El Gringoqueño

They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history, recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they hid themselves away from the frat boys.

Still, I can’t help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they’ve missed out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in search of order, perfections, the divine.

I get the same feeling reading Slashdot, and I’ve come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord in the universe, make it perfect.

More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the order, impinge on our monks’ solitude. The disdain is expressed in a variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of Brittney Spears 24/7.

Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the right tools, away… from… it… all.

I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?

I opened the freezer and my heart leapt for joy. There they were, chocolate chip cookies with their delicious golden brown tops and their moist frozen goodness. In a moment though, my hopes were dashed as I realized they were burned on the bottom. Why? Why, I beseech thee, why do you taunt me? WHY!?

“Hon, I’m gonna throw these cookies out. Every time I open the freezer, I see them and I feel a joy so profound that I believe I may collapse to my knees in a quivering mass. Yet only a millisecond later I must bear the pathos of tragedy. I can’t take it I tell you. I can’t take it. I have enough drama in my life without having to endure this, these mocking cookies, with their lying tops and their false hopes. Hey, that’s like a metaphor, you know, like life. All of the universe and the struggle of human existence contained in an infinitesimal period of frozen time. Hey that’s very literary, isn’t it? Hon? Isn’t it?”

“Yes dear, go ahead and throw them out.”

Flashback to 1994

The phone was ringing on a Saturday morning as we were having breakfast. I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Lt. O’Malley, this is LTC Jones, we need to talk. How soon can you get down to the unit?”

“I, uh, I’ll be right there. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“No I can’t.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” This couldn’t be good. No way could this be good. What did I do? What is the problem? I had no idea, and the terse tone filled me with dread.

“Hon, I have to go to the unit.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Most definitely, yes, there is something wrong, but I don’t know what. I can’t talk about it… I… “ I fumbled around for keys, shoes, trying to remember where I was.

On the short drive to the port district in Oakland, I searched my memories trying to figure out what this could be about, trying to think if I did or said anything… anything. I had no idea, and that was more disconcerting than anything.

“Lt O’Malley, close the door and have a seat.”

I sat there in stunned silence, waiting for the bell to toll.

“I have received a disturbing report of your behavior, LT.”

…and? I thought.

“Two SGT’s have come forward with racial discrimination complaint against you. I consider these charges grave.”

I felt shocked and relieved at the same time. Shocked that someone could have accused me of such a thing, relieved that I knew it to be untrue.

“I – uh, never. Sir, I have never done such a thing. Who was it?” I was a little rattled, searching for the purpose, the plan, the method, why am I here, I asked myself?

“I can’t tell you, LT, but I consider the charges serious.”

“I am not a racist. What do they say I did? What could I have done? I’m married to a Puerto Rican, I live in Oakland for God’s sake. I love diversity. There’s no way I’m a racist.”

“That may be, LT, but I tell you, you have a problem.”

I stammered, repeated myself, got defensive. “Sir, it’s not true. It’s not true. I didn’t do it.”

LTC Jones, changed his tone a bit. I noticed a slightly fatherly demeanor for this young Lieutenant. “LT, you have a problem. How are you going to solve it?”

“A problem?! I never.. I didn’t. I can’t…”

He cut me off firmly. “LT, YOU have a problem. What are you going to do about it?”

Something clicked at that moment. I have a problem. Yes, I do, don’t I? I have been lost in my own bruised ego. I had tried to shirk the responsibility for this problem that had been thrust upon me. It was mine. All my own. It was not of my own making, but it had been delivered to me. I was now the proud owner of a problem not of my own making. Now novel, eh? - as if no one in humanity’s history had ever had to deal with a problem not of their own making, or consequence, or foundations contrary their own values.

How novel, how rich, how unusual, I reflected sarcastically. This is something that happens everyday. Problems arrive at the doorsteps of unsuspecting fools, delivered by incompetent, malicious, ill-intentioned, or ignorant people. Sometimes problems arrive from the Atlantic kicking up wind gusts of 150 mph. Accidents happen, sometimes through the carelessness of action, thoughtlessness, or just plain dumb luck.

“What can I do?” I asked LTC Jones. But before he could answer, I blurted out, “I want to address the company. Let me address the company, that way the individuals can hear me and I don’t have to single them out. Let me address the company and just nip this in the bud, with an apology.”

LTC Jones hid a smile. “That’s a great idea, LT. We can do it in the morning formation. That way it can be cleared up, and we can get on with the rest of the weekend. I’m glad we had this talk. Now get out of here.”

He was pleased, I could tell. He didn’t want to be too jubilant. It’s not dignified. But reflecting on this many years latter, I understand the difficulties of command. He had a Lieutenant and two Sergeants that were at odds. In order for his unit to function there must be accord. The unit must run without disruption, petty politics, individual negativity, bickering. The unit must have unity, a sense of esprit de corps. He doesn’t know who to trust, and probably doesn’t really care. If the charges go forward, a complaint would be filed, possibly investigated and filed away. As a commander, I can tell you that that is not a solution. It solves nothing, does nothing but document and bury the incident. Meanwhile, relationships suffer, factions form from those that support one side or the other, and the unit becomes less effective.

My direction was clear in that moment of clarity, a momentary bolt of wisdom had shot through that young heart of mine, and allowed me to divorce myself from my ego, my concern for myself, my career, my well-being, and allowed me to see my damaged unit, and know there was something I could do about it.

What LTC Jones really wanted was someone who could solve his problem, and I was the only one capable. To have been able to count on me for that task was probably something for which he was very grateful.

I am reminded of this by current events, new deployments of soldiers to Iraq, young men and women of great dedication and honor, being sent to solve a problem. Was the problem of their creation? Did they put Sadaam in power? Did they ask for Sadaam to attack Kuwait. Did they ask for Rumsfeld? Did they ask President Bush to preemptively strike? Did they ask for the impatience, the bad intelligence, the nebulous motives? Are they pawns in an unjust game of international politics?

Maybe, but they are the only ones who can solve the problem. Do firefighters stand around and argue and hand-wring while the house is burning. “Idiots had substandard wiring. Idiots had an old space heater. Idiots tried to do their own wiring, were smoking in bed, doing crack, playing with matches.” Do firefighters do this? They solve the problem by putting the fire out. There is nothing else they may do.

Bush is irrelevant. Kerry is irrelevant. Michael Moore is irrelevant. History will judge Bush, but our men and women in uniform can solve a problem right now. Or not. Complain and let it burn, or put it out?

Choose wisely.