Mark Willey

A Month of Human Power

For this month of February, I've decided to transport myself exclusively by my own power; no busses, no metro trains, and certainly no cars. Mostly, this is a simple challenge, like deciding to climb a mountain, run a marathon or watch all three Lord of the Rings movies in one sitting. It seems to me to be an interesting way to make my life, and my slightly expanded belly of late, a little less soft. But aside from the simple curiosity of whether I can do this or not, there are other angles to this challenge. Our modern society is facing urgent questions about sustainability, fossil fuels, and obesity. I'm hoping this month will be both a personal meditation and a conversation starter about these issues and about others that I will discover along the way. As a budding, amateur documentary filmmaker, I've thought it would be interesting to make a film about bicycle commuting and this challenge gives me a great opportunity to do just that. I'll be collecting and posting daily statistics and updates about my travels and shooting footage that will find its way into a short film about the experience. Now though, it's time to don some spandex, pump up the tires and hit the road. Stay tuned.

Mea Culpa

There's a little, two word Latin phrase that's underutilized in our modern society. It was once uttered, as the whip snaked over the shoulder and stung the back, as a spoken reminder of individual responsibility and culpability. Our society would be much improved if those two words were sincerely uttered more often by all of us, beginning now.

There's a sad irony in watching politicians demand swift action and accountability from others. It's equally sad and unsatisfying to see professional apologists take the blame, using phrases that have been carefully tested, and promise to make it right. We've seen plenty of both these past two months as the oil spilled from the ground a mile beneath the ocean. But through all the impassioned fist pounding about how this never should have happened and how those who are to blame will be held accountable, there's an angle that's been missed. Imagine for a moment how it would play if President Obama turned to the cameras and said "we're going to investigate this spill and take steps to reduce the chances that it will happen again, but inevitably, it will. The blame for this disaster and for those that will come belongs not only to the BP Corporation, but to me and every American who drives, flies, switches on an electric light, or sits comfortably in an air conditioned room." It would be political disaster, but it would be the truth.

BP sells a product we know is dangerous at every phase of its production and consumption. We demand they sell it as cheaply as possible to us and we elect politicians (from both sides of the political divide) who will continue our government's policy of subsidizing the costs of production so we can buy it for less than it should cost. "But" you say, "they were cutting costs by not maintaining safety devices all while showing huge profits to their shareholders, so it's their fault." Again, repeat after me, "mea culpa, mea culpa." In a very real way, we ask them to do this whenever we watch the stock market rise and fall and invest only in those companies with profitable track records. Our college funds, retirement and savings depend on them cutting corners, pushing equipment to its limits and crossing their fingers that nothing will go wrong. I'm not saying that it's right, just that we are responsible more than we like to admit. Examples of our active, culpable complacence are all around us. Turn the tag over on that shirt you're wearing. It's a good guess it's from a country where the standard of living would make the poorest in this country appear wealthy. Somehow, when we see those foreign countries listed on our clothing tags, we know it means they were made by crafted by underpaid workers in hot, humid, overcrowded conditions but we still look for the sales and buy from stores that supply what we want at a price that isn't possible without resorting to those production conditions. 

It's dangerous to ignore one's own role in the circumstances of life but in the case of the oil spill in the Gulf, I'm afraid that's exactly what we're all doing. It can be scary to stand in the mirror and see the reason for the disaster but it can also be empowering.

Remembering Erin

This past Sunday, the 22nd of March, I slept in until 8:30, then got up and went for a run in Rock Creek Park, just outside of downtown Washington, DC. It was warm and sunny, a perfect early Spring day. On the other side of the country, Erin Jacobson drove to the Vacaville airport with his wife and three young children. There they met two other families, all of them friends. In the small airport, the seven children played together, and the adults relaxed while they waited for a small plane that would fly them to Montana. They were continuing a tradition begun by our parents: the family ski trip.

Years ago, Erin Jacobson was my first "best friend." It was the kind of childhood friendship you'd feel an emptiness all your life if you didn't have. We came together first over our shared love of G.I. Joe and Star Wars action figures. We'd combine our collections, venture out onto the undeveloped lots near my house and stage adventures to consume our shared imaginations and hours of our time. Or we'd play at Erin's house, swimming in his parent's pool, competing to see who could make the biggest splash off the diving board, and later watch the fish swim lazily in the fish tank in his room while we ate oatmeal cookies his mom Judy made. After one such perfect day, I heard my mom's car pull into the driveway and I didn't want to go home. Erin and I ran through the hallway of his house, frantically searching for a place where I could hide. "Quick, into the shower," he directed and I promptly collided with the glass door, polished transparent. Being little, no harm was done to me or the door, but we collapsed on the floor laughing. Erin was the kind of friend you just wanted to keep hanging out with.

We had some great adventures, Erin and I. One warm Spring day we walked back into the hills behind my house and found an ant hole thick with busy, red ants. A few feet away was another ant hole, teaming with black ants. Before young boys notice girls, they dream of the glory of war. Looking down at the miniature animated world at our feet we wondered aloud who were the better warriors: the red or the black ants. We gathered a few black ants and put them down the red ant hole, then held our breaths and waited. After a few seconds, some of the black ants emerged, missing legs and still fighting with the reds. We were enthralled, and passed the day in the dusty hills with our red and black warriors.

One day, when we were in the third grade, I got to school and looked for Erin, but he wasn't there. Carmin Wacker, the hottest girl in class and the one girl we would actually play with at recess, had heard he was very sick. He didn't come to class the next day, or the day after. Everyone liked Erin and the days felt longer and grayer without him. We made him cards out of colored construction paper and wished he was with us. It turned out he'd been bitten by a spider and gotten an infection. In the third grade, getting bitten by a spider was almost as cool as surviving a shark attack and Erin became legend. Even in misfortune, he had a way of coming out on top.

Young boys can be cruel, heartless even, but Erin was different. He had a kind heart and a way of making you feel like you were important. He remembered the stories you told and stuck by you when it mattered. Being a child of recently divorced parents, I craved stable people and peaceful places in my tumultuous world. Spending time with Erin filled both needs. His family welcomed me into their home and took me with them on ski trips to the mountains. Even as a young boy of eight or nine, Erin was a great skier, fast and fearless. The rides back up the hill were almost as good as the runs down, as we replayed the best jumps and worst wipeouts, our cheeks red from the cold, speedy air.

Two years ago, I played a concert at the Pacific Union College Church, in the Napa Valley where Erin lived. After the concert, Erin was there to say hello. He was the same as he always had been, with an open smile and kind eyes. He joined us for pizza in St. Helena and we caught up, as much as two old friends can do in a couple of hours. He told me about motorcycle trips with his in-laws, about his growing family and his thriving medical practice. We talked as good friends, separated years ago only by distance. At the time I was looking into a job nearby and we dreamed a little about how great it would be to live near each other again. Talking with Erin that night over pizza, I got the feeling we could pick up where we left off, perhaps with different toys and more grown up concerns, but it was something I hoped could happen.

This past Sunday, my childhood friend Erin, survivor of spider bites, master of ski jumps, and child general of armies of ants, boarded a small plane to fly with his wife, three young children and a handful of friends for a week of skiing near Yellowstone. After a two and a half hour flight, just a few hundred feet from the runway, the plane mysteriously dove to the ground and burst into flames. There were no survivors.

I can't claim that I was a great friend to Erin all these years between our childhood and now, or that my life has been deeply touched by this tragedy. That unenviable honor goes to his family and to the close friends who are feeling truly unspeakable sadness at the loss of Erin, his beautiful family, and the others on that plane. I can say that I am a more complete person for having had a friend like Erin Jacobson. The world was a better place with him in it and I wish I could see him again, shake his hand and thank him for being my best friend those years ago, when life was simpler and we didn't know the meaning of the word tragedy.

One day, in the early Fall of my fourth grade year at Loma Linda Elementary School, near San Bernardino, California, Erin and I sat perched in a green metal pod at the top of some playground equipment. There, a few feet above the ground, I told him that I would be leaving Loma Linda to attend a small school in the next town over. I asked him if he would come with me, but he liked where he was and wanted to stay there. That was Erin, peaceful and stable. I wish he had come with me, or that I had stayed. We didn't see each other as much after that. He moved to Napa, then life took us both in different directions. I would like to have made more memories of his friendship, but the ones I do have are so good, and that will have to be enough. Thank you Erin. Rest in peace. I'll never forget you.