Martin Luther King Jr.

Martin Luther King Jr.
M. L. King Jr. (January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)


Woah, check it!


Greatestest Generation?

My grandma came to see me graduate high school last year. My grandpa too. It was an extra special occasion, because not only was I graduating high school (no one was sure 'til the absolute last minute), but I was giving the speech (the last minute actually had to bumped up so we could know before the school printed the programs). Her appearance was only out of the ordinary in that she was 83, my grandpa was a stroke victim, and they lived in Iowa: driving to Milwaukee was a painful experience. Irregardless of all that, my grandma was, unexpectedly, proud. Well, we've all got grammas, right? We know how they are.

Anyway, after the speech was given and the ceremony celebrated, Grandma came up to me, gave me a most-wonderful Grandma hug, and congradulated me, beaming. But then she told me something special, something I likely won't ever forget, "You know Ty, I've been reading in the newspaper that you guys, your generation, you're going to be the next Greatest Generation."

Telling me about how the New York Times was saying we're compassion and adaptable and all these other things that are wonderful, the kinds of things that every grandma wants to tell her grandkids, I was struck. Usually I dismiss these kinds of things, I hate fatalism, refuse to believe in higher purposes, and try to avoid letting my Grandma's compliments go to my ego too much.
But this, I don't know, it rang in my ears like nothing else. Still today, when I think about the kids I graduated with, I can't help but think, "hot damn."

But just now, I was reading Paul Krugman's recent Op-Ed piece and realized that there is one difference between us and the former Greatest Generation, one that will define our future, our prosperity, our freedom. See, Grandmas was born in 1934, right in the middle of the Great Depression; too say that she learned to save would mean the half of it.

Our ability to save will define our success.


I was a proud Catholic once. But then Phillip Pulman got in the way.

An innocent boy poisoned by guilt looked up at the bearded and bespectacled man signing his book. Teeming with curiosity, the boy overcame his shyness and asked the man a question that had been bothering him since finishing the man’s last book: “Excuse me, sir, but do you really believe what you write?”

The man with the beard and glasses, finished his signature and looked up at the boy, “What do you mean, do I believe that Lyra exists?”

No, that’s not it, the boy thought, but he couldn’t find the words to correct him, and his head nodded in agreement.

The man told the boy that the books were fantasy, creations of his mind. Of course the boy knew that, and left the bookshop disappointed. He loved the man’s books, got lost in their mystery and wonder, but his message didn’t really make much sense. Why is God a false god, one to be torn down? Why is the Church an oppressive force, an army led by corruption?

I mean, in real-life, the Church is good and whole, and God is loving, complete and perfect, right? Really though, right?