There is no nice way to kill someone

On January 25, 2024, Alabama crossed the threshold into the “cruel and unusual” with the execution by nitrogen hypoxia of convicted murderer Kenneth Smith. After the Supreme Court declined to intervene (over the objections of the three liberal justices), Mr. Smith became the first prisoner in the United States executed by this method. Despite claims by Alabama state lawyers that this method of execution would ensure “unconsciousness in seconds,” the five Alabama journalists who witnessed the execution reported that Mr. Smith “shook and writhed” for at least two minutes before beginning to breathe heavily for several minutes. According to one of the journalists, Lee Hedgepeth, Mr. Smith’s head moved back and forth violently in the minutes after the execution began. “This was the fifth execution that I’ve witnessed in Alabama, and I have never seen such a violent reaction to an execution,” Mr. Hedgepeth stated. This was the second time Alabama had attempted to kill Mr. Smith. In a failed lethal injection in November 2022, he was strapped to a gurney but the executioners were unable to find a suitable vein.

Death penalty proponents will argue that whatever pain and distress the murderer suffered in his last few minutes on earth paled in comparison to the agony of his victim and the monstrousness of his crime. For full disclosure, I am an opponent of capital punishment and have been for most of my life. There was a time when I questioned the usefulness and morality of executions and hedged in my opposition after a particularly grisly and senseless murder that occurred in New York City many decades ago. During a robbery, several employees of a fast food restaurant were forced to lie on the floor and were then shot in the back of the head. One can also point to such monsters as Adolf Hitler as examples of criminals whose acts argue strenuously for the ultimate penalty.

My opposition to capital punishment was reaffirmed about 20 years ago after reading Scott Turow’s non-fiction book, Ultimate Punishment: A Lawyer's Reflections on Dealing with the Death Penalty. Too many individuals have been exonerated from death row in the United States since capital punishment was reinstituted by the Gregg v. Georgia decision in 1976. (That reversed Furman v. Georgia, in which SCOTUS found the death penalty unconstitutional in 1972.) There is also indisputable evidence of a racial and economic bias in the application of capital punishment in the US. Members of minority groups, as well as poor people, are much more likely to be sentenced to death compared to affluent or white people who are convicted of similar crimes. I am convinced that there is no fair way to apply the death penalty, and furthermore, it is much more costly to the state than life imprisonment. It may seem counterintuitive, but it is actually cheaper to house and feed a murderer for the rest of his life than to execute him, due to the complexity of the appeal process in this country. Then simplify the appeal process, I hear you say. That would only increase the likelihood of an innocent person being put to death, as I believe has already occurred in the decades since Gregg v. Georgia.

The United States is nearly alone among Western democracies in retaining the death penalty. Of the 193 member states of the United Nations, only 28% maintain capital punishment in both law and practice, while 55% have abolished it completely, including the most recent abolitionist countries of Papua New Guinea, the Central African Republic, Sierra Leone and Kazakhstan. According to Amnesty International, the United States is the only nation in the Western Hemisphere that carried out any executions (18 of them) in 2022. The Russian Federation, by comparison, has not carried out an execution since 1996 and there is currently an indefinite moratorium in place, making it de facto abolitionist. Countries with the highest number of executions per year include China, Iran and Saudi Arabia.

Application of the death penalty is at best problematic and at worst inhumane. After a period of dithering some years ago, I have returned to my Ethical Culture roots in opposing capital punishment on both religious and humanitarian grounds. As a young child I attended Ethical Culture Sunday School, and still recall reading Algernon Black’s The First Book of Ethics, a children’s book which deals with a number of moral issues including the death penalty. Besides the moral quandary of taking a human life, something I feel we have no right to do, capital punishment as it is carried out in America is far from error or pain free, and cannot be equitably applied. From hanging to electrocution to lethal injection, most methods used in the US have fallen short of being reliably swift and painless. Some experts posit that death by firing squad would be the most humane method, but we have eschewed it for decades, likely because although we as a species sometimes thirst for blood, we don’t actually want to see it. The sensibilities of those charged with carrying out executions, as well as those who must witness them, have apparently been figured into the choice of method. There really is no nice way of killing someone, and I suggest that it is not worth the cost or trouble, when life without parole is a pragmatic and just alternative.

*****

Note: I wrote this post before I read the excellent piece in the New York Times about one death row inmate's spiritual journey. If you like my blog, I think you will find this of interest too:

NYTimes.com: An Atheist Chaplain and a Death Row Inmate’s Final Hours

Why cats are better than boyfriends

 

Ah yes, the age-old question... Which is better -- a cat or a boyfriend? And so as not to be sexist or speciesist, one can readily substitute "dog" for "cat" and "girlfriend" for "boyfriend."

I have been a widow for over 18 years, and have not had a boyfriend (unless you count the month I dated Steve in the summer of 2007) since before I married my late husband in 1992. 

Since May 2021, I have been sharing my home with Dexter, a rescue kitty whom the vet guesstimated was about 3 years old at the time he was taken off the streets. I had not had a pet of any kind in over 30 years, and the last time I had shared a home with a cat was in 1986 when I was still living at my father's house. (My first apartment was only a couple of blocks from my dad's house, so I could visit his kitties whenever I wanted.)

I have compiled an easy reference table, so that you can compare the relative merits of "cat" vs. "boyfriend" (or "dog" vs. "girlfriend" as the case may be):

I trust you will find this table useful. You may wish to consult it before committing to your next feline or hominoidean relationship.

From warmongering to peacekeeping – symbols/cymbals of war and peace

I have always found men in uniform particularly attractive, and military parades can be an uplifting spectacle. I recently posted a link to the Großer Zapfenstreich ceremony in honor of Angela Merkel’s departure as German chancellor. It is a beautiful tribute if you like that sort of thing, which I do.

 

Yet as a peace-loving person, I wonder why I’m so enthralled by military ceremonies. Isn’t it really about glorifying war and making cannon fodder palatable? Why must we dignify bloodshed? We rightly honor soldiers who have risked and sometimes sacrificed life and limb protecting our country. My own father served in World War II in the US Army in Burma, China and India. Fortunately, he was in the signal corps and never had to shoot anyone, or get shot at himself. My dad never considered himself a pacifist, and felt that the war he served in was a just one. Yet some of my earliest memories are of him and my mom taking me and my brother to anti-Vietnam War rallies in the 1960’s. As a small child, I understood that war was bad and peace was good. I feared that my brother might be drafted someday; he was 16 when the war ended. Having grown up in wartime, I assumed that war was a normal condition that could go on indefinitely.

 

As an author of World War II fiction, I have done a lot of research on that war, particularly on the German army since one of the main characters in my first novel is a German soldier. I’ve read numerous soldiers’ memoirs, as well as books about the Third Reich, its victims and its perpetrators. I’ve also studied the German language and am interested in German culture and history – an appeal spurred both by my research and by my German-American ancestry.

 

My interest in things German and the allure of things military logically intersect in my enjoyment of pomp and ceremony as performed by the Musikkorps der Bundeswehr and in the precision drills of the Wachbataillon beim Bundesministerium der Verteidigung. Perhaps my recent purchase of the “Unterm Schellenbaum” CD is not entirely surprising.

 

For those not as immersed in military history as I am, the “Schellenbaum” (also known as the “Jingling Johnnie,” “Turkish crescent” or “Chapeau Chinois”) is a fascinating musical instrument used by the armies of various nations for centuries. Today’s German defense forces are one of the few in the world who retain its use. You can read more about the instrument here.

 

The Wehrmacht had its own version of the Schellenbaum, with horsetail plumes in the black, white and red of the Nazi flag. Some people still get the Wehrmacht (the German forces during WWII) mixed up with the Bundeswehr, today’s German military, who employ the tricolors of the Federal Republic of Germany – black, red and gold – in their Schellenbaum and in other emblems.

 

 

Abroad, and even inside Germany today, many are apprehensive of the spectacle of uniformed soldiers, marching in lockstep to martial music and reverently displaying national symbols. I wrote a blogpost many years ago in which I discussed the aversion some Germans have to displays of national pride and patriotism. This is understandable considering Germany’s not-too-distant history of belligerence and militarism.

 

Today’s Bundeswehr serves as a defense force, and not as an aggressor, if that can possibly be avoided. The participation of the German military in such conflicts as the Afghan war as a member of NATO’s security force, and as part of the UN mission in Mali are considered peacekeeping operations. Germany’s contingent in the Mali mission was the largest of any European nation, with a slightly larger contribution of soldiery than that of China, a country with 17 times the population of Germany. The US contingent was tiny, if measured on a per capita basis.

 

For your edification and entertainment, here are a few YouTube videos about the Schellenbaum, German military history, and the Bundeswehr. Even if you don’t understand the German language, you may find them of interest:

 

How to assemble a bell tree (German Schellenbaum) - Navy Musikkorps Kiel and the jingling Johnny

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHhjmtUvUwE

Schellenbaum - Jingling Johnny - assembly, usage, disassembly

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnqRh16nlnI

Protokollsoldat aus Leidenschaft - Zugführerin (“female platoon leader”) im Wachbataillon der Bundeswehr

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aZeI2r5ZUY&t=114s

Mali returnees roll call on December 15, 2023 in Wunstorf:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=RTRv-9ffqv4

German Empire - Gangsta's Paradise:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJIUZSHRToE&t=283s

*****

This is the first “dual-post” that I am simultaneously publishing on both of my blogs: “Musings and discoveries” and “World War II…with a German accent.” You can view my other blog here: 

https://lisbetheng.blogspot.com/

Blowing one’s nose without a tissue…and other disgusting encounters

As a resident of NYC, I sometimes have to deal with peculiar and unpleasant encounters with my fellow New Yorkers. The New York City Transit Authority is rife with such challenges. I was recently on the southbound #1 train and found a seat in a sparsely populated car. I sat down at one end, with two empty seats between me and the nearest human. Though sitting in the corner-most seat, often favored by the homeless for its relative privacy, this man was probably not homeless – he had clean, tidy clothes, was well-groomed, and was looking at a cell phone. Just as I had settled in, he began blowing his nose, not into a tissue, but into the air right in front of him. He accomplished this by alternately holding his left and right nostrils shut with a finger, expelling his breath, and spewing God’s knows what else. I must add that he was not breathing/blowing in my direction. After a minute or so of indecision, I got up and moved halfway down the car to another empty seat. I felt slightly guilty about abandoning him. Won’t he wonder why I chose to move? Will it make him feel self-conscious? Should I care about the feelings of a fellow passenger with questionable hygiene? (Don’t all public transit passengers have potentially questionable hygiene, even if less obvious than this gentlemen?)  Was my hyper-active superego at work yet again?  I didn’t want him to feel bad about himself – as if there were something wrong with him. I conceived that he might experience that feeling of rejection which I’ve felt many times in my life. After weighting the pros and cons of changing seats, I concluded that my health comes first. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t think to give him a tissue before fleeing halfway down the subway car. That might have been a kind and subtle hint that he needed to step up his game for the rest of humanity.

DEATH - The dreaded “D” word

 

Death… der Tod… la morte… la mort.

There, I’ve said it, in every language I’ve ever studied. This is the blogpost I’ve been avoiding but perhaps need to write. To exorcise the demon of thinking too much about death. Of not wanting to talk about it. Not wanting to appear morbid or depressed. Not wanting to upset friends and family.

Today, I’m one day closer to my demise than I was 24 hours ago. And a lot closer than I was a year, or a decade, or six decades ago. No, I don’t know the date of my death, nor do I want to know. I could live another 30 years or I could die tomorrow. That’s true for most of us.

I’m not religious. If asked my religion, the answer depends on my mood and who’s asking. I may say, “Unitarian Universalist Ethical Culturist Agnostic.” Or just “agnostic” for short. Or Jewish (well, that’s technically not my religion, but since my mother was Jewish I’m Jewish, even if I don’t believe in the Abrahamic deity). Or I may reply “heathen” because that’s fairly accurate and playfully self-deprecating. (I used to identify as “pagan” but then found out that pagans believe in the supernatural and I don’t.) For shock value, or if I’m irritated, I may reply “Satanist” to an impertinent query. “None of your business” works well if I’m in a petulant mood, or slightly more politely, “Why are you asking?”

But enough about religion – let’s talk about death. This past year, I read Neil deGrasse Tyson’s Starry Messenger: Cosmic Perspectives on Civilization; in fact, it was one of my “3 favorite reads” in 2023. Tyson tackles the subject of death, along with such similarly innocuous topics as racism, gender identity, law and order, truth, and the cosmos.  When asked about God, Tyson has been quoted as saying, "I remain unconvinced by any claims anyone has ever made about the existence or the power of a divine force operating in the universe." While he concedes that he is “constantly claimed by atheists,” he is actually an agnostic.

Wait…how did we get back to religion? Perhaps it’s impossible to wrestle with the subject of death without speculating on the existence of the supernatural - unless one is a hard atheist, for whom the question is settled. I cannot say that I am fully convinced that “life after death” is utter fiction (i.e. when you’re dead, you’re dead: game over, end of story, do not pass “GO,” do not collect $200). But it’s hard to speculate on a literal afterlife without musing on the divine (in whatever form he/she/it might take). Or perhaps “life after death” is real, but only metaphorically. I’m a published author, so my novel(s) might “live on” after my own physical death. My estate can continue to rake in the royalties (as if I were Margaret Mitchell) long after I’ve turned to dust.

I read somewhere that the total obliteration of one’s existence and consciousness is impossible to imagine, at least for many of us. That may be why our ancestors invented the concept of the supernatural, and by extension, religion. Maybe early humans’ awareness of ego led them to construct the comforting notion that after our physical death something of us will survive. I say humans, though perhaps other animals and even trees have a consciousness of self, and fear of its expiration.

My own personal death is not what I most fear. As I approach senior citizenship, I draw closer to a time when my body may be taxed with pain and disabilities. I fear the loss of independence, but even worse, losing friends and family. I’ve had many losses in my life. First was a beloved great-aunt when I was in high school, then my mother when I was 19. Other close family members and friends have died over the decades, and I dread the losses to come, unless I’m fortunate enough to go first.

My psyche feels unique, and I live in it 24/7. I’ve recently conceived the bizarre notion that mine is the only consciousness in existence and all other humans and sentient creatures merely props in my universe. It seemed too implausible that I happen to be alive right now, when the vast majority of the billions and billions of humans who supposedly came before me are already dead or have yet to be born. Or perhaps we are in a constant cycle of death and rebirth as Hinduism, one of our oldest extant religions, posits.

Are these the fancies of one who has too much time to think, but not enough time with which to occupy her hands? Perhaps I need to find a more prosaic and useful hobby. One of the five descriptors I chose for myself on my Shepherd “favorite reads in 2023” page is “deep thinker.” Perhaps in one sense this is not a positive attribute. One can get weighed down by pondering too much and doing too little. This can lead into an existential tailspin, a headache-inducing vortex of self-absorption, and ultimately to isolation and depression. Philosophizing may be detrimental to one’s mental health. Why spend time pondering death and the hereafter (or lack thereof) when one has a life to live? Good advice, but not easy to implement, especially when one is a “deep thinker.” As W.S. Gilbert’s character Reginald Bunthorne bemoans in the comic opera Patience, “What’s the use of yearning for Elysian Fields when you know you can’t get ‘em, and would only let ‘em out on building leases if you had ‘em?”

On December 24, 2023, I attended a meeting at the New York Society for Ethical Culture, the most likely place to find me on a Sunday morning, besides my home. As the last in-person meeting of the year, it was designated “Remembrance Sunday.” (The December 31^st gathering was online only.) Ethical Culture, sometimes referred to as Ethical Humanism, is a non-theistic religion that focuses on the here and now, and rarely, if ever, discusses God or the hereafter. Though I do not know for certain, I suspect that all of its clergy leaders are agnostics or atheists.

The meeting I attended at Ethical Culture on December 24^th was one of the most moving and intimate that I have ever participated in. It was sparsely attended (likely because it happened to be Christmas Eve and many members travel over holidays) but included special music and a lovely remembrance ritual. The chairs in the room were arranged in a concentric circles around a small table bearing a candle. One of our clergy leaders began by reciting a poem, and then the congregants were invited to say aloud the names of loved ones who are no longer living, and who have impacted our lives. I invoked the names of Aunt Rose, my mom, dad, husband and cousin, and dear friends Diana, Mary Jo and Ann. We were invited to recognize public figures who have passed, and names such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, Felix Adler and John Lennon were called out. My contribution was Bishop Desmond Tutu.  Pets were not excluded from our remembrances and I shared the names of Kerry, Princess, and my dearly missed Doris, a Siamese cat I cherished from childhood into my mid-twenties.

The candle in the center of our circle was lit, and one by one, we came forward to ignite scraps of flash paper on which were written messages to deceased loved ones. The flash paper flared for a second, then instantly vanished, as our messages were released into the universe, memorializing those we had loved and lost. This was not a magical ceremony of literal necromancy, but a symbolic, metaphoric and deeply meaningful rite of remembrance. As humanists, we were reminded that those we have loved continue to live on in our hearts and minds, and in the impact they have made.

The meeting ended with Maroon 5’s song “Memories,” performed by the quartet (guitar, violin and two vocalists), with the congregation singing along. I’ve heard this melody before, but never knew the lyrics. Just before the song started, someone had distributed cups of sparkling cider to the congregation, so we could literally “Toast to the ones here today. Toast to the ones that we lost on the way.”

The message for my deceased loved ones, which I released into the universe – symbolically or otherwise – via the candle and flash paper was: “Hope to see you again someday.”

My “non-resolution” New Year’s resolution

I don’t believe in New Years’ resolutions – well, I do believe they exist for other people, but have proven ineffective for me. After decades of attempts, I’ve learned that beginning a food or exercise plan on the magical date of January 1^st (or January 2^nd in the case of a diet) is a short-lived success. Mid-year “resolutions” have ultimately failed as well. I managed to lose 40 pounds over a two-year period through a commitment to tracking all the calories I consumed and walking 2 to 3 miles at least 5 days a week – only to gain it all back over the next 2 ½ years.

My annual physical a few months ago revealed a condition that I had previously thought myself immune to – “mildly elevated” cholesterol. My primary care doctor taught me a useful mnemonic: HDL means “Happy” (i.e. good cholesterol) and LDL means “Lousy” (i.e. bad cholesterol). I suspect I’m not her first patient to cross the dubious threshold of 200, so she invented (or stole) this memory jogger for the sake of her aging patients, like me. The simplicity of her advice was astounding – eat healthier.

I suspect, though don’t know for sure, that the specificity of a resolution makes it more likely to fail. Aiming for a maximum daily calorie count, or minimum number of miles walked, practically ensures that the moment I go one calorie above the max, or one tenth of a mile below the min, the strategy is null and void, so I might as well eat as much sugary and fattening foods as I can ingest because the “magic resolution spell” has been broken. Indulge today, and start again tomorrow… or next year.

So for 2024, my “non-resolution resolution” is to eat healthier, move more, take better care of my skin (i.e. use a daily moisturizer and sunscreen) and in general, just take better care of myself. I may lose some weight (or I may not), my right hip may hurt less, my skin might glow more, and my cholesterol might go down. And since my non-resolution resolution is as vague and general as possible – and thus hopefully more sustainable – I might as well start today, rather than waiting until midnight on December 31.

If you have any resolutions you’d like to share, please comment below. Making a public declaration right here on my blog will surely induce you to fulfill them!

A disagreeable alcohol adventure

Usually trips to the liquor store are fun, but I had a somewhat unpleasant encounter yesterday with the sommelier at my local store. I needed to buy a Christmas gift for someone, as well as a bottle for myself.

Since I’m pretty much an amateur when it comes to wines and spirits, I asked for help in choosing a nice bottle of bourbon for my friend, and vodka for myself. (I have half a bottle of white cranberry juice left in my refrigerator from a two-day-long, clear liquid diet to prep for a medical procedure I had a couple of days ago. I thought some vodka would go well with the rest of the juice, now that the procedure is in my rearview mirror.)

I had to wait a few minutes for the sommelier’s assistance, since they were understandably busy less than one week before Christmas. The gentleman was very polite and pleasant until we came to the vodkas. (No issues in picking the bourbon – I fully relied on his expertise. The bottle he recommended was not the prettiest one they had, but I’m confident that it will taste exceptional.)

I asked him what countries produced the various brands of vodka that he recommended, and mentioned that I specifically did not want a Russian one, whereas a Ukrainian brand would be fine. He correctly guessed that my country preference was based on political reasons, and then defended the Russian vodka producers, who are merely farmers growing potatoes and not soldiers fighting a war. He then added something about France, and since he did have an accent, I asked if he was French. No, he told me, he was from Israel. Normally I would be able to tell the difference between French and Israeli accents, but our conversation had now taken a disagreeable turn, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Attempting to smooth things over and appear unconcerned, I (unwisely) inquired whether he would recommend an Israeli wine or a Gazan one. He told me that they don’t produce wine (or much else of anything) in Gaza, and I now grasped that our previously congenial conversation had taken on a chillier tone. I nervously stammered something about “hoping for peace for everyone,” to which he replied that wishing peace for terrorists, rapists and baby killers was my prerogative, though he certainly didn’t agree. Trying to ease the tension, and appear as an ally, I mentioned how much I loved Shtisel, and that since my mother was Jewish I’m actually Jewish too. But it was too late now and I was sputtering out of control. I quickly thanked him for his help with the liquor selections and then headed towards the front of the store to make my purchases.

In case you’re wondering, I ended up with Absolut vodka, which is made in Sweden. I don’t remember the name of the bourbon, and since it’s already nicely wrapped as a gift for my bourbon-loving friend, I can’t tell you which one I bought. After we open the bottle for a taste, I’ll let you know!