the evangelical outpost: Sin on a Bun:
The Forgotten Vice of GluttonySin on a Bun:
The Forgotten Vice of Gluttony
The appetite for sex, thought C.S. Lewis, is in “ludicrous and preposterous excess of its function.” How else, he wondered, can we explain the fascination men have with watching a girl publicly undress on a stage? The “strip-tease” shows the absurdity of our propensity for sexual titillation:
Now suppose you come to a country where you could fill a theatre by simply bringing a covered plate on to the stage and then slowly lifting the cover so as to let every one see, just before the lights went out, that it contained a mutton chop or a bit of bacon, would you not think that in that country something had gone wrong with the appetite for food? And would not anyone who had grown up in a different world think there was something equally queer about the state of the sex instinct among us?
One critic said that if he found a country in which such striptease acts with food were popular, he would conclude that the people of that country were starving. I agree with him that if, in some strange land, we found that similar acts with mutton chops were popular, one of the possible explanations which would occur to me would be famine. But the next step would be to test our hypothesis by finding out whether, in fact, much or little food was being consumed in that country.
...
Nor is the hypothesis of 'starvation' the only one we can imagine. Everyone knows that the sexual appetite, like our other appetites, grows by indulgence. Starving men may think much about food, but so do gluttons; the gorged, as well as the famished, like titillations.
In a country that spends more money on “adult entertainment” than pro-football, basketball and baseball combined, we shouldn’t be surprised that other appetites are also prone to overindulgence. While we may not have special theaters where food in seductively unveiled (at least not yet), there is certainly something “queer about the state” of the food instinct in America. Take, for example, the introduction of the MONSTER THICKBURGER™ by the fast-food chain Hardee’s.burger.bmp
Described as a “monument to decadence”, the burger contains an artery-clogging 1,420 calories and 107 grams of fat. When combined in a “combo meal” with large fries and a medium drink, the total tips the scales at 2,285 calories. Such a meal would comprise 77% of the daily caloric intake for the average male (175 lbs., moderately active) and 99% for the average female (150 lb, moderately active). To work off those calories a person would need to jog for over 3 hours, walk briskly for 7.5 hours, or simply sit in front of the TV for 31 hours straight.
The MONSTER THICKBURGER™ is an iconic representation of America’s embrace of gluttony, a sin that has long been forgotten. While many churchgoers have heard sermons warning against the dangers of sexual sins such as adultery or fornication, they’re not likely to have heard their pastor speak out against gluttony. It’s doubtful that many Christians would even consider it a sin. An openly homosexual couple attempting to join the congregation would be looked down upon by the obese deacon showing them to the door; and no one in the pews would even recognize the irony. The stink of our hypocrisy is so overwhelming that it’s amazing we can hold down our order of Super Size fries.
Gluttony was once listed among the seven deadly sins. But now it's considered, when it's thought about at all, as a private health matter. We may realize that overeating has led to weight gain, a change in appearance, or diminished health. But we never recognize it as a spiritual problem.
Oddly enough, with the exception of those related to sex, American Christians tend to take an antinomian view of “physical sins.” We act as if corrupting our bodies will have no impact on our souls. Such an an un-Biblical view, however, must be rejected by anyone who acknowledges that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit.
Lest we start to feel superiour to the obese, though, we should remember that not all gluttons are overweight. I’m 5’10”, 165 lbs and, thanks to the Marine Corps preoccupation with physical activity, in relatively good shape. But while my waistline may not expose my shame, I’m prone to overindulging in food. I eat several snacks between meals. I eat when I’m in my car. I eat when I’m bored. I eat when I’m restless, when I’m frustrated, when I’m watching TV, when I’m on the computer…I eat constantly for no other reason than that I can.
In stuffing my face, I neglect my spiritual life. I turn to the refrigerator instead of turning to prayer. I pause at the vending machine instead of pausing in meditation. I seek out a piece of bread instead of seeking the Bread of Life. I fill my life with food in order to avoid filling it with God.
“Their end is destruction,” the Apostle Paul warned, for those for whom “their god is the belly.” We worship a false idol when we succumb to the sin of gluttony. We replace the focus on the Lord with a focus on our own indulgences. We make a god of our belly and allow our souls to turn softer than the crème filling in our Twinkies.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
Top 10 Myths About Thanksgiving
Top 10 Myths About Thanksgiving: "Top 10 Myths About Thanksgiving
By Rick Shenkman
Mr. Shenkman is the editor of HNN.
MYTH # 1
The Pilgrims Held the First Thanksgiving
To see what the first Thanksgiving was like you have to go to: Texas. Texans claim the first Thanksgiving in America actually took place in little San Elizario, a community near El Paso, in 1598 -- twenty-three years before the Pilgrims' festival. For several years they have staged a reenactment of the event that culminated in the Thanksgiving celebration: the arrival of Spanish explorer Juan de Onate on the banks of the Rio Grande. De Onate is said to have held a big Thanksgiving festival after leading hundreds of settlers on a grueling 350-mile long trek across the Mexican desert."
By Rick Shenkman
Mr. Shenkman is the editor of HNN.
MYTH # 1
The Pilgrims Held the First Thanksgiving
To see what the first Thanksgiving was like you have to go to: Texas. Texans claim the first Thanksgiving in America actually took place in little San Elizario, a community near El Paso, in 1598 -- twenty-three years before the Pilgrims' festival. For several years they have staged a reenactment of the event that culminated in the Thanksgiving celebration: the arrival of Spanish explorer Juan de Onate on the banks of the Rio Grande. De Onate is said to have held a big Thanksgiving festival after leading hundreds of settlers on a grueling 350-mile long trek across the Mexican desert."
Friday, November 26, 2004
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Thankful for America -- The Washington Times
Thankful for America -- The Washington TimesThankful for America
By David Boaz
Published November 25, 2004
Not long ago a journalist asked me what freedoms we take for granted in America. I spend most of my time sounding the alarm about the freedoms we're losing, but this was a good opportunity to step back and consider how America is different from much of world history -- and why immigrants still flock here.
If we ask how life in the United States is different from life in most of the history of the world -- and still different from much of the world -- a few key elements come to mind:
m Rule of law. Perhaps the greatest achievement in history is the subordination of power to law. That is, in modern America we have created structures that limit and control the arbitrary power of government. No longer can one man -- a king, a priest, a communist party boss -- take another person's life or property at the ruler's whim. Citizens can go about their business, generally confident that they won't be dragged off the streets to disappear forever, and confident that their hard-earned property won't be confiscated without warning. We may take the rule of law for granted, but immigrants from many parts of the world know how rare it is.
m Equality. For most of history people were firmly assigned to a particular status -- kings, lords and serfs. Brahmans, other castes, and untouchables in India. If your father was a noble or a peasant, so would you be. The American Revolution swept away such distinctions. In America all men were created equal. Thomas Jefferson declared "that the mass of mankind has not been born with saddles on their backs, nor a favored few booted and spurred, ready to ride them legitimately, by the grace of God." In America some people may be smarter, richer or more beautiful than others, but "I'm as good as you" is our national creed. We are all citizens, equal before the law, free to rise as far as our talents will take us.
• Equality for women. Throughout much of history women were the property of their fathers or their husbands. They were often barred from owning property, signing contracts or participating in government. Equality for women took longer than equality for men, but today in the civilized parts of the world women have the same legal rights as men.
• Self-government. The Declaration of Independence proclaims that "governments are instituted" to secure the rights of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," and that those governments "derive their just powers from the consent of the governed." Early governments were often formed in the conquest of one people by another, and the right of the rulers to rule was attributed to God's will and passed along from father to son. In a few places -- such as Athens, Rome and medieval Germany -- there were attempts to create a democratic government. Now, after America's example, we take it for granted in civilized countries that governments stand or fall on popular consent.
• Freedom of speech. In a world of Michael Moore, Ann Coulter and cable pornography, it's hard to imagine just how new and how rare free speech is. Lots of people died for the right to say what they believed. In China and Africa and the Arab world, they still do. Fortunately, we've realized that while free speech may irritate each of us at some point, we're all better off for it.
• Freedom of religion. Church and state have been bound together since time immemorial. The state claimed divine sanction, the church got money and power and the combination left little room for freedom. People used to think that a country could only survive if everyone worshipped the one true God in the one true way. The American Founders established religious freedom.
m Property and contract. We owe our unprecedented standard of living to the capitalist freedoms of private property and free markets. When people are able to own property and make contracts, they create wealth. Free markets and contract law make possible vast economic undertakings, ranging from the design and construction of airplanes to worldwide computer networks and ATM systems. But to appreciate the benefits of free markets, we don't have to marvel at skyscrapers while listening to MP3 players. We can just give thanks for enough food to live on, and central heating and the medical care that has lowered the infant mortality rate from about 20 percent to less than 1 percent.
A Kenyan boy who managed to get to the United States told Woman's World magazine that America is "heaven." Compared to countries that lack the rule of law, equality, property rights, free markets, and freedom of speech and worship, it certainly is. A good point to keep in mind this Thanksgiving Day.
David Boaz is executive vice president of the Cato Institute and author of "Libertarianism: A Primer."
By David Boaz
Published November 25, 2004
Not long ago a journalist asked me what freedoms we take for granted in America. I spend most of my time sounding the alarm about the freedoms we're losing, but this was a good opportunity to step back and consider how America is different from much of world history -- and why immigrants still flock here.
If we ask how life in the United States is different from life in most of the history of the world -- and still different from much of the world -- a few key elements come to mind:
m Rule of law. Perhaps the greatest achievement in history is the subordination of power to law. That is, in modern America we have created structures that limit and control the arbitrary power of government. No longer can one man -- a king, a priest, a communist party boss -- take another person's life or property at the ruler's whim. Citizens can go about their business, generally confident that they won't be dragged off the streets to disappear forever, and confident that their hard-earned property won't be confiscated without warning. We may take the rule of law for granted, but immigrants from many parts of the world know how rare it is.
m Equality. For most of history people were firmly assigned to a particular status -- kings, lords and serfs. Brahmans, other castes, and untouchables in India. If your father was a noble or a peasant, so would you be. The American Revolution swept away such distinctions. In America all men were created equal. Thomas Jefferson declared "that the mass of mankind has not been born with saddles on their backs, nor a favored few booted and spurred, ready to ride them legitimately, by the grace of God." In America some people may be smarter, richer or more beautiful than others, but "I'm as good as you" is our national creed. We are all citizens, equal before the law, free to rise as far as our talents will take us.
• Equality for women. Throughout much of history women were the property of their fathers or their husbands. They were often barred from owning property, signing contracts or participating in government. Equality for women took longer than equality for men, but today in the civilized parts of the world women have the same legal rights as men.
• Self-government. The Declaration of Independence proclaims that "governments are instituted" to secure the rights of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," and that those governments "derive their just powers from the consent of the governed." Early governments were often formed in the conquest of one people by another, and the right of the rulers to rule was attributed to God's will and passed along from father to son. In a few places -- such as Athens, Rome and medieval Germany -- there were attempts to create a democratic government. Now, after America's example, we take it for granted in civilized countries that governments stand or fall on popular consent.
• Freedom of speech. In a world of Michael Moore, Ann Coulter and cable pornography, it's hard to imagine just how new and how rare free speech is. Lots of people died for the right to say what they believed. In China and Africa and the Arab world, they still do. Fortunately, we've realized that while free speech may irritate each of us at some point, we're all better off for it.
• Freedom of religion. Church and state have been bound together since time immemorial. The state claimed divine sanction, the church got money and power and the combination left little room for freedom. People used to think that a country could only survive if everyone worshipped the one true God in the one true way. The American Founders established religious freedom.
m Property and contract. We owe our unprecedented standard of living to the capitalist freedoms of private property and free markets. When people are able to own property and make contracts, they create wealth. Free markets and contract law make possible vast economic undertakings, ranging from the design and construction of airplanes to worldwide computer networks and ATM systems. But to appreciate the benefits of free markets, we don't have to marvel at skyscrapers while listening to MP3 players. We can just give thanks for enough food to live on, and central heating and the medical care that has lowered the infant mortality rate from about 20 percent to less than 1 percent.
A Kenyan boy who managed to get to the United States told Woman's World magazine that America is "heaven." Compared to countries that lack the rule of law, equality, property rights, free markets, and freedom of speech and worship, it certainly is. A good point to keep in mind this Thanksgiving Day.
David Boaz is executive vice president of the Cato Institute and author of "Libertarianism: A Primer."
washingtonpost.com: Thankful for the Settlers . . .
washingtonpost.com: Thankful for the Settlers . . .: "washingtonpost.com
Thankful for the Settlers . . .
By George F. Will
Thursday, November 25, 2004; Page A43
When giving thanks this year, think of Lena Woebbecke. She and many others paid a terrible price for misreading the prairie sky on the afternoon of Jan. 12, 1888.
That day was unseasonably balmy, by prairie standards -- some temperatures were in the 20s -- and many children scampered to school without coats or gloves. Then, at about the time schools were adjourning, death, in the shape of a soot-gray cloud, appeared on the horizon of Dakota Territory and Nebraska.
In three minutes the temperature plunged 18 degrees. The next morning hundreds of people, more than 100 of them children, were dead beneath the snow drifts. David Laskin, a Seattle writer, reconstructs this tragedy in a terrifying but beautifully written new book, 'The Children's Blizzard.'
It picks up the many threads of the story in Norway, Ukraine, Germany, Vermont and other tributaries to the river of immigration set in motion partly by the 1862 Homestead Act. In return for an $18 filing fee and five years' farming, the act conferred ownership of 160 acres. By the tens of thousands the homesteaders came, to live in sod houses, heated by burning buffalo chips and twisted hay.
Of immigrants, the saying was that the cowards stayed home and the weak died on the way. One in 10 crossing the Atlantic in steerage did die. But, Laskin says, 'the mystique of the Dakotas' was such that the territory's population nearly quadrupled in the 1880s. Those who made it, with a trunk or two and the clothes on their backs, reached towns that were perishable scratches on the prairie. They got land, freedom and hope.
And prairie fires. And grasshoppers, 100 billion at a time in roaring clouds a mile high and 100 miles across. And iron weather in which children, disoriented by horizontal streams of snow as hard as rock and fine as dust, froze to death groping their way home from a school 150 yards away.
Lena was five in 1882 when her father, a German immigrant, died of smallpox. Her mother remarried twice, having 11 children, eight of whom survived. In August 1887, Lena, her marriage prospects diminished by her smallpox scars, was sent to live with the Woebbeckes and their three children in a two-room house. It was a half-mile from the school where she was, five months later, when a cataclysmic cold front came dropping southeast out of Canada at 45 miles per hour.
'To those standing outside,' Laskin writes, 'it looked like the northwest corner of the sky was suddenly filling and bulging and ripping open.' In 4 1/2 hours the temperature at Helena, Mont., fell 50 degrees. The prairie air tingled with the electricity of a horizontal thunderstorm. All over the region, school teachers, many of them not much older or more educated than their pupils, had to make life-or-death decisions about how to get the children home.
'The fear came first,' Laskin writes, 'but the cold followed so hard on its heels that it was impossible to tell the difference.' In minutes nostrils were clogged by ice. Eyelids were torn by repeated attempts to prevent them from freezing shut. Unable to see their hands in front of their faces, people died wandering a few yards from their houses, unable to hear, over the keening wind, pots being pounded a few yards away to tell them the way to safety.
'For years afterward,' writes Laskin, 'at gatherings of any size in Dakota or Nebraska, there would always be people walking on wooden legs or holding fingerless hands behind their backs or hiding missing ears under hats -- victims of the blizzard.' Lena learned to walk on a wooden foot. In 1901, at 24, she married. At 25 she died, perhaps in childbirth, or perhaps of a complication from the amputation necessitated by frostbite.
'Lena was laid to rest in her wedding dress in the graveyard of the Immanuel Lutheran Church near the country crossroads called Ruby. If there ever was a town called Ruby, it has disappeared, as has the Immanuel Lutheran Church. The church cemetery remains -- a fenced patch of rough grass studded with headstones between two farmhouses not far from the interstate. A tiny island of the dead in the sea of Nebraska agriculture.'
This Thanksgiving, when you have rendered yourself torpid by ingesting an excess of America's agricultural bounties, summon thoughts of thanks for the likes of Lena, those whose hard lives paved the stony road to America's current comforts.
georgewill@washpost.com
"
Thankful for the Settlers . . .
By George F. Will
Thursday, November 25, 2004; Page A43
When giving thanks this year, think of Lena Woebbecke. She and many others paid a terrible price for misreading the prairie sky on the afternoon of Jan. 12, 1888.
That day was unseasonably balmy, by prairie standards -- some temperatures were in the 20s -- and many children scampered to school without coats or gloves. Then, at about the time schools were adjourning, death, in the shape of a soot-gray cloud, appeared on the horizon of Dakota Territory and Nebraska.
In three minutes the temperature plunged 18 degrees. The next morning hundreds of people, more than 100 of them children, were dead beneath the snow drifts. David Laskin, a Seattle writer, reconstructs this tragedy in a terrifying but beautifully written new book, 'The Children's Blizzard.'
It picks up the many threads of the story in Norway, Ukraine, Germany, Vermont and other tributaries to the river of immigration set in motion partly by the 1862 Homestead Act. In return for an $18 filing fee and five years' farming, the act conferred ownership of 160 acres. By the tens of thousands the homesteaders came, to live in sod houses, heated by burning buffalo chips and twisted hay.
Of immigrants, the saying was that the cowards stayed home and the weak died on the way. One in 10 crossing the Atlantic in steerage did die. But, Laskin says, 'the mystique of the Dakotas' was such that the territory's population nearly quadrupled in the 1880s. Those who made it, with a trunk or two and the clothes on their backs, reached towns that were perishable scratches on the prairie. They got land, freedom and hope.
And prairie fires. And grasshoppers, 100 billion at a time in roaring clouds a mile high and 100 miles across. And iron weather in which children, disoriented by horizontal streams of snow as hard as rock and fine as dust, froze to death groping their way home from a school 150 yards away.
Lena was five in 1882 when her father, a German immigrant, died of smallpox. Her mother remarried twice, having 11 children, eight of whom survived. In August 1887, Lena, her marriage prospects diminished by her smallpox scars, was sent to live with the Woebbeckes and their three children in a two-room house. It was a half-mile from the school where she was, five months later, when a cataclysmic cold front came dropping southeast out of Canada at 45 miles per hour.
'To those standing outside,' Laskin writes, 'it looked like the northwest corner of the sky was suddenly filling and bulging and ripping open.' In 4 1/2 hours the temperature at Helena, Mont., fell 50 degrees. The prairie air tingled with the electricity of a horizontal thunderstorm. All over the region, school teachers, many of them not much older or more educated than their pupils, had to make life-or-death decisions about how to get the children home.
'The fear came first,' Laskin writes, 'but the cold followed so hard on its heels that it was impossible to tell the difference.' In minutes nostrils were clogged by ice. Eyelids were torn by repeated attempts to prevent them from freezing shut. Unable to see their hands in front of their faces, people died wandering a few yards from their houses, unable to hear, over the keening wind, pots being pounded a few yards away to tell them the way to safety.
'For years afterward,' writes Laskin, 'at gatherings of any size in Dakota or Nebraska, there would always be people walking on wooden legs or holding fingerless hands behind their backs or hiding missing ears under hats -- victims of the blizzard.' Lena learned to walk on a wooden foot. In 1901, at 24, she married. At 25 she died, perhaps in childbirth, or perhaps of a complication from the amputation necessitated by frostbite.
'Lena was laid to rest in her wedding dress in the graveyard of the Immanuel Lutheran Church near the country crossroads called Ruby. If there ever was a town called Ruby, it has disappeared, as has the Immanuel Lutheran Church. The church cemetery remains -- a fenced patch of rough grass studded with headstones between two farmhouses not far from the interstate. A tiny island of the dead in the sea of Nebraska agriculture.'
This Thanksgiving, when you have rendered yourself torpid by ingesting an excess of America's agricultural bounties, summon thoughts of thanks for the likes of Lena, those whose hard lives paved the stony road to America's current comforts.
georgewill@washpost.com
"
HoustonChronicle.com - An adopted daughter gives thanks to America
HoustonChronicle.com - An adopted daughter gives thanks to AmericaAn adopted daughter gives thanks to America
A child of refugees counts her many blessings
By ANH V. SAWYER
I wish you could have been with me this morning. It was snowing, not heavily, but enough flurries to prevent many of my international friends from coming to our monthly International Wives Club. Most of them came from the other side of the world where the coldest temperature hovers above 60 degrees.
ADVERTISEMENT
There were only 14 of us, half of the normal gathering. Six were Americans and the rest from different parts of the world. Together, we decorated our tables and spread out the food that everyone had brought. Our theme was American Thanksgiving, so I brought a turkey, my first attempt at cooking the giant chicken. The American wives brought pies, and others brought fruit and salads.
Our group leader told us of the history of American Thanksgiving, of the 102 persons who first arrived in Plymouth, Mass., on the Mayflower, of the local Indians' kindness and of the many deaths that followed from the hardship of life in this new place.
When she finished, I asked everyone in the group to share their Thanksgiving thought if they were comfortable doing so. Many of us don't speak English well, and besides, where we came from, we do not always share our hearts so readily like our American friends.
The American wives were thankful for God, families and friends. The foreigners, one after another, with their limited English, wanted to give thanks for this country, for the freedom and peace they have experienced here, for the friendship and unconditional love and help they have received from American friends and strangers. Several had tears roll down their cheeks as they spoke.
Tan, a lovely Mainland Chinese visiting scholar, said: "I wake up so happy every morning. I cannot believe I am here in this country. I feel so free. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself."
Chin, a Taiwanese graduate student, young and gentle, shared with us: "Before I came here, I didn't even know how to open a can. I had a very sheltered life. So when I arrived here, I was very fearful for my life. But the Americans take care of me and teach me many things.
Sandi, a Korean nurse, thoughtful and wise, said, with tears in her eyes: "I want to give thanks to my parents who came here with absolutely nothing. They had to work very hard and sacrificed much for my sister and me. And this country made it possible for them to give us what we have now."
And more I wish you could hear with your own ears.
Many of the International Wives were intrigued to hear that their own beginnings in this country were similar to the Pilgrims. They, too, had a very difficult time with learning English, getting a job and finding a niche for themselves, but after all is said and done they would not trade what they are having to go through here for anything else.
As a former refugee, I, too, want to thank you, dear America, for your love for humanity, for the profound understanding that liberty is indeed the core of genuine humanness, and for sharing your resources, your opportunities and your wonderful heritage with the refugees and immigrants of the world.
You also impart to us a willingness to love and to forgive. These are very vulnerable concepts for many of us foreigners who were bound by traditions of getting even. You know, my Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese friends told me that they don't really get along well with each other, but it was Tan who reached out to Chin and invited her to our gatherings. In our international fellowship, I've often seen Croats break bread with Serbs and people from all over the Middle East — people who would be each others' enemies if they were still in their countries — befriend one another.
I meant to send this article for publication on Veterans Day; but I was worried that I would be misunderstood and categorized as a war-lover. I do not like war or any kind of bloodshed because I myself had to go through that hellish experience for the first 20 years of my life. However, I often ask myself, without the men and women who went to war and laid down their lives, even for the peoples they didn't know, would I be able to taste this precious freedom and liberty?
Sometimes I think of America as the children, and myself as the dog, in one of Jesus' parables: "First, let the children eat all they want," Jesus told her, "for it is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to the dogs.
"Yes, Lord," she replied, "but even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs."
Even with the crumbs, I am grateful and satisfied. However, I long to be one of the children, not because America wouldn't let me, but because after 30 years of living and breathing free in this country, I am still going through a healing process. It continues to be a long journey for me to unlearn the fear I grew up in and to learn to truly enjoy the bread.
It was a struggle to put these words on paper, because deep down I am afraid of retaliation. I think the most wonderful gift America offers is freedom from fear. So, I thank you, America. I am the daughter you have adopted and raised to become someone who has faith in life and lives with real purpose. I now dare to dream and to believe that my dreams can come true. Where I came from, the most important wish a child can have is to bring honor to his or her parents. I hope I will bring honor to America.
Sawyer is a writer and speaker. With her friend Pam Proctor, she wrote "Song of Saigon," published by Warner Books in 2003
A child of refugees counts her many blessings
By ANH V. SAWYER
I wish you could have been with me this morning. It was snowing, not heavily, but enough flurries to prevent many of my international friends from coming to our monthly International Wives Club. Most of them came from the other side of the world where the coldest temperature hovers above 60 degrees.
ADVERTISEMENT
There were only 14 of us, half of the normal gathering. Six were Americans and the rest from different parts of the world. Together, we decorated our tables and spread out the food that everyone had brought. Our theme was American Thanksgiving, so I brought a turkey, my first attempt at cooking the giant chicken. The American wives brought pies, and others brought fruit and salads.
Our group leader told us of the history of American Thanksgiving, of the 102 persons who first arrived in Plymouth, Mass., on the Mayflower, of the local Indians' kindness and of the many deaths that followed from the hardship of life in this new place.
When she finished, I asked everyone in the group to share their Thanksgiving thought if they were comfortable doing so. Many of us don't speak English well, and besides, where we came from, we do not always share our hearts so readily like our American friends.
The American wives were thankful for God, families and friends. The foreigners, one after another, with their limited English, wanted to give thanks for this country, for the freedom and peace they have experienced here, for the friendship and unconditional love and help they have received from American friends and strangers. Several had tears roll down their cheeks as they spoke.
Tan, a lovely Mainland Chinese visiting scholar, said: "I wake up so happy every morning. I cannot believe I am here in this country. I feel so free. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself."
Chin, a Taiwanese graduate student, young and gentle, shared with us: "Before I came here, I didn't even know how to open a can. I had a very sheltered life. So when I arrived here, I was very fearful for my life. But the Americans take care of me and teach me many things.
Sandi, a Korean nurse, thoughtful and wise, said, with tears in her eyes: "I want to give thanks to my parents who came here with absolutely nothing. They had to work very hard and sacrificed much for my sister and me. And this country made it possible for them to give us what we have now."
And more I wish you could hear with your own ears.
Many of the International Wives were intrigued to hear that their own beginnings in this country were similar to the Pilgrims. They, too, had a very difficult time with learning English, getting a job and finding a niche for themselves, but after all is said and done they would not trade what they are having to go through here for anything else.
As a former refugee, I, too, want to thank you, dear America, for your love for humanity, for the profound understanding that liberty is indeed the core of genuine humanness, and for sharing your resources, your opportunities and your wonderful heritage with the refugees and immigrants of the world.
You also impart to us a willingness to love and to forgive. These are very vulnerable concepts for many of us foreigners who were bound by traditions of getting even. You know, my Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese friends told me that they don't really get along well with each other, but it was Tan who reached out to Chin and invited her to our gatherings. In our international fellowship, I've often seen Croats break bread with Serbs and people from all over the Middle East — people who would be each others' enemies if they were still in their countries — befriend one another.
I meant to send this article for publication on Veterans Day; but I was worried that I would be misunderstood and categorized as a war-lover. I do not like war or any kind of bloodshed because I myself had to go through that hellish experience for the first 20 years of my life. However, I often ask myself, without the men and women who went to war and laid down their lives, even for the peoples they didn't know, would I be able to taste this precious freedom and liberty?
Sometimes I think of America as the children, and myself as the dog, in one of Jesus' parables: "First, let the children eat all they want," Jesus told her, "for it is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to the dogs.
"Yes, Lord," she replied, "but even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs."
Even with the crumbs, I am grateful and satisfied. However, I long to be one of the children, not because America wouldn't let me, but because after 30 years of living and breathing free in this country, I am still going through a healing process. It continues to be a long journey for me to unlearn the fear I grew up in and to learn to truly enjoy the bread.
It was a struggle to put these words on paper, because deep down I am afraid of retaliation. I think the most wonderful gift America offers is freedom from fear. So, I thank you, America. I am the daughter you have adopted and raised to become someone who has faith in life and lives with real purpose. I now dare to dream and to believe that my dreams can come true. Where I came from, the most important wish a child can have is to bring honor to his or her parents. I hope I will bring honor to America.
Sawyer is a writer and speaker. With her friend Pam Proctor, she wrote "Song of Saigon," published by Warner Books in 2003
HoustonChronicle.com - An adopted daughter gives thanks to America
HoustonChronicle.com - An adopted daughter gives thanks to AmericaAn adopted daughter gives thanks to America
A child of refugees counts her many blessings
By ANH V. SAWYER
I wish you could have been with me this morning. It was snowing, not heavily, but enough flurries to prevent many of my international friends from coming to our monthly International Wives Club. Most of them came from the other side of the world where the coldest temperature hovers above 60 degrees.
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There were only 14 of us, half of the normal gathering. Six were Americans and the rest from different parts of the world. Together, we decorated our tables and spread out the food that everyone had brought. Our theme was American Thanksgiving, so I brought a turkey, my first attempt at cooking the giant chicken. The American wives brought pies, and others brought fruit and salads.
Our group leader told us of the history of American Thanksgiving, of the 102 persons who first arrived in Plymouth, Mass., on the Mayflower, of the local Indians' kindness and of the many deaths that followed from the hardship of life in this new place.
When she finished, I asked everyone in the group to share their Thanksgiving thought if they were comfortable doing so. Many of us don't speak English well, and besides, where we came from, we do not always share our hearts so readily like our American friends.
The American wives were thankful for God, families and friends. The foreigners, one after another, with their limited English, wanted to give thanks for this country, for the freedom and peace they have experienced here, for the friendship and unconditional love and help they have received from American friends and strangers. Several had tears roll down their cheeks as they spoke.
Tan, a lovely Mainland Chinese visiting scholar, said: "I wake up so happy every morning. I cannot believe I am here in this country. I feel so free. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself."
Chin, a Taiwanese graduate student, young and gentle, shared with us: "Before I came here, I didn't even know how to open a can. I had a very sheltered life. So when I arrived here, I was very fearful for my life. But the Americans take care of me and teach me many things.
Sandi, a Korean nurse, thoughtful and wise, said, with tears in her eyes: "I want to give thanks to my parents who came here with absolutely nothing. They had to work very hard and sacrificed much for my sister and me. And this country made it possible for them to give us what we have now."
And more I wish you could hear with your own ears.
Many of the International Wives were intrigued to hear that their own beginnings in this country were similar to the Pilgrims. They, too, had a very difficult time with learning English, getting a job and finding a niche for themselves, but after all is said and done they would not trade what they are having to go through here for anything else.
As a former refugee, I, too, want to thank you, dear America, for your love for humanity, for the profound understanding that liberty is indeed the core of genuine humanness, and for sharing your resources, your opportunities and your wonderful heritage with the refugees and immigrants of the world.
You also impart to us a willingness to love and to forgive. These are very vulnerable concepts for many of us foreigners who were bound by traditions of getting even. You know, my Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese friends told me that they don't really get along well with each other, but it was Tan who reached out to Chin and invited her to our gatherings. In our international fellowship, I've often seen Croats break bread with Serbs and people from all over the Middle East — people who would be each others' enemies if they were still in their countries — befriend one another.
I meant to send this article for publication on Veterans Day; but I was worried that I would be misunderstood and categorized as a war-lover. I do not like war or any kind of bloodshed because I myself had to go through that hellish experience for the first 20 years of my life. However, I often ask myself, without the men and women who went to war and laid down their lives, even for the peoples they didn't know, would I be able to taste this precious freedom and liberty?
Sometimes I think of America as the children, and myself as the dog, in one of Jesus' parables: "First, let the children eat all they want," Jesus told her, "for it is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to the dogs.
"Yes, Lord," she replied, "but even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs."
Even with the crumbs, I am grateful and satisfied. However, I long to be one of the children, not because America wouldn't let me, but because after 30 years of living and breathing free in this country, I am still going through a healing process. It continues to be a long journey for me to unlearn the fear I grew up in and to learn to truly enjoy the bread.
It was a struggle to put these words on paper, because deep down I am afraid of retaliation. I think the most wonderful gift America offers is freedom from fear. So, I thank you, America. I am the daughter you have adopted and raised to become someone who has faith in life and lives with real purpose. I now dare to dream and to believe that my dreams can come true. Where I came from, the most important wish a child can have is to bring honor to his or her parents. I hope I will bring honor to America.
Sawyer is a writer and speaker. With her friend Pam Proctor, she wrote "Song of Saigon," published by Warner Books in 2003
A child of refugees counts her many blessings
By ANH V. SAWYER
I wish you could have been with me this morning. It was snowing, not heavily, but enough flurries to prevent many of my international friends from coming to our monthly International Wives Club. Most of them came from the other side of the world where the coldest temperature hovers above 60 degrees.
ADVERTISEMENT
There were only 14 of us, half of the normal gathering. Six were Americans and the rest from different parts of the world. Together, we decorated our tables and spread out the food that everyone had brought. Our theme was American Thanksgiving, so I brought a turkey, my first attempt at cooking the giant chicken. The American wives brought pies, and others brought fruit and salads.
Our group leader told us of the history of American Thanksgiving, of the 102 persons who first arrived in Plymouth, Mass., on the Mayflower, of the local Indians' kindness and of the many deaths that followed from the hardship of life in this new place.
When she finished, I asked everyone in the group to share their Thanksgiving thought if they were comfortable doing so. Many of us don't speak English well, and besides, where we came from, we do not always share our hearts so readily like our American friends.
The American wives were thankful for God, families and friends. The foreigners, one after another, with their limited English, wanted to give thanks for this country, for the freedom and peace they have experienced here, for the friendship and unconditional love and help they have received from American friends and strangers. Several had tears roll down their cheeks as they spoke.
Tan, a lovely Mainland Chinese visiting scholar, said: "I wake up so happy every morning. I cannot believe I am here in this country. I feel so free. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself."
Chin, a Taiwanese graduate student, young and gentle, shared with us: "Before I came here, I didn't even know how to open a can. I had a very sheltered life. So when I arrived here, I was very fearful for my life. But the Americans take care of me and teach me many things.
Sandi, a Korean nurse, thoughtful and wise, said, with tears in her eyes: "I want to give thanks to my parents who came here with absolutely nothing. They had to work very hard and sacrificed much for my sister and me. And this country made it possible for them to give us what we have now."
And more I wish you could hear with your own ears.
Many of the International Wives were intrigued to hear that their own beginnings in this country were similar to the Pilgrims. They, too, had a very difficult time with learning English, getting a job and finding a niche for themselves, but after all is said and done they would not trade what they are having to go through here for anything else.
As a former refugee, I, too, want to thank you, dear America, for your love for humanity, for the profound understanding that liberty is indeed the core of genuine humanness, and for sharing your resources, your opportunities and your wonderful heritage with the refugees and immigrants of the world.
You also impart to us a willingness to love and to forgive. These are very vulnerable concepts for many of us foreigners who were bound by traditions of getting even. You know, my Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese friends told me that they don't really get along well with each other, but it was Tan who reached out to Chin and invited her to our gatherings. In our international fellowship, I've often seen Croats break bread with Serbs and people from all over the Middle East — people who would be each others' enemies if they were still in their countries — befriend one another.
I meant to send this article for publication on Veterans Day; but I was worried that I would be misunderstood and categorized as a war-lover. I do not like war or any kind of bloodshed because I myself had to go through that hellish experience for the first 20 years of my life. However, I often ask myself, without the men and women who went to war and laid down their lives, even for the peoples they didn't know, would I be able to taste this precious freedom and liberty?
Sometimes I think of America as the children, and myself as the dog, in one of Jesus' parables: "First, let the children eat all they want," Jesus told her, "for it is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to the dogs.
"Yes, Lord," she replied, "but even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs."
Even with the crumbs, I am grateful and satisfied. However, I long to be one of the children, not because America wouldn't let me, but because after 30 years of living and breathing free in this country, I am still going through a healing process. It continues to be a long journey for me to unlearn the fear I grew up in and to learn to truly enjoy the bread.
It was a struggle to put these words on paper, because deep down I am afraid of retaliation. I think the most wonderful gift America offers is freedom from fear. So, I thank you, America. I am the daughter you have adopted and raised to become someone who has faith in life and lives with real purpose. I now dare to dream and to believe that my dreams can come true. Where I came from, the most important wish a child can have is to bring honor to his or her parents. I hope I will bring honor to America.
Sawyer is a writer and speaker. With her friend Pam Proctor, she wrote "Song of Saigon," published by Warner Books in 2003
Power Line: In memory of Dimitrios Gavriel
Power Line: In memory of Dimitrios GavrielThe Lance Cpl.Who Left Wall St.
by Sheelah Kolhatkar and Anna Schneider-Mayerson
No one who knew Dimitrios Gavriel, 29, was surprised when he joined the Marines, even though it seemed an unlikely choice for an Ivy League–educated Manhattan research analyst. In 1998, just a few months after moving to New York City, Mr. Gavriel had written in his diary: "I feel like I’m swimming in a sea with sharks working on Wall Street." Mr. Gavriel meant that in a good way.
"The expression was meant to deliver the message that it’s hard here: ‘It’s like swimming in a sea of sharks, but I am not giving up,’" said Mr. Gavriel’s mother, Penelope Gavriel, 55. What her son meant, Ms. Gavriel insisted, was that working in these conditions was a badge of honor.
"It’s only going to make me a better man," Ms. Gavriel said her son told her.
It was that same love of a challenge—combined with a fiery patriotism and a desire to take action after the death of two friends on Sept. 11, 2001—that prompted Mr. Gavriel to enlist in the Marines in October 2003. Last Thursday, Nov. 18, Lance Cpl. Dimitrios Gavriel was killed during a battle in Falluja. His family said he was awarded two Purple Hearts on Tuesday, Nov. 23.
Corporal Gavriel did not fit the image of the prototypical U.S. soldier in Iraq: the baby-faced teen from red-state America, looking for a ticket out of small-town life. "Dimmy," as his friends and family called him, grew up in several different places, but spent his high-school career at Timberlane Regional High School in Plaistow, N.H. His father, an aerospace engineer, and his mother, a corporate quality-control manager for Dunkin’ Donuts, immigrated from Greece in the 1970’s. (He had one younger sister, Christina, 27.)
Mr. Gavriel attended Brown University, where he concentrated in organizational behavior—the closest area of study to a business major at the artsy school. He also wrestled in the heavyweight division for the school, developing a close circle of athletic friends and fraternity brothers.
He went on, as many young men with certain socioeconomic aspirations do, to enter an analyst program at the investment bank PaineWebber after graduating in 1998, where he became an equity analyst in the real-estate department. From there he joined the research department at J.P. Morgan, then bounced with his research team to Credit Suisse First Boston and finally Banc of America, where he put in 16-hour days crunching numbers and writing research reports until he was laid off in 2002. It was then that Mr. Gavriel made the decision to join the Marines.
One of the biggest questions surrounding Mr. Gavriel’s life and the circumstances of his death is the mystery of why he went to Iraq, considering the other options he had and the certain ugliness of the war. And it’s not as though he was suffering from permanent unemployment woes; in fact, the day before he left to start training, he was offered another finance job, after months of looking.
"He was deeply affected by 9/11, but that was a small part of why he went," said Matt McClelland, 30, Mr. Gavriel’s best friend and fraternity brother from Brown. "It wasn’t about revenge and payback. He supported the war but wasn’t happy with how they were handling it. I think the way he looked at it was, no matter what side of the aisle you stand on, that’s the most important place in the world right now, there’s no way to turn back and we had to succeed, and he wanted to be a part of that."
That rationale for volunteering to fight—for wanting to be a part of something important, something unexpected—was very much part of the way Mr. Gavriel envisioned his life and his own abilities. His mother, in compiling a printed eulogy for her son’s memorial service, included these telling excerpts from Mr. Gavriel’s diary, under the title "An American Hero … Our Hero": "I have heard that Great Men often kept journals—I’d like to be great …. They assure me that whatever the situation or circumstance—Honesty—Discipline—Character—Humility—Timing and Luck will lead to a comfortable situation. This belief put me into College—an Ivy League education—It helped me in sports where I held my own against the best in Division 1 Wrestling—it put me in the capital of the world—New York City—and placed me in the water with sharks—Wall Street. When I was younger—each one of these worlds was a magical place, a myth—I have broken into these worlds however—called them home and sanity."
Conversations with Mr. Gavriel’s friends, family members and former colleagues yield a portrait of a man who chose his friends carefully, but who chose them for the long term; who valued loyalty and the idea of brotherhood; who immersed himself wholeheartedly in whatever he did; who was an oddball prankster; who loved sports, fishing and working and living in New York City. And in some ways he was like every other young banker: toiling day and night on Wall Street, crowding the bars of Murray Hill and the Upper West Side on weekends, and courting the occasional girlfriend.
He spent the majority of his four years in New York living in a small studio on 72nd and Columbus, which he referred to as "a box." It was filled with antiques his parents bought for him at New England yard sales, an acoustic guitar he was teaching himself how to play and group shots from the weddings he had attended.
"I’d never seen someone in so many wedding parties," said Anthony Farinha, 29, a house mate from Brown. When his college friends came to town, he’d host them all at his place, and they’d hit the Upper West Side dive bar Yogi’s, his favorite haunt. They’d play Johnny Cash on the juke box, toss peanut shells on the floor. His drink of choice? Jim Beam.
Mr. Gavriel rode his royal blue BMW 1150 motorcycle to work, and occasionally wore his biker boots to the office. "He didn’t show up in a navy blue pinstriped suit and Hermès tie, because every other banker in the world did," said Alexis Hughes, 31, a former colleague from Wall Street. "He showed up at meetings with his motorcycle helmet. And I think that’s something to respect."
This tiny form of uniform rebellion might have represented Mr. Gavriel’s deeper ambivalence about his white-collar world. Prior to being laid off, in fact, Mr. Gavriel had been reconsidering his options. The Henry Blodget–era scandals on Wall Street discouraged him, piercing a hole in his own sense of self-worth.
In his last months at Banc of America, he’d begun to call it a "jobby-job," which his mother described as his version of a nine-to-five job. He wasn’t satisfied.
"Ordinary, everyday man’s expectations—he wasn’t that," she said proudly. Joining the Marines was a way to grow personally and professionally. "He was looking primarily for leadership skills, integrity, honor. It was a good package deal for him. He felt that the military—specifically the Marines—with the regimen and the strict discipline they have, was the best place that he could learn new skills and hone the ones that he had to allow him to become a new leader."
Lee Schalop, his boss at J.P. Morgan, Credit Suisse and Banc of America, remembered Mr. Gavriel as a tireless, motivated worker, but also said he could tell banking wasn’t his ideal fit.
"It’s clear he didn’t love it the way other people did," Mr. Schalop explained. "I just thought, That is so perfect for him. He was a tough, quiet guy and to me … he sort of represented what the Marines were."
To prepare for the Marines, Mr. Gavriel trained for a year—mostly near a friend’s house in New Jersey, where he loved to go fishing—running 10 miles a day and eventually losing more than 40 pounds. But the Marines initially rejected him, citing lingering knee injuries left over from his wrestling career. He lobbied for the Marines to accept him, and eventually shipped off to boot camp last fall.
So when Mr. Gavriel was offered another finance job the day before he left for training (after a year of not working), by then his decision was firm.
"My wife and I went to see him off to boot camp, in Haverhill, Mass., and he said that he felt it was fate playing with him, that he would have been miserable had he not gone [to boot camp]," said Mr. McClelland.
Still, it wasn’t a blind decision. "We all expressed our reservations and hesitations; he knew what the risks were," said Mr. Farinha.
Once in Iraq, his parents were often unsure about what was happening to their son, clinging to the promise Mr. Gavriel had once made: "They have better use for me than having me run around with a gun," he had told his mother. "His biggest worry was that his mother would find out and worry about him," said Mr. McClelland.
But, in fact, Mr. Gavriel was serving as a rifleman in Iraq. According to Mr. McClelland, he heard from Mr. Gavriel not so long ago, after he had caught a clump of shrapnel in his leg from a grenade explosion. About a week later, they were short men for a mission. Though still limping, Mr. Gavriel went into battle in Falluja.
"There’s no way that I would have conceived that this would have been the outcome," said Mr. Farinha. "He was too talented, too strong, too cunning to ever get hurt."
Mr. Gavriel’s funeral will be held Tuesday, Nov. 30, at Holy Apostles Church in Haverhill, Mass. His burial will take place at 1 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 2, at Arlington National Cemetery.
You may reach Sheelah Kolhatkar and Anna Schneider-Mayerson via email at: skolhatkar@observer.com and anna@observer.com.
by Sheelah Kolhatkar and Anna Schneider-Mayerson
No one who knew Dimitrios Gavriel, 29, was surprised when he joined the Marines, even though it seemed an unlikely choice for an Ivy League–educated Manhattan research analyst. In 1998, just a few months after moving to New York City, Mr. Gavriel had written in his diary: "I feel like I’m swimming in a sea with sharks working on Wall Street." Mr. Gavriel meant that in a good way.
"The expression was meant to deliver the message that it’s hard here: ‘It’s like swimming in a sea of sharks, but I am not giving up,’" said Mr. Gavriel’s mother, Penelope Gavriel, 55. What her son meant, Ms. Gavriel insisted, was that working in these conditions was a badge of honor.
"It’s only going to make me a better man," Ms. Gavriel said her son told her.
It was that same love of a challenge—combined with a fiery patriotism and a desire to take action after the death of two friends on Sept. 11, 2001—that prompted Mr. Gavriel to enlist in the Marines in October 2003. Last Thursday, Nov. 18, Lance Cpl. Dimitrios Gavriel was killed during a battle in Falluja. His family said he was awarded two Purple Hearts on Tuesday, Nov. 23.
Corporal Gavriel did not fit the image of the prototypical U.S. soldier in Iraq: the baby-faced teen from red-state America, looking for a ticket out of small-town life. "Dimmy," as his friends and family called him, grew up in several different places, but spent his high-school career at Timberlane Regional High School in Plaistow, N.H. His father, an aerospace engineer, and his mother, a corporate quality-control manager for Dunkin’ Donuts, immigrated from Greece in the 1970’s. (He had one younger sister, Christina, 27.)
Mr. Gavriel attended Brown University, where he concentrated in organizational behavior—the closest area of study to a business major at the artsy school. He also wrestled in the heavyweight division for the school, developing a close circle of athletic friends and fraternity brothers.
He went on, as many young men with certain socioeconomic aspirations do, to enter an analyst program at the investment bank PaineWebber after graduating in 1998, where he became an equity analyst in the real-estate department. From there he joined the research department at J.P. Morgan, then bounced with his research team to Credit Suisse First Boston and finally Banc of America, where he put in 16-hour days crunching numbers and writing research reports until he was laid off in 2002. It was then that Mr. Gavriel made the decision to join the Marines.
One of the biggest questions surrounding Mr. Gavriel’s life and the circumstances of his death is the mystery of why he went to Iraq, considering the other options he had and the certain ugliness of the war. And it’s not as though he was suffering from permanent unemployment woes; in fact, the day before he left to start training, he was offered another finance job, after months of looking.
"He was deeply affected by 9/11, but that was a small part of why he went," said Matt McClelland, 30, Mr. Gavriel’s best friend and fraternity brother from Brown. "It wasn’t about revenge and payback. He supported the war but wasn’t happy with how they were handling it. I think the way he looked at it was, no matter what side of the aisle you stand on, that’s the most important place in the world right now, there’s no way to turn back and we had to succeed, and he wanted to be a part of that."
That rationale for volunteering to fight—for wanting to be a part of something important, something unexpected—was very much part of the way Mr. Gavriel envisioned his life and his own abilities. His mother, in compiling a printed eulogy for her son’s memorial service, included these telling excerpts from Mr. Gavriel’s diary, under the title "An American Hero … Our Hero": "I have heard that Great Men often kept journals—I’d like to be great …. They assure me that whatever the situation or circumstance—Honesty—Discipline—Character—Humility—Timing and Luck will lead to a comfortable situation. This belief put me into College—an Ivy League education—It helped me in sports where I held my own against the best in Division 1 Wrestling—it put me in the capital of the world—New York City—and placed me in the water with sharks—Wall Street. When I was younger—each one of these worlds was a magical place, a myth—I have broken into these worlds however—called them home and sanity."
Conversations with Mr. Gavriel’s friends, family members and former colleagues yield a portrait of a man who chose his friends carefully, but who chose them for the long term; who valued loyalty and the idea of brotherhood; who immersed himself wholeheartedly in whatever he did; who was an oddball prankster; who loved sports, fishing and working and living in New York City. And in some ways he was like every other young banker: toiling day and night on Wall Street, crowding the bars of Murray Hill and the Upper West Side on weekends, and courting the occasional girlfriend.
He spent the majority of his four years in New York living in a small studio on 72nd and Columbus, which he referred to as "a box." It was filled with antiques his parents bought for him at New England yard sales, an acoustic guitar he was teaching himself how to play and group shots from the weddings he had attended.
"I’d never seen someone in so many wedding parties," said Anthony Farinha, 29, a house mate from Brown. When his college friends came to town, he’d host them all at his place, and they’d hit the Upper West Side dive bar Yogi’s, his favorite haunt. They’d play Johnny Cash on the juke box, toss peanut shells on the floor. His drink of choice? Jim Beam.
Mr. Gavriel rode his royal blue BMW 1150 motorcycle to work, and occasionally wore his biker boots to the office. "He didn’t show up in a navy blue pinstriped suit and Hermès tie, because every other banker in the world did," said Alexis Hughes, 31, a former colleague from Wall Street. "He showed up at meetings with his motorcycle helmet. And I think that’s something to respect."
This tiny form of uniform rebellion might have represented Mr. Gavriel’s deeper ambivalence about his white-collar world. Prior to being laid off, in fact, Mr. Gavriel had been reconsidering his options. The Henry Blodget–era scandals on Wall Street discouraged him, piercing a hole in his own sense of self-worth.
In his last months at Banc of America, he’d begun to call it a "jobby-job," which his mother described as his version of a nine-to-five job. He wasn’t satisfied.
"Ordinary, everyday man’s expectations—he wasn’t that," she said proudly. Joining the Marines was a way to grow personally and professionally. "He was looking primarily for leadership skills, integrity, honor. It was a good package deal for him. He felt that the military—specifically the Marines—with the regimen and the strict discipline they have, was the best place that he could learn new skills and hone the ones that he had to allow him to become a new leader."
Lee Schalop, his boss at J.P. Morgan, Credit Suisse and Banc of America, remembered Mr. Gavriel as a tireless, motivated worker, but also said he could tell banking wasn’t his ideal fit.
"It’s clear he didn’t love it the way other people did," Mr. Schalop explained. "I just thought, That is so perfect for him. He was a tough, quiet guy and to me … he sort of represented what the Marines were."
To prepare for the Marines, Mr. Gavriel trained for a year—mostly near a friend’s house in New Jersey, where he loved to go fishing—running 10 miles a day and eventually losing more than 40 pounds. But the Marines initially rejected him, citing lingering knee injuries left over from his wrestling career. He lobbied for the Marines to accept him, and eventually shipped off to boot camp last fall.
So when Mr. Gavriel was offered another finance job the day before he left for training (after a year of not working), by then his decision was firm.
"My wife and I went to see him off to boot camp, in Haverhill, Mass., and he said that he felt it was fate playing with him, that he would have been miserable had he not gone [to boot camp]," said Mr. McClelland.
Still, it wasn’t a blind decision. "We all expressed our reservations and hesitations; he knew what the risks were," said Mr. Farinha.
Once in Iraq, his parents were often unsure about what was happening to their son, clinging to the promise Mr. Gavriel had once made: "They have better use for me than having me run around with a gun," he had told his mother. "His biggest worry was that his mother would find out and worry about him," said Mr. McClelland.
But, in fact, Mr. Gavriel was serving as a rifleman in Iraq. According to Mr. McClelland, he heard from Mr. Gavriel not so long ago, after he had caught a clump of shrapnel in his leg from a grenade explosion. About a week later, they were short men for a mission. Though still limping, Mr. Gavriel went into battle in Falluja.
"There’s no way that I would have conceived that this would have been the outcome," said Mr. Farinha. "He was too talented, too strong, too cunning to ever get hurt."
Mr. Gavriel’s funeral will be held Tuesday, Nov. 30, at Holy Apostles Church in Haverhill, Mass. His burial will take place at 1 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 2, at Arlington National Cemetery.
You may reach Sheelah Kolhatkar and Anna Schneider-Mayerson via email at: skolhatkar@observer.com and anna@observer.com.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
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