The Great American Wall

A wall is a symbol and embodiment of safety and stability, protection, and endurance. A wall is a boundary, safeguarding an important stronghold. That’s why in Russian and many other cultures women say about their husbands: “It feels with him like I am behind a solid rock wall,” which clearly implies that a woman feels safe and secure as provided by her strong and reliable husband. Obviously that does not mean that her husband is intimidating to the neighbors or imply anything immoral, but it rather is a metaphoric symbol of a woman’s peace of mind and a stable foundation ensuring that she can happily raise her kids and feel calm and sheltered. 

For a moment, let’s look deeper into the meaning, the symbolism, and the mythology of a wall. Walls played a big role in the cultural history of many countries. Every known mythology had some sort of mentioning of walls. The most important of them were built between the world of the living and the world of the dead. In Egyptian mythology, the “Book of Dead” tells us about an underworld surrounded by two walls: one made of bronze and another made of copper.

Access to paradise in every ancient mythology was always protected by walls. For example in Chinese culture there was a beautiful capital city of the famous “Yellow Emperor” who lived on top of the mountain Kunlun protected by a wall made of lapis. The country of Buddha on a continent of Jambudvipa was protected by a shiny diamond wall, and a fairytale Iranian fortress Kangju that was built by Siyavash somewhere in a far corner of Asia had as many as seven different walls surrounding it made of gold, silver, steel, bronze, iron, glass, and ceramic. In ancient Scandinavia, walls of mythological Midgard were made of eyelashes of a mythological giant named Ymir. The civilization of Maya described the world in the shape of a big house with four walls made of sacred reptiles.

Walls found their place in the heraldry of many cultures too. A variety of family crests and coats of arms displayed walls, symbolizing both power and security.

We exchange information with each other all the time and symbolism plays a very important role in communications, which can be both verbal and non-verbal with the use of symbols and signs. Signs substituting existing objects and symbols were eloquently classified in 1930 by researcher Edward Sapir who defined two types of symbols: condensational and referential. The former mean more than their literal definition. Great examples of such condensational symbols in the U.S. are, for example, the notions of the “American Dream” or “family values.” 

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

So why wouldn’t we add one more such condensational symbol; the Great American Wall? The wall would be the symbol and the protector of the paradise, built by the blood, sweat, and tears of generations of Americans: a paradise that must be legally earned and deserved. People of all walks of life understand such symbols; they appeal to the majority by their simplicity and absolute meaning of the notions entrenched in nearly everyone’s mind over the centuries.

The notion of a wall is among those eternal symbols. It means safety, it means protection and means peace of mind. Even if the practical utility of it is not perfect and it wouldn’t solve the border security problem in every way, the symbolism of it is worth all the billions requested by the President.

Another piece of mythology – the Legends of the Knights of the Round Table –beautifully describes the kingdom of fairies surrounded by an invisible but magical wall that was stronger than anything else, and would only become powerless when the brave and honest knight with an open heart and a beautiful soul decided to cross it.

So, let only the modern-day “knights with brave hearts” rather than illegal aliens cross our magical Southern border wall. And let’s protect our values not only in myths and endless debates but also in the reality of working together on making our country a better place for us, and our children.

Lidia Zinchenko
Montecito

(Editor’s note: We’ve been thinking a lot about Braveheart lately, but we’ll dive into the comparison between William Wallace and Donald Trump in next week’s issue. Thanks for reminding us with your reference to “knights with brave hearts.” – J.B.)

Not a Real “Racketeer”

In last week’s MJ, Richard Mineards refers to my late friend Gene Sinser as “an avid racketeer.” Now Richard probably was trying to find a cute reference to tennis, but “racketeer” is defined in my dictionary as “a person who engages in dishonest and fraudulent business dealings.”

That definition absolutely does not describe Gene nor apply to him in any manner. Slip of the pen most likely…

Addison Thompson
Santa Barbara

(Editor’s note: A “quip of the pen” is even more likely – J.B.)

EPA’s Strict Guidelines?

I appreciate the editor’s note that follows my letter (“Aera Energy’s Economic Errors,” MJ # 25/2). However, I question the statement that it is better to allow the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to oversee oil production because of its “strict guidelines.” 

The EPA has essentially been gutted, as Trump promised during his campaign. Its budget was cut by 31% and staff reduced by 3,200 jobs in 2018 (before the current shutdown). These cuts have made it almost impossible for the agency to investigate and impose penalties on environmental offenders: that is, to do its job.

In any case, California oil production falls under the jurisdiction of the Division of Oil, Gas, and Geothermal Resources (DOGGR). Their “strict guidelines” allow the dumping of wastewater from the recovery of oil into unlined, open pits, AKA “percolation ponds,” where toxic substances can seep through the earth into the groundwater. California and New Jersey are the only states that allow this; even Texas has banned the practice. 

When oil from Aera’s Kern County oil field leaked into the groundwater of the Starrh Family Farm, destroying 6,000 acres of pistachios, cotton, almonds, and alfalfa, Starrh sued Aera and received a settlement. That water and ground are permanently contaminated, and no amount of money can fix it. 

Aera is owned by ExxonMobil; type “ExxonMobil lawsuits” into Google to see many such disasters, and beware: the results will keep you up at night.

Scott Pruitt and Andrew Wheeler, former and current heads of the EPA, have both earned great wealth as a result of their work for the oil and coal industries. 

Instead of trusting the fox to guard the henhouse, I suggest we use our American ingenuity, technology, and labor to develop an alternative energy infrastructure, so we can reach the 50% renewables benchmark by 2030 that our state legislature called for when passing SB 350 last year. 

This strategy would increase local jobs eight-fold and ensure the safety of our drinking water, as well protecting agriculture and tourism, two important economic resources, well into the future. 

Rachel Altman
Montecito

(Editor’s note: Thank you for your thoughtful letter, but if you believe oil producers in Russia, Nigeria, China, Venezuela, Mexico, Angola, et al, are better stewards of the land and its resources than producers in the U.S., or that we can “reach the 50% renewables benchmark” in a short eleven years from now, or that such a feat will “increase local jobs eight-fold,” well… your first belief is as untenable as the second and third. Mankind (can we still use that term?), however, has survived other such faulty prognostications. See: “Global Cooling: The Coming Ice Age,” written by Lowell Pointe (1976), and various panicky “global cooling” editorials from both Newsweek and Time magazines in the 1970s). – J.B.)

Who Stole the Drinking Fountains?

It was just last Sunday – the day before we honor Martin Luther King Jr. – when I walked the streets of the American Riviera to look for unique businesses to support. I write a business column for two local papers, this being one, and I interview members of the community who take the risk of starting their own company, perhaps living out their dream. And for me, the smaller the business the better. 

But my hebdomadal jaunt for the underdog turned into a different type of quest when I parked my old silver Camry on the corner of Anacapa and Gutierrez.

I like to walk, so I always have a bottle of water with me, but (for a reason now known), I didn’t have a drop of water in my thirty-year-old car. I looked under the seats and in the trunk and even in the glove box… but found nothing.

No matter, I’ll just find a drinking fountain; problem solved.

I headed down Gutierrez, but before I made a left on State Street I stopped to listen to a man play his electric piano on the patio of Casa Blanca… the music was serene… but the glass of water that sat on the table aside him was the new melody. So I tipped my hat to the gentleman and his Wurlitzer piano, and then looked for a drinking fountain so I could get a simple drink of water.

And since I’m for the underdog, I made a left onto State Street, avoiding the red-bricked path that paves the way for businesses I’ve seen in Orange County, Los Angeles, Arizona etc. I’m a Funk Zone kind of guy, but I didn’t walk under the bridge, I stayed up top, and then crossed the bridge over State Street and headed down the stairs where a couple argued about where to eat.

(I didn’t say hello or even smile – my lips, my gums, my mouth, had dried and crusted like an old orange peel. I thought of the potential glasses of untouched ice water left on their table and envied that simple luxury which I knew they’d receive once they came to an agreement on where to dine.)

I continued my jaunt to find my first business but I first needed a drink of water. No worries, I’ll just go to the train station where I asked the man behind the two-inch glass where the drinking fountains were. He looked at me with an unusual leer and told me I could buy some water in the soda machine for $2.50. 

Really, sir, no drinking fountain?

No reply.

I didn’t have a dollar in my pocket, let alone $2.50 for a bottle of water. So I crossed back over State Street and the railroad tracks and found a nice big parking structure on the corner of Mason with smooth white stucco and a large field of grass where kids played tag and ran with the enthusiasm we envy. I looked all around the structure but only found three holes between the bathrooms in the shape of an upside-down triangle where the water fountain used to be.

I walked down Mason and made a right on Helena Avenue. I passed the bike shop, the skateboard shop called Lighthouse, Skyenna Wines. Then I cut through the outdoor mall where I was certain to find a drink. But I only found those three same holes, that same upside-down triangle where the water once was. 

Fine, I’ll go to Stearns Wharf; I’ll hit the bathroom and finally get a drink of water. But would you believe me if I told you our beautiful shoreline was waterless, and that the drinking fountain(s) were nowhere in sight? Not by the bathroom? Nor near the man who played his guitar? It’s true. Maybe somewhere a fountain existed, but not at the foot of the pier, but it shouldn’t be that hard to find. 

And to walk all the way down the wharf was not my agenda. I’d already walked far enough, and I wasn’t headed that way in the first place. 

From Stearns Wharf, I crossed back over Cabrillo, passed the Fishhouse and staggered up Anacapa. I waved to Loveworn, knowing the artists, Wallace Piatt and Jill Johnson,would roll out the red carpet and give me the biggest glass of water I’ve ever drunk. But, yes, now I was embarrassed, my mouth was its own arid cave of disgust. 

Discomfort and Plausible Rejection

I was parched beyond my own amazement. And now, in a city of known affluence, I was out to prove a point: I couldn’t find a free drink of water unless I walked into a business, all of them packed with people, to ask for a glass of water with possible rejection. Law or no law. 

I’m proud to be a broke writer – a writer without another job, with faded letters on his cheap Chrome book – just white dots from pounding the keys so we think before we do, say, or support something uncouth, such as the lack of easily available water in our city by the sea. I’m a writer who praises the First Street brand at Smart & Final – meatless spaghetti and ice cream are the attributes of my so-called nutrition. 

But the thing is, I don’t just think of myself. 

I think of the men and women I passed that day on my strange and somewhat disturbing excursion, who no matter what they look or smell like, want to be a part of our city as much as I do, and believe me, whether they knew it or not, needed a drink of water. But like me, they shouldn’t have to ask a crowded winery or a busy restaurant with the fear of plausible rejection, the definite discomfort, or upon the red paved road on State Street where certain businesses complain of their presence. 

I kept on Anacapa, made a left on Yanonali Street, passed the Blue Door, Raoul, made a right on State Street, and this time walked under the bridge. I watched a man push his shopping cart up the hill on the other side of State. He pushed like a thirsty man and I wanted to help him but I didn’t. I watched him push from the other side and made sure he didn’t slip downhill until he got to the Hub, where no drinking fountain existed as well. 

So after I walked for about two miles, at least, zigzagging through our community of affluence, I got into my car and drove down Gutierrez. I passed E.G.G. and then made a right on Chapala and up to Carrillo. I looked and I looked but there was not a drinking fountain in plain sight. And as my gaslight laughed harder and harder, I hurried home and drank the tastiest glass of H2O I ever drank in my life. 

My point is, in a city in which wine flows like water, I think we can do much better. Nobody’s mouth should ever feel like the drought is their fault. Water is life, and life is hard enough.

Jon Vreeland

Santa Barbara

(Editor’s note: You make a compelling case for more drinking fountains in the fair city of Santa Barbara. What did happen to all the water fountains, what say you Santa Barbara City Council? – J.B.)

Bumpy Ride Ahead

It’s reasonable to say on the issue of “government shutdown” that the poll-gap between Trump’s “disapprovals” and “approvals” is clearly a product of, and a direct correlation with, the 92% mainstream media negative reporting of anything/everything Trump.

In spite, however, of two and a half years of NeverTrump 24/7 from the mainstream media, Trump’s approval stats stay solidly in the mid-40% range. What is perhaps puzzling and disconcerting is still the assessment of too many people right-of-center politically who do not appraise the cataclysmic tug-of-war going on between those who love America and those who despise America as being just that: a short-term all-out struggle for the soul of America with long-term effects. Too many Republicans and conservative Independents don’t see the crisis nature of this siege going on throughout society and the culture. They act as if this is just another episode of politics-as-usual between the two major parties.

If only both parties can come together and split the difference!

There’s no common ground between Trump and those who wish to preserve the best of what made America exceptional, and the enemies of America’s track record of greatness: a mantle of pedigree and superiority they say was unearned and the result of stealing from and oppressing those less powerful who came in our way. Neither side can gain anything through compromise on the great issues dividing the American people.

This is becoming a titanic struggle of nerves, raw power, and who wins the game of “chicken” as both cars race toward the cliff (as in Rebel Without a Cause, or the all-time great train-dodge in Stand By Me).

American culture over 230 years produced American exceptionalism. Open Borders will submerge and drown the holders and bestowers of an American culture that nourished its will to be great, and pass on its heroic legacy to future generations. It’s really as simple and uncomplicated as that.

Dig the trenches, man the fences, pass the ammunition.

David S. McCalmont
Santa Barbara

(Editor’s note: We don’t know about “man the fences” (can we still use that expression?). Perhaps the indefatigable Hannah-Beth Jackson can enlighten us as to what we can and cannot write any longer, but this confrontation ain’t over yet and may not be over until 2020. So, hold your fire, sheath your blade, steel your nerves, tighten your safety belt, gird your loins, don your helmet, bite the bullet, and hang on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. – J.B.)

Remembering Norman

It begins back in 1963 in Sydney, Australia. That’s when I first heard “The Girl From Ipanema” and I immediately added it to my repertoire, as did most singers and musicians at that time. Who would know that those lyrics by Norman Gimbel and music by Charles Fox would become the second most recorded song ever, with 1,100+ versions to date? An amazing accomplishment.

Over the years, many more of Norman’s lyrics found their way into my performances as I traveled around the world. My personal favorites include “How Insensitive,” “Watch What Happens,” “Summer Samba,” “I Got a Name,” and “Canadian Sunset,” to name just a few. One of his early hits I performed regularly in the late ’50s was “Sway,” and there are so many more.

What a songwriter!

Lightning struck in the early ’70s, when Roberta Flack won the Grammy for “Record of the Year.” The song? “Killing Me Softly With His Song.” It also won the Grammy for “Best Song of the Year,” a double Whammy-Grammy written by who else? Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox. One of the greatest songs ever. 

I moved to California in 1963 and eventually relocated to Montecito in 1988. Within a few years I met Norman at events and parties in Santa Barbara and we became friends. We’d lunch around town and had wonderful conversations going all the way back to his early days at the “Brill Building” in New York, then the songwriting capital of the known music world. We swapped stories and gossip about people in the music industry, remembering crazy incidents, and laughing about over 50 to 60 years worth of great memories. In 2000 when he wrote a foreword for my album Messenger of Music, I was truly honored.

Two years ago, I started work on a Bossa Nova album that was completed last September. I dedicated it to my friend Norman, but sadly he never got to see or hear it. 

But I know that he will hear it as the sound waves of his songs travel throughout the universe to wherever he is.

Thank you Norman. You and your beautiful words will be with me always.

Peter Clark
Montecito