Now he was sweating more. He needed to focus. He pushed his fishing rod into the case again. He peered in with a flashlight, aimed the fishing rod into the section where the cash was curled up, and started to scrape upward from the bottom of the case. He heard the crunch of paper as the wood of the fishing rod scraped the bills. He managed to pull the bills up a millimeter. He repeated this process. This time the bills didn’t budge. He scraped and he scraped. He peered and he peered. No cash. Three days of eating and fishing and a trip to the airport left to pay for. He was in a foreign country with no access to money. He tried to pull the bottom off the rod case. It was glued tight. He tried to pull the fabric covering off of the case, it went down about an inch. He figured that maybe his friend might have a tool that could reach down into his case, grab the bills, and pull them back up. He went to his friend’s room.
The first fisherman came back from the second fisherman’s room with a hemostat, a scissorlike instrument with a foot-long beak that ended in a tweezer-like grabber. He pushed the hemostat into the case, and tried to reach the bills, only to find that the bills were now too far into the case for the hemostat reach. If only he’d had this instrument when he first reached into the case! The second fisherman came by and asked whether the first fisherman had gotten his cash. No luck, said the first fisherman. Let me try, said the second fisherman.
The second fisherman peered into the case. He was a strategist. He hypothesized that, if one could pull the lining up and out of the case, the cash would come with it. He used the hemostat to grab the top of the lining, and pulled upward with all his strength. The sound of seams ripping could be heard, but the lining remained stuck to the case. Ah hah, the second fisherman said. It must be attached at the bottom as well as the top. Let’s cut the lining off of the top of the tube, and then pull it again. The lining is sure to come out of the case, bringing the cash with it. Where’s your scissors? The first fisherman looked slightly sick at the incipient destruction of his new fishing rod case, but he handed the second fisherman his scissors anyway. The second fisherman started cutting. Pretty soon, the lining had been shredded away from the top of the tube, but it was still stuck to the case. The second fisherman pulled and pulled. He passed the case over. The first fisherman pulled and pulled. The lining wouldn’t budge. Twist!, said the second fisherman. The first fisherman twisted. And he twisted. And he twisted. The nylon stayed securely attached to the bottom of the case. The second fisherman shrugged. I was sure this would work. The second fisherman went back to his room to check that he had enough money to feed himself till the end of his vacation.
The first fisherman looked at the frayed insides of his new fishing rod case. He saw the white PVC plastic through the wounds in the fabric that once lined his case. He went back to his original plan. He reached into the case with the tip of the fishing rod. He peered into the case again and learned that the attempt to remove the lining had only succeeded in trapping the cash underneath the fabric that separated the compartments. Without a two-foot long tweezers the bills were unreachable. The case was now a shambles, and the fisherman was still broke.
Upon asking around, the first fisherman learned that there was one lone cash machine on the island. Hallelujah!, he thought. I’ll be able to eat! He found his credit card. He walked to the other end of the island under the boiling sun. He saw a bank with a door marked with the universal symbols for ATM. He quickened his pace and came closer. Next to the ATM symbols was a handwritten sign that said: Out of Order.
The first fisherman trudged back through the hot sand to his motel room. He picked up his fishing rod case, which—though its insides were a shambles—would still be able to protect his new fishing rod from breaking during the trip back—if he could make it back. He imagined the two one-hundred dollar bills, so close to where his hand clutched the bottom of the case, but as yet unreachable. His stomach rumbled. He looked at his precious fishing rod, which still needed to be protected on the trip home. He stared longingly at the bottom of the rod case where two one-hundred-dollar bills rested in all their American green glory. His stomach rumbled again. He went out and asked the motel owner for a hacksaw. Ten minutes and one fishing rod case later, the first Minnesota fisherman went out to dinner.
Moral of the story: Don’t put your cash in a fishing rod case when in a foreign country until you’re sure that the local cash machine is working. Or bring along a two-foot long tweezers.
