A thousand days

Julian Assange (I don’t know who created this excellent artwork, but it wasn’t me. I will be happy to credit whoever did, if you make yourself known.)

I went to Julian’s house today, which is the Embassy of Ecuador in London. Some of his supporters were holding a vigil to mark his 1,000th day inside the embassy. He is afraid to come out because there is a warrant out for his arrest. If the British police, who are posted outside the embassy, arrest him, they will extradite him to Sweden. There is no doubt in my mind that Sweden, my home country, will then put him on a plane to the U.S. That would silence one of the bravest voices of our generation.
Hats off to Ecuador for standing up to the U.S. And shame on Sweden for not having the cojones to do the same.

The benevolent sexist

The man coming down the escalator today, against the current, was a little slow-moving. “Wrong way,” he apologised. He was making very little headway and risked falling over, so I stretched out my hand, he took it and I heroically steered him to safety.
Whenever something like this happens I think of my gymnastics coaching days, when my most crucial responsibility was to catch falling people. It’s a split-second thing, so your catch reflex has to be automatic. You also have to get right in there and press your body against the falling person’s, catching them in a tight hug, for it to have any effect. With fully extended arms, you can barely stop a milk carton from hitting the ground, let alone a human being.
I have long been wary of unintentionally performing this in public – automatically catching people who fall on escalators, public transport or just on the street. I know the reflex still works because it kicks in when one of my kids trips. But with strangers it becomes awkward. I’m particularly nervous about catching women. Especially young women. After the recent coining of the term “benevolent sexism,” a lot of formerly chivalrous behavior from men is coming under scrutiny. Apparently, much of what used to be considered common courtesy can now be seen as sneaky ways for bad men to harrass women. With politeness and good manners.
So sadly, I probably would have hesitated to offer my hand at that escalator if the slow-moving person had been a woman. If it had been a pretty teenage girl, I definitely wouldn’t have. But had she tripped and fallen towards me, I probably would have instinctively caught her in a great big bear hug.
And been arrested.

Selma

I saw this film today sitting next to a large black woman. She was, and still is, a stranger to me.
Occasionally throughout the film, I tried to assess her reaction. From what I could tell, she was less emotional than I was. Admittedly, I have grown increasingly maudlin since I became a father, but still. Shouldn’t blacks get all upset and emotional when watching a film like this? Or are they too used to portrayals of injustice, not to mention actual injustice, to bother?
Leaving the cinema, I found myself wishing I myself had some slight injustice, nothing major, to suffer and fight for. Kind of like when I was young and wished I would get hurt really bad so people would feel sorry for me. I know this sounds amazingly ungrateful, but us uninteresting, middle-aged, heterosexual white guys could use something to unite us. As things are now, we just cruise through life, lonely in our splendid individualism, not even realizing how damn good we have it.
Until we see films like Selma.
Great film, by the way. See it.