Camille Paglia - Sex, Art and American Culture...Review

~Sex, Art, and American Culture~ strikes down from the heavens like a thunderbolt from Olympus, disturbing our received notions of popular culture, high and low art, and particularly tertiary education with such flair, that you will never view the world in the same way. 

Camille Paglia is a breath of fresh air; a provocative slayer of highbrow, smug, one-dimensional academics, who, over the last forty-five years, have been waving French Critical theory around like it was a major breakthrough in western thought. She treats these 'gurus' of French academe, i.e., Derrida, Lacan, and Foucault like purveyors of a death fog, confusing all and sunder with their 'playful language', their philosophy of destruction or 'deconstruction', and reveals the end result of this post structuralist cancer: 'Academics with the souls of accountants...' an alarming ignorance of history and true scholarship, and a specialized factory line mentality in undergraduate studies.


All of the essays in this wonderful collection sparkle with erudition, honesty and guts. I was actually startled by Paglia's frankness, power and arresting prose style. A friend, who suggested I read this book, summed Paglia up quite nicely, "She has turned cultural studies into a contact sport." It's about time. Having been on the receiving end of the Derrida, Lacan, Foucault triad, as an idealistic, hungry for knowledge then, undergraduate, I too was swept-up in the French theory furore, anally strutting around campus like some initiated witch from a secret coven. 

History has shown that the attainment of alleged esoteric knowledge has always given us a false sense of power: a feeling that you are somehow a member of the elite, above the fray, someone special. After a few years, however, the illusion crumbled, and I realized that to view language as nothing more than 'meaningless play'; that, at bottom, all this so-called 'rebelliousness' was simply empty rhetoric and posing claptrap, and really has no use in the world of physical reality. I needed to do something, so switched the game plan, and began reading the canon. Suddenly, the penny dropped, and connections began to manifest. Homer's ~The Odyssey~ changed my life and true learning began in earnest.


Another area of criticism that rang true in this important book is the move towards specialization in the halls of humanities departments across the globe. Paglia explains this shift as a self-promoting defence mechanism for academics without courage. I don't know about the 'professor' side of the story, but from a student and reader's perspective, specialization has been devastating in some instances. For example, a friend of mine has a degree in 'cultural studies' hanging proudly on his wall, and his knowledge of Elizabethan literature is profound. Ironically, however, his knowledge of popular culture is next to nil. How can anyone claim higher knowledge in cultural studies without an appreciation of ~The Simpsons~ or the political ramifications of Mickey Mouse. 

Because of specialization, Paglia believes universities have been churning out cultural morons with limited knowledge of the world. It is a dangerous situation. To fix the problem, Paglia suggests an interdisciplinary approach to education, which includes the sciences, art history, comparative religion and politics as well as literature. Generally, learning of our rich past is about making connections, encompassing all the disciplines from the beginning of western knowledge to present time.


Camille Paglia is an academic rabble-rouser; an astute observer of popular culture and a no holds barred bitch with a well-argued point of view. Her understanding of cinema and their gods, i.e., Marlon Brando, Elizabeth Taylor and Alfred Hitchcock reveals deep insight into the American psyche: a pleasure to read.


The one criticism I have of this book is Paglia's feeble views on rape. Her argument that "if you look for trouble you'll get it'; a young girl wearing a thong and a see-through dress at an all male fraternity party is merely asking for it, is a narrow and superficial perspective. What about the eighty year old woman, living in the same street for years, walking to the baker and the butcher, known by everybody, to be found brutally raped and beaten for no apparent reason. Was she asking for it? Hardly. However contentious Paglia's arguments on this issue may seem, they smell of eastern wealth, a target market for her publisher to shake-up an intellectually frustrated clientele. The issue of rape goes far beyond the privileged schoolgirl scenario.


That said, ~Sex, Art, and American Culture is the viper-jewel in Cleopatra's crown, instructing the fat - comfort zone - Mark Anthony's of American academe to get a grip, pull their fingers out and follow their instincts.

F. Dostoevsky – The Gambler – Review

Dostoevsky was pressured to write this novel in 1866 (with a deadline of November, only to begin writing the tale in October) under threat of heavy financial penalties from his publisher. One can confidently assume, that his publisher had fronted the author money, and without any product from the writer, imposed the deadline. The novel was written in 26 days. The deadline was met, and without doubt, the work stands up against his best work, including Crime and Punishment, The Idiot or The Brothers Karamazov.

Many critics have suggested that the novel is not autobiographical. Personally, I find this proposal ridiculous on many levels. All works of great fiction have a quasi-relation to the writer's life. As a writer of fiction myself, there is always included observations, individual anecdotes, experiences and pure creative imagination, that make up the work. In fact, the author was known as a prolific gambler, amongst other addictions, but threw the obsession after about 20 years. Writing a short story about a sexual killer, doesn't make the author a sex obsessed murderer. Writing about a sorcerer, doesn't make the creator an occult practitioner. As many writers have stated, the creative endeavour in story telling, is a mysterious process. Anyone, however, who has experienced the massive kick of endorphins while at the Black Jack table or Roulette wheel, will relate to The Gambler.

Alexei Ivanovich is the narrator of the novel – the subtitle of the text is, 'From the Diary of a Young Man”. In the translated 19^th century style, the book reads like a diary. Alexei is a tutor for a seemingly well-to-do Russian family, while on holiday at a German Spa. Similar to all Dostoevsky's novels, there is a large cast of characters, all from varying countries and cultures. All the characters have a hint of mystery, a cloud of secrets and intrigue, that hovers over the plot, pushing the reader to discover how the puzzle all fits together.

Reading Dostoevsky over the last 40 years, the writer vividly paints the aristocratic, intellectual and social construct of 19^th century Europe – from a Russian perspective. He writes in somewhat stereotypes: French arrogance and charm; German staid persona and focus on rules; English observance and business acumen, and Russian - a cacophony of all the above. One needs to remember that in 19^th century Europe, everyone has their particular station, everyone has their place in the social hierarchy, and no one questioned the reason why. It was not until I read Dostoevsky's Notes from the Underground, that my love for this author came to a conscious reality - a true rebel, thinker and intellectual revolutionary.

Close to the end of the novel, Alexei realises he can do something about his wannabe lover's financial predicament, and returns to the casino, and begins betting on the Roulette Wheel. The 3 pages describing his thoughts about the game, his mindset and the outcome, will make any casual gambler's blood pressure rise. The Russian writer's words rival any modern film about gambling. A “moralist” writer, (a 19^th century criticism of Dostoevsky) becomes clear at the end of the story.

I have never stated that any 19^th century novel read, was a “page turner”.

The Gambler is one such novel.

Steven Hiatt- A Game as Old as Empire...Review.

John Perkins' ground breaking expose' of the economic machinations and collusion of multinational corporations, high levels of government and the international banking institutions and their brutal exploitation of third world countries in his popular text Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, sent a ripple of concern through this highly corrupt elite community, however mainstream publishing and media chose to ignore these disturbing confessions, wanting proof other than Perkins text. As Perkins states in his introduction in this sobering and informative text, A Game as Old as Empire,

"Eventually a courageous independent publisher, Berrett-Koehler, took the book on. Confessions success among the public astounded me. During its first week in bookstores it went to number 4 on Amazon.com." (P.2)

Despite being on the New York Times best seller list for 25 weeks, The Times refused to review it. (Much later the book was featured in the Times Sunday Supplement) The fact that the book implicates the highest echelons of government and corporations, including the IMF, WTO, World Bank, U.S.A., Britain and the "G8" countries deeply involved in money laundering, tax evasion and environmental disasters that turns one's stomach, never mentioned in the main stream media, reveals the appalling extent of this corruption.

A Game as Old as Empire is a collection of essays by investigative journalists, EMH's, academics, practicing lawyers, scientists and writers exposing the extent of corruption in the exploitation of developing countries; for example lending billions of dollars, raising debt, knowing full well that particular regimes were pocketing the cash, opening off shore accounts, while the regime's country falls further into abject poverty, then to lend more money, raising debt further...

These essays are terribly disturbing as the greed, destruction and waste is so vast, crippling small countries, causing poverty to become more entrenched to fill the pockets of a Global elitist few and their cronies.

One would logically assume that because of the billions of dollars poured into some third world countries for their development, one would see the benefits of such huge investments. In actual fact, there has been no benefit, because in most cases, the poverty has worsened. Why? Money is loaned to known corrupt regimes that pocket the money and make the money clean through tax loopholes and off shore accounts.

Other reasons are presented such as the trade agreements of the World Trade Organization which makes it impossible for developing countries with debt to produce and export because developed countries, per the WTO agreements, import products into the local market underpricing them, thus making it impossible for the developing country to rise out of debt, let alone make a living.

In this review I've chosen not to write specific examples of this high level corruption as this format, does not allow the space. However, in order to understand the extent that these so-called elites go to... including genocide, crimes against humanity and all out war and occupation in order to ensure access to resources such as oil and other natural resources, read this text because it will make you wonder how and why it has gone on for so long.

Confessions of an Economic Hit Man started the ball rolling in terms of more awareness of the waste and destruction that neo-liberalism and globalization has wrought on developing countries; A Game as Old as Empire is the confirmation and the quintessential wake up call to actually do something about it.

In the last chapter, Global Uprising: The Web of Resistance, Antonia Juhasz writes a compelling piece for all concerned individuals around the globe to do something about this entrenched elitist corruption. The bibliography is extensive and worthy, including a list of important web sites to enhance your knowledge.

Even if you haven't read "Confessions", A Game as Old as Empire will inform, disturb, shock and hopefully stir some of us into action before these elitist corporations, banks and exclusive, corrupt governments go too far...

Amy Wallace- Sorcerer's Apprentice- Review

This is a strange personal account of an enduring relationship between one of the world's most mysterious and famous shamans in the last two centuries, and a young and sensitive woman, the daughter of a popular author, Irving Wallace, and her attempt to honestly relate the insanity, trauma and psychological abuse that those who've had the misfortune of belonging to a genuine cult, will understand all too well.

The texts of Carlos Castaneda have influenced and continue to affect millions of reader's across the world. Regardless if these books are pure fabrication or the literal truth is somewhat irrelevant: the philosophy of the Way of the Warrior, opening awareness to things and events in the world, that we normally do not see, the notion that there is a path to "true" knowledge, and a prescribed method to "total freedom", is an alluring proposal.

Most of us living our mundane day-to-day lives, getting up every day to just make a living, the idea that there is "magic" in the world, and that it can be tapped and used for self betterment is compelling, and touched the 60's generation at exactly the right time. As most readers of Castaneda well know, his philosophy is anti-authority, breaking from the chains of our incessant social conditioning, (smashing the ego to bits) and becoming the beings we were meant to be - warriors of impeccability. Nonetheless, the proof is in our actions, our fruits, which begs the question, has anyone, including Castaneda, achieved the warrior's goal, and leaped into the abyss of infinity with her/his eyes wide open? After reading Amy Wallace's book, a nagging doubt remains.

It is without question that Castaneda was a highly charismatic and enormously persuasive individual. Those who actually met the man, celebrities, politicians and writers all agree on this point. Amy Wallace, though, fell in love with the man, in the romantic sense, became his constant companion, and contributed to the creation of his organization. She became a member of his inner circle of witches, kicked out and let back in again far too many times. She had to experience untold psychological abuse, and the appalling insanities of Castaneda's endless sexual exploits with a platoon of women that would make the most highly promiscuous wince in disbelief. The politics and backstabbing between his inner circle of witches reminded me of the petty games of adolescent girls, with their jealousies and drama, all vying for the father's attention. As the central method to impeccability of a sorcerer is the abolishment of the ego, ridding the personality of "self importance", these so-called witches failed on every count.

Amy Wallace managed to survive her experience in this cult, though had to undergo most of the psychological pain of separating from it, and the death of her lover: post-traumatic syndrome, grief, longing and thoughts of suicide, finally in the end, it seems, achieving her psychological separation, as she proposes, through the writing of this book. Amy is a good writer, as one can feel her pain as she examines the lies, betrayal, and endless abuse from Castaneda and his closest cohorts. Because the most dramatic and real love affairs in one's life remain with you, Wallace continues to respect and feel affection for the man despite their long and tumultuous past.

Personally, this story does not dissuade me from Castaneda's teachings. His books are highly influential and changed my views of the world in positive ways, too numerous to mention. A recommended read for those needing to know some of the workings of the inside of his strange and unorthodox world.

John Douglas – MINDHUNTER – Review

A question that has been posed many times in recent history, is why the topic of serial killers has become so popular in our modern culture? In the early 2000's, the novel and television series, Dexter on Showcase, ran for, I believe, 5 seasons. Dexter was an 'inverted' tale of a serial killer who came to the rescue, and achieved justice, for the families, when the establishment failed. We cheered Dexter on, slaughtering other killers in the name of fairness. A psychopath with a conscience, a tautology, really, as an audience we accepted, suspending our disbelief for the sake of entertainment. I loved the show, as I was a fan of the texts, however the notion of hyper-vigilantism in reality is severely problematic, for the obvious reasons.

In FBI Special Agent John Douglas' wonderful true crime text, moves the reader away from 'sociopaths-in-shining-armour', to the despicable 'real deal' of killers whose strange and unspeakable actions, shock, and in the least makes the stomach retch in pain. Douglas answers this question about the fascination with serial killers. Apart of the ghoulish pleasure of some, it is an attempt to understand why people can inflict such suffering on others, to then revel is their deeds. We want to know how human nature can be so horrible? Douglas attempts to answer this question.

Why people do the things they do has always intrigued me. Over the years, I've studied everything from anthropology, philosophy to psychology and the specifics of psychopathy. Even Evolution has answered these questions in terms of our antecedence's, our brother the primate ape. Sociology has also attempted to answer the question of criminality. In the text, Douglas explores many of these theories, but never quite hits the mark. What better motivation than preventing crime and catching offenders, is the soft science of “profiling”. John Douglas is the brainchild of this method of law enforcement. (And has been successful) The profiling of a serial killer.

John Douglas is a G-Man through and through. Reading the text, you get his loyalty and respect for the institution. An institution directly in time, after the mad and controlled influence of the cross-dresser and blackmailer, J. Edgar Hoover. No question, Douglas' brainchild for a serious Behavioural Science Unit in the FBI, would never have happened under Hoover's watch. This is not to say that Douglas and Co, never experienced opposition. On the contrary, new ideas in any established institution is bound for conflict and ridicule. What I admire about Douglas, was his doggedness, belief, and purity of purpose in his idea. And in the end Profiling has become a major tool in law enforcement around the world.

Douglas writes simply, and the cases he describes are sometimes expressed theatrically, giving the cases a mythical quality, beyond crime fiction. There are many examples, my favourites, and those that revealed absolute psychopathy, were Edward Kemper and Charles Manson. Kemper, the co-ed killer, murdered 7 women, his grandparents, ending in the gruesome murder of his mother. Kemper's so-called *Signature* is vile in the very extreme sense. Kemper, in fact, was Douglas' first significant interviewee, launching this controversial approach to criminology. Similar to many psychopaths, Kemper was intelligent, insightful and charming. Douglas admits that to this day, he liked Kemper. Many people only had praise for the sadistic killer after his death. This is revealing on many levels.

Learned that MANHUNTER is a series on Netflix, and watched the first season. Let me just say, it follows Douglas' text closely aside from a few 'dramatic-purpose-alterations'. As a fan of the director, David Fincher, the program only enhances the fascination of this macabre subject. .

Advice, suggestion - read the text.

What you see is what you get...

Most serious readers have experienced a Beat phase in their reading careers...or should. Mine mainly centred on the works of Kerouac and Ginsberg with a spat of McClure and Burroughs thrown in for good measure. Through the years ~Junky~ would make an appearance, however the opportunity never presented itself to crack its covers. The book would manifest from time to time, simply to remind me that it still existed. I finally read ~Junky~ last week and it blew me away.


Despite the fact that William S. Burroughs has been thrown into the Beat literati, ~Junky~ doesn't seem to fit. The book is a one off, an important artefact of history - a testimony to an unfortunate human predicament and a way of life that is all too real; and societies ignorance, intolerance and exploitation of the condition, and its continued hypocrisy.


What I found interesting is that nothing has really changed since ~Junky~ was first published two generations ago. Drug addiction is still a 'moral issue' for a lot of people, including the addiction to alcohol. To be fair, as a society, we've probably made a little progress in the last fifty years, in terms of our understanding and treatment of drugs, but there is still a long way to go.


William Lee, a middle class, educated individual of relative privilege, tells the story of his introduction to junk, subsequent addiction and his ongoing hellish relationship with the demon. This testimony is not a posing, romantic portrayal of a hip drug user, living an artistic, bohemian existence amongst poets, painters and musicians, all creating great works of art and having a wonderful time. ~Junky~ is an honest account concerning the 'vicious circle' of addiction, and the many attempts by those afflicted to escape the circle, but once you're in it, there's really no getting out - entirely.


In fact it was Burroughs who coined the phrase:


"Once a junky always a junky." And this is the tragedy.


After closing the book, I had a eerie feeling that I was holding something important in my hands. It ceased to be merely a book and became something else...a relic of a bygone era, its peculiar vernacular, attitudes, dreams and nightmares. I believe it would be a mistake to include this book in any literary category for it stands alone, without pretence or device...because with ~Junky~ what you see is what you get.

Laughing Little Buddha and the Vietnam War

It was the coldest temperature recorded for the month of July in many years. Living in the Dandenong Ranges, mountains/hills over looking the city of Melbourne; the air is always 2 degrees colder than the flat lands. Our heater upstairs was looking and sounding like it would conk-out at any moment. Although the time, relatively, was early, 2100 hrs, we decided to go to bed, and rough-it downstairs in bed under heavy blankets. The problem is, I couldn't sleep. I hadn't been called by the agency in 3 weeks. Working for a teaching agency, they would call me usually the night before, if a substitute position was available. The phone rang, and my assignment was a little elementary school on the edge of south east Melbourne. That's all they could tell me: name of school and the address. Turning on the lamp, I looked the address up in the city street directory, (before google maps) and realised it would take at least 1 hour in peak hour traffic. Sleep turned out to be impossible.

After an hour of horns blasting, smog, and bad tempered drivers on a Monday morning, I skidded into the school parking lot at 0845. The principal met me at the main entrance.

“You must be Mr. Middleton?”

Mrs. Anderson had to be in her early sixties: all white hair, slightly over weight, and very kind, pale blue eyes.

“We are just beginning Monday assembly. Please follow me.”

The school had to be at least half a century old. Anyone who has walked the halls of an old school, know it has a certain odour. Most have the aroma of stale lunches, cleaning fluid, and the hint of human perspiration. This one smelled of Asian food, cleaning chemicals, and construction paper. As we entered the back section of the building, outside, all standing at attention, were about seventy little bodies in uniform singing the Australian National anthem. One could see the student body had been organised by grade, because on the right hand side stood the 6^th graders, awkward and self conscious, moving down the line to the 1st graders, munchkin-like and confident.

To my surprise, all the children were Asian, specifically, all Vietnamese.

*

In 1964/5, our little street in Northglenn, Colorado, felt its first casualty of war. Ed Adams. Every neighbourhood in mid western America had their own Ed Adams. Ed was cool, rode a motorcycle and played electric guitar. His hair was slicked back like Elvis Presley, and every girl in town wanted him. Before Ed was drafted and left us, he started a band. On those hot nights in August, all the kids around would find them playing in some backyard. I remember looking over the high wooden fence to catch a glimpse of the musicians, while below us, the little kids of the neighbourhood, danced with each other. Imagine 4 to 9 year old's dancing to live music by an old wooden fence? Soon dusk arrived, and we all had to be home before dark. This was Ed Adams. This was the Ed Adams who was forced to go to Vietnam, and died, blown up from a mine, that he stepped on while on patrol. He came home in a body bag, and the neighbourhood was never the same.

*

After the National Anthem, the students reported to their various Home Rooms. As usual, not knowing exactly what to do, Mrs. Anderson finally told me, that I would be teaching maths and language to the 2A class.

“Don't worry Mr. Middleton, they're a good group of children. By the way, how are you with Year 2 maths?”

“As long as it's not Algebra, Mrs. Anderson, I believe we will get through..”

The principal smiled in a slightly ironic way. “I'm sure you will do fine Mr. Middleton. We walked down the main hall. “This will be your classroom for the duration. If you have any questions....”

I understood all too well what, “If you have any questions” meant. Find yourself over your head, please call for help, and we will never hire you again.

For the little time remaining before the first class arrived, I found the teacher's notes, her lesson plans, and began hastily studying them, when the students arrived. Immediately, I wrote my name on the board.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Middleton.”

All 14 2^nd graders, all Vietnamese, broke into hilarious laughter.

My heart and mind, sank.

*

The Vietnam War, (now called a “conflict”) was based on lies. The Gulf of Tolkin, where allegedly the North Vietnamese shot at a US battle ship, was the falsity to justify President Johnson sending more troops to the little country. From there, death and destruction escalated.

But for what reason?

We were told that Communism would strike at the hearts of God-fearing people, that China and Russia were our dangerous enemies, that these ruthless country's were intent on taking over our inalienable freedoms, that they needed to be stopped on the border between North Vietnam and South Vietnam. The American propagandists called this threat the “Domino Effect”. One country falls to these atheistic monsters, the rest would follow, falling like chips, one after the other. Therefore, following this tainted logic, North Vietnam, now Communist under the totalitarian dictator, Hi Chi Min, must be prevented from corrupting South Vietnam, our “democratic friend”. This evil must be stopped, no matter the cost! This propaganda was certainly effective during the height of the Cold War. And it was all *false*.

*

No matter the year level, in order to teach a lesson as a substitute teacher, at the start, establishing authority is absolutely essential. As the children laughed, I merely stood there in stoic silence. After a few moments the classroom turned silent, many of the pupils faces showing a little fear.

“Now, Miss Rockwell has left a maths worksheet, and expects it to be done before she returns tomorrow. Find a partner and begin”.

The class went into motion, moving the desks around to accommodate a two partner study format. Try to imagine a group of seven year old children, organising a classroom in military precision. Because it was a 4 page exercise, the lesson lasted until lunch. Only a handful of students raised their hands for help. My teaching advice was assured, as the worksheet held only equations of addition and subtraction. Later that day, I decided to stay back and correct the worksheets. Out of 14 students collectively, only about 11 incorrect answers. I thought, 'These children need to move on to at least Year 4'. So far so good. Now I had to engage with the permanent faculty of the school. Sometimes much more confronting than facing a classroom of students.

The lunch bell rang, and my class all looked at me simultaneously, excitingly, waiting for permission to leave. I stood at the door, and told them to line up. I remember the wafting scent of garlic and ginseng in the air. After telling the group not to run, opened the door, and walked down the long hall towards the foyer. I decided to follow them.

A large crowd of parents and grandparents spilled out side the front doors of the school. I really had never seen this before. Each parent had a hot lunch for their children, waiting patiently to hand it to them. The scent of garlic and various spices that filled the room was glorious. After about ten minutes, each student received their personally cooked hot lunch After a kiss and a hug, the children dispersed outside under an old corrugated roof, wooden picnic tables below and began to dine.

A tap on the shoulder. “Mr. Middleton, how was your morning?”

The principal, Mrs. Anderson, stood there with her arms crossed, and intent for delivering a message. “The morning went surprisingly well. We began with the maths worksheet, and the students, for Year 2, are exceptionally bright.”

“Yes they are. I'm afraid I have to tell you, that you have been assigned a double yard duty over lunch. You can have your lunch during late afternoon recess. I hope this is fine with you.”

Over the school year as a substitute teacher, I learned very quickly that you would be given yard duty, automatically, giving a permanent teacher a break for the day – this was a given.

“Of course, Mrs. Anderson, not a problem.” I said.

Throughout the lunch break, watching the kids play, my mind wandered to the same conclusion: In a supportive and safe environment, children are children, no matter their ethnicity, all across the world.

Returning to my room, their were only 4 students lined up at the door. What happened to the other 10? A young woman in her early twenties, came running up the hall. “You're Mr. Middleton?”

“I'm sorry we didn't tell, but most of your class on Monday's have music for the remainder of the afternoon.” She smiled, “Looks like you will have a pleasant rest of your day.”

*

The Vietnam war began in November of 1959, and ended in the fall of Saigon in April of 1975. Many revisionist historians have written that the reason the US lost the war, is that it was a “politicians” war. Meaning the generals took orders from the WH, and the military followed these orders. From the US perspective, it was a strategy about *attrition*: the more Vietnamese we can kill the better our chances of a victory. This turned out to be a disastrous strategy, It has been estimated that 1.5 million N. Vietnamese (likely much more) died as a result of unrelenting carpet bombing, not only in N. Vietnam, but Cambodia and Laos, as well. For many of us, Vietnam appeared more to be an attempted act of genocide, because so many civilians lost their lives.

Napalm is an incendiary agent that the US first used during the fire bombing in Japan before dropping the Atom bomb on said country. The agent is gasoline based, and has a tendency to stick on the intended targets. In Vietnam's case, civilians, women and children. We, as a public were, really, first informed about Napalm from the Pulitzer prize winning photograph of Phan Thi Kim Phuc, a 9 year old S. Vietnamese girl running naked down a street, Napalm burning her back. Napalm is a chemical weapon. Let me say it again, Napalm is a chemical weapon. It is fair to deduce that more Vietnamese, Cambodian and Lao's civilians, mostly families and children, died under the bombs of the US.

*

The 4 students that entered my classroom on that cold Monday afternoon, gave me the impression of being the misfits of the school. One boy stood out apart from the other 3 students. He was quite tall for his age, and chubby, like a little, old man. At first my afternoon class of 4, seemed quite nervous, but once sitting them together at one table, passing out the language worksheets, all relaxed, and “little Buddha” could not stop smiling. Rather than stand above them, shouting directions, I sat in one of the “chairs made for children and hobbits”. Now we were all on the same level. A language lesson on English nouns, the worksheet had the Vietnamese word and English equivalent beside it, with an illustration. Rather than let them carry on their own, I decided to work through the lesson with them.

The first noun on the sheet: Pig. Pointing to the picture, I said “Pig”.

All at once, the entire group burst into hilarious laughter. I have to say, this laughter was certainly contagious, as I laughed right along with them.

Second noun, Man. I pointed to the picture, and announced, “Man”.

There was no laughter this time. “Repeat after me,”Man”.

All the group appeared confused. Using hand movements, I managed to get my request for “repeat after me” across...in unison the group uttered, “Man”.

Now it was my turn to smile, and the group grinned along with me.

Next two nouns were “Goat” and “House”. Following the same procedure, the students repeating the words out loud to me in unison. Out of the blue, the little chubby Buddha uttered:

“Pig Man in Goat House.”

This time all of us fell into laughter, that seemed to go on for some time.

The door opened and the principal, Mrs. Anderson, entered the classroom, with a concerned smile.

“ All of you have missed afternoon recess, and the last bell is about to ring.”

I looked at my watch and it read 3:25. We were so engrossed in the lesson, that we didn't hear the recess bell, and even more astonishing, the students didn't hear it, either. In my experience, this had never happened before. For one, as a teacher, I can get carried away with a lesson and lose track of time, but never have my students, )more often “watching the clock”), missed a recess bell.

“Mrs. Anderson, I apologise...”

“Don't apologise Mr. Middleton, I'm just happy you all have had such a good lesson.”

The bell rang signalling the end of the school day.

*

Living through the Vietnam war, and later studying it in college, after the millions of deaths, this “conflict” achieved absolutely nothing. What did the US have to show for all the death, war crimes and destruction? Close to 60,000 American boys dead, and 1.5 million Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian deaths, mostly women and children. The original propaganda reason for going to South East Asia in the first place, was to stop the spread of communism. This was a lie, as the US lost this conflict and Vietnam merely became one country again. In any war, however, it's always the innocents that take the brunt of the suffering. To my mind, this unacceptable; war is wrong, period.

*

After correcting the mornings maths worksheets, I walked to the front of the school to find the “little Buddha” and a woman, sitting in the foyer. Once spotting me, she stood up, and approached,

“Are Mr. Middleton? “ I nodded. She went on to say, “I wanted to tell you that my son, Ho, thinks you a funny/good teacher. He wanted me to tell this.”

Tell “Ho” he is a funny and smart student, too.”

She turned to him and translated my statement from English to Vietnamese. Ho smiled then laughed, a contagious laugh, as his mother and I laughed as well.

Driving home on that Monday evening, I thought of the Vietnam war, its utter waste of life, that children are the same the world over, and my special, new friend, the Laughing Buddha.