In these changing times in America, we are all being forced to extend our levels of acceptance in many aspects of our lives and in our interactions with others. What used to be viewed as extreme measures are already commonplace, and daily it seems these limits continue to be pushed. We’re having to accept greater invasion of our private lives and of our perceptions by community, government and business as (not-so) usual. Threats abound, both real and imagined, and we as participants in this society must bear the brunt of the changes taking place as we move toward greater alienation and discomfort in the name of national security and American world interests.

On Oct. 12, a month and a day after the World Trade Center tragedy, I pushed my own personal comfort level and boarded a plane at the tiny Asheville airport bound for New York City. Instead of the friendly smiles and freely exchanged pleasantries I remembered, I was greeted by camouflaged Humvees and stern soldiers toting M-16s, triggers warm from the constant touch of suspicion. The ultra-convenient parking and last-minute boarding habits I once enjoyed there are now memories of the past. Lines, checkpoints and frequent baggage searches now mandate additional hours to travel ventures. At the heavily staffed security gate I was forced to surrender the 2-inch folding bottle opener on my keychain. The well-dressed executive ahead of me had to give up his toenail clippers, both of us stripped of our “weapons” in the name of passenger safety and American insecurity.

A year ago such delays and intrusions would have been grounds for a full-blown hissy fit by irate and insulted passengers. It’s different now. We’re all beginning to understand that these actions are necessary and for our own good, and that the personal sacrifices we must make pale in comparison to being splattered across several city blocks. We can’t be too careful now, knowing that some nut-case may try to bring his/her favorite box-cutter on board. Somehow these security measures, while increasing our chances for safe arrival, have also worked to diminish the glamour and thrill of the jet-set traveler. As we made our final landing approach into Newark International, all eyes were glued out the left windows at the still dusty and smoldering New York skyline. Instead of the usual pre-landing chatter, our flight fell silent except for the winding down of the jet engines and the many silent prayers booming through the cabin.

In 1985 my wife (at the time my girlfriend) and I flew to Bombay, India, making a stop in Cairo, Egypt, for passengers and fuel on the return leg of the trip. Upon landing, the plane was boarded by dark-faced, armed soldiers who checked overhead compartments, passenger lists and anything or anyone else they wanted to. At the time I thought, “How could anyone live this way under constant scrutiny and suspicion, with seemingly few personal rights?” Recently I’ve been getting familiar with the idea as part of the new American lifestyle.

The reason for this travel experience was to attend the Bat Mitzvah (the Jewish celebration of young girls becoming adults and a full member of the faith) of my college buddy’s 13-year-old daughter Sarah.
Brought together nearly 25 years ago by unknown lists and circumstances in the Housing Department at Syracuse University, I, the working-class, small-town, naive Presbyterian was roomed down the hall from a loud, well-to-do Jewish city boy, fresh from Jersey and New York. We two opposites found common ground — we both wanted an outrageous, fun- and party-filled college experience. After overlooking our vast differences and accepting each others’ backgrounds and behaviors, we fully accomplished that agenda and have remained fast friends since. It had been nearly five years since my last visit to the lavish, fast-lane life of North Jersey where people seemingly rush around for the sake of rushing, a place a world away from the gravel road to my place in Sylva. My friend had recently completed building his newest dream home, a 6,000-square-foot beauty perched on a rockpile that looked like a hotel as my limo wound up the stone-walled drive to the four-car garage with the Porsche and the SUV in it. The poolhouse sat tastefully across from the home’s wraparound slate patio while the Jacuzzi overflowed invitingly into a fluidly-shaped swimming pool flanked by manicured grounds. After hugs, introductions to the other guests, a tour of the mansion and a couple Heinekens, my pal recommended I take a hot tub while he tended to a list of the weekend’s last-minute details — gardeners, caterers and the like.

I took his advice, slipped into the massive soaker and looked out over his panorama, the plethora of planes winging overhead, my luxurious accommodations, and thought about how extreme this lifestyle is, how consuming, how ridiculous, how normal for this neighborhood where houses cost millions and millions. I watched 5 wild turkeys walk across the driveway and was excited to see some of the nature I love so much about the North Carolina mountains here in Luxuryland.

My friend came out to check on me and I shared my excitement with him. “Those things are here all the time; they crap all over my porch,” he complained. It’s all a matter of what one is willing to accept as good and beautiful, I thought.

I told him what I had been thinking about, and he explained that this house and all this stuff was more important to others and to the neighbors than it was to him, that his kids and family were worth everything he had. He wanted, he said, a place his family could feel secure and comfortable, that since both his parents had passed away he wanted a place all the relatives could gather and spend time together. Like anyone, he said, he knew he could be taken out by a random terrorist act at anytime, so why not enjoy the days that we are granted, opulently or conservatively it doesn’t matter. His answer pushed my limit on how much is enough to live on. Why should my opinions and choices on how to live be used as a measure by anyone else? The answer was simple — they shouldn’t. My precepts only work for me.

On Saturday we all headed to Temple Beth Haverim for Shabbat and Sarah’s call to the Torah. I had never been to such a service and was moved by the words and the beautiful voices singing the prayers and recitations, even though I understood little of the history and none of the Hebrew. This was a family coming together with the Divine according to their long history of faith and tradition, both of which I knew little about, a point which meant nothing to them or to me. We were here to accept and to love, to share and to celebrate, and to hand history and our good wishes to the next generation. I learned a little bit about a faith and a people that don’t celebrate the teachings of Jesus Christ, or include the Books of the New Testament in their devotions. While this thought may be foreign or even insulting to my Baptist friends, I came to share their joy, and as a result, to push my limits on the differences I can accept in others.

The party that evening pushed me once more. Never have I seen such lavishness or abundance. If you can imagine it, it was there, in spades, and topped only by the next eyeful. It was right out of the “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” I resolved to enjoy the opportunity and had an absolute blast with the kids and the crowd of 270 previously unknown-to-me guests. I’m a pretty simple guy who likes beans, greens and cornbread. My idea of a great time is a hike in the woods with a few friends and a few beers or some quality time in my gardens. Living large in the cities has its perks, but I wouldn’t trade my idyllic, though busy, mountain life for it.

I work to help people save energy, preserve nature, use fewer resources and lighten human impact on the planet and its inhabitants. I often push peoples’ limits on making changes in their lives and in their beliefs if it will advance my agenda of preservation and glorification of our natural heritage and the beautiful green planet we inhabit, the one we are borrowing from future generations. Every once in a while your own limits get pushed, a fact that seems to happen daily for us as Americans in these nervous times. I’ve found that if you love someone enough, you can accept them regardless of their lifestyle, religious beliefs, background, or what kind of truck they drive.

I spent a weekend with some people I love, and I don’t care where they’re from or what they wear or even how many heads the have. Sometimes love and simple acceptance can shatter the boundaries on even our most coveted personal limits.

(John Beckman is a building contractor and Operations Manager at Unahwi Ridge Community in Jackson County. He can be reached at www.unahwiridge.com)

 

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