Category: Letter

I first landed on the St. John’s campus almost sixty years ago as a prep school student. In six decades I have come to know the place and the Benedictines well, as a high school and college student, lay staff member, parent of several students, and board member of the university and some of its ancillary enterprises. I obviously love the place, which has influenced my life as much as anyone (excepting my mother). The article by Adam Minter [“Force of Habit,” cover story, June] was a classic, thoughtful, and accurate portrayal of the Benedictines and St. John’s. Thank you. I have never read a better story about St. John’s.
Tom McKeown
Mendota Heights

Readers would be well advised to remain skeptical before swallowing the water peddled by Dr. Masura Emoto [“Message in a Bottle,” the Rakish Angle, June]. Dr. Emoto has no scientific or medical credentials; his title refers to a degree from the Open International University in India, where such degrees may be obtained by mail for under $500. Chemists knows that water has unusual and unique properties that result from the tendency of its molecules to associate by hydrogen bonding, forming short-lived and ever-changing polymeric units that are sometimes described as “clusters.” The snowflake patterns are the result of crystallization of the water on some contaminant such as a speck of dust, and are highly dependent on the local conditions and rate of cooling. Yep, at the core of each of Dr. Emoto’s snowflakes is a speck of filth. The learned professor’s photographs of ice crystals are wonderful, but anyone who has seen the beautiful, intricate patterns of frost on a windowpane could attest to this. Dr. Emoto, however, makes the dubious claim that words, music, and prayer can somehow affect the crystallization of water, and that this modified water can somehow cure whatever ails you. He, of course, provides no proof for his claims, although they could be easily tested. These tests have not been done, because they would fail to support Dr. Emoto’s claims. So where is the harm? First, it separates people from their money. Like the snake oils and other nostrums that have been peddled to an unsuspecting public for centuries, much is promised, but nothing is delivered. More important, there are many who would take unproven or useless “cures” and forsake treatments whose efficacy has been proven. Before using any unproven or “alternative” treatment, I would advise readers to consult Dr. Steven Barrett’s guide at www.quackwatch.com. Information regarding specific water cures and other water-related pseudoscience can be found at http://www.chem1.com/CQ/.
Kent S. Kokko, Ph.D
Roseville

In “One Toke Over the Line” [Over the Coals, June] Nathan Rabin does a commendable job of dumpster-diving beneath the surface of our government’s cesspool of anti-pot propaganda. However, I think Rabin may have gone one toke over the line himself. He writes that once kids see through the government’s lies about pot, “who’s to say they won’t wonder if genuinely destructive drugs like cocaine and speed aren’t as dangerous as advertised either?” Maybe I’ve misread his intentions, but this makes me a little queasy because it seems to make use of one of the oldest scare tactics in the prohibitionist’s own arsenal: the gateway myth. Multiple studies have concluded with certainty that pot simply does not lead to the use of other drugs. Even if he wasn’t intentionally soft-pedaling the dreaded gateway myth, Rabin still used tenuous reasoning to reach the sort of open ended “what if…” conclusion that prohibitionists often deploy to present a worst-possible scenario as the typical case. Pot’s crusaders often appear to be against prohibition, but in their eagerness to defend marijuana, they end up restating arguments for prohibition on their own terms. Of course alcohol, cigarettes, cocaine, and speed are all more dangerous than marijuana—that’s why all these drugs need to share a level, legal playing field. Even tacit acknowledgement of drug-war hysteria surrounding other drugs gives a boost to the notion that we need this drug war, because society would collapse without it, what with all these crack babies, tweekers blowing themselves up in their “clandestine drug labs,” and pill-popping redneck Oxycontin freaks—or whatever drug panic is currently in vogue. When we contribute to the marginalization of other drugs and drug users, we take one step forward and two steps back on the way to our shared goal of humane, rational, and compassionate drug policies. While I may disagree on a few of the finer points of Rabin’s reasoning, I still thank him for an articulate article that takes a firm stand against the moralistic bastards in our government who wish us to wallow in paranoia and ignore the obvious.
Justin Teerlinck
St. Paul

I loved reading Emily Carter’s public transportation manifesto [“The Unreformed Bus Rider,” June]—it’s the kind of writing that grabs you, pulls you in, and, well, takes you for a ride. However, I disagree with some of the key points—ironically, points that those right-wing folks on the radio also made, that only the marginalized and poor use public transportation. As an artist and freelance writer who composts and bikes wherever possible, I am perhaps occupationally marginalized but lead an otherwise conventional bohemian middle-class life, a life that fits right into the profile of a twenty-to-forty-something, educated, politically progressive Twin Citizen. Depending on the route you take, plenty of green-loving, efficiency-appreciating, even-thicker-into-the-mainstream-than-me people are sitting in bus seats. In fact, when I have a project that requires me to show up in the same place at the same time, I see that those people are sitting in those seats on a daily basis. People above the poverty line do choose public transportation because it’s smarter environmentally, puts you into contact with folks with whom you’d otherwise never interact, and feels better than getting all cranky in your own metal bubble. What better contribution can you make to the life of the city than your bus fare? Like Ms. Carter said, it’s downright civic.
Shari Aronson
Minneapolis

Finally, someone who hates beige [“Being Beige and Nothingness,” Over the Coals, May] as much as I do! My entire family thought I was finally going insane, when I open The Rake and there’s an article on what a horrible color beige is. Are people now realizing that they don’t have to paint their houses beige? That it’s freakin’ ugly and annoying? If you’re thinking about painting anything beige, please, call me! I guarantee I will find a better, happier color then the so-called “neutrality” of beige. Your article will stay safe with me so I can pull it out and prove that I’m not the only one!
Sophie Vranian
Minnetonka

I have a seven-year-old daughter now, and though I consider myself one of the “cool” moms who won’t shelter her child from the Real World, my thinking has been challenged these days. Ah, the memories of our argument back in kindergarten over none of her shirts being short enough to merit the title of “belly.” Though we discussed the unlikelihood of hot pants being available in a size 6X, Gracie’s quite aware of the fake leather pants, glitter minis, and three-inch platforms taking over the children’s department. Somehow retailers gave up on “cute” and decided to sell clothes for little adults with a fabulous nightlife. Of course, with ten-year-olds having sex now, this all may seem appropriate to someone completely insane, but my reality has become damage control and attempting prevention. Perhaps we’ve become desensitized over the years and what used to shock us doesn’t faze us anymore, but these problems aren’t being wished away or dealt with. They need to be addressed. Children need grown-ups to believe in them more than ever—and we need to be grown-ups they can believe in. The heroes we had are long gone these days and, trust me, we still need Superman. Like I said, I used to be hip. It was important to me. But looking around at what the hip people have to offer my child, that’s the last thing I want to be. I’m into this new trend called hope.

Shawn Marie Christenson, Minneapolis

Personal Rapid Transit [“My Pod,” the Rakish Angle, April; Letters, May] has an essential role to play in the transit mix. In Europe today there are several PRT systems in development, including an EU-funded collaborative effort called MAIT. The EU is also exploring the feasibility of installing the Welsh system, Ultra, in four European cities. Minnesota is lucky to be home to Taxi 2000, an internationally recognized, leading PRT developer. We have the resources, the tools, and the know-how to build a world-class transit system that would be most people’s first mobility choice. Why not avail ourselves of these assets?

Amy Fink, St. Paul
Citizens for Personal Rapid Transit

In my humble opinion, your magazine has the best journalism I’ve seen locally. The piece on Matt Entenza [“Wrestling Matt,” May] was so helpful for those of us in despair about the state of the state, and Entenza’s goals, background, and motivation give us hope. We parents of special-needs kids are heartbroken that Minnesota, known for having one of the most progressive programs for persons with developmental disabilities in the country, is having its soul eroded by indifference. Your piece on Cy Thao [“A Picture is Worth 5,000 Years,” May] illuminated both the wrenching history of the Hmong, and one man’s commitment to change, and to art.

Elizabeth Burns,
St. Louis Park

“Our Word, Not Yours” [Free the Jackson Five, May] is an extremely well-written and eloquent discussion of a sensitive topic. I’m a white thirty-year-old man. I grew up in Apple Valley. The family I was raised in was made up of Jehovah’s Witnesses and issues of race were basically never issues. My childhood friends were white and black and Asian, the congregation I attended contained just about every major ethnic group, and we were all just Witnesses, united by our religion. I don’t remember anybody ever talking about race or ethnicity. Given this background, it was not surprising at all to me that my formerly all-white family has expanded (through marriage) to include one Lebanese, one Japanese and three African-American members. At the DNA level, we’re all just people and I’ve always been taught that. So it’s really disturbing for me when I encounter examples of racism. Some people think it’s naturally present in all people, but when I’ve witnessed it I have felt sick, like I was watching the most unnatural and vile thing I could imagine. About the N-word: I recognize that I would never even want to use it in the way my brother-in-law or black friends use it sometimes. It just seems that there is too much opportunity for it being taken wrong and no reason to do it. I see no double standard at all for a word to take on different meaning in different contexts or in different groups or cultures. I also see no reason why somebody outside that culture (even if closely attached to it) should attempt to change that situation. Any person who has respect and love for their fellow man needs to learn to appreciate the differences between cultures. It’s ludicrous that there are white people who get upset over the “double standard” of black people being able to use a word they themselves cannot use.

Ryan Sutter,
Apple Valley

I really enjoyed your column addressing the N-word. There are few words that can be used in an acceptable manner in one setting and unleash a firestorm in another. SNL had viewers bent over with Chevy Chase doing word association with Richard Pryor on a job interview (White? Black. Negro? Whitey. Colored? Redneck. Tarbaby? Peckerwood. Spearchucker? White trash. Junglebunny? Honkey. Nigger? DEAD honkey.) To the brothers, it rolls off the tongue with ease. Honkey and cracker don’t bother me, although I don’t hear too many black folks saying them anymore (and I’m quite sure no white folks use them either). Spic, wetback, slope, squaw, and chink all carry some kinetic energy. The point is, there is no other word so offensively charged that is embraced by the same culture who become enraged by it. I can’t see any valid use of the word from a Caucasian perspective or otherwise. The black community seems to want to hang onto it as some sort of trophy to be waved around in front of everyone: We can use it but you can’t. Fifteen years ago, my buddy and I went to a film at Galtier Cinema in St. Paul. There were about thirteen people in the theater, nine African Americans near the front rows, me and my friend in the middle, and two African Americans in the back row. As the movie was starting, the group up front was talking and joking aloud. After awhile I hollered up, “Hey, could you keep it down, it’s hard to hear the movie.” Then, a voice from the back piped in, “Yeah, shut up niggers!” Well, my buddy and I turned a paler shade of white as five angry guys came crawling over the tops of the theater seats on a beeline straight for us. I raised my hands in the air and said with a shriek, “Look, man, we didn’t say it!” Just then, the voice from the back started laughing at his friends who he had just stirred up. They realized they’d been had and everyone was howling. Well, almost everyone. Put it this way: I don’t remember the movie, but I got my six dollars’ worth of adrenaline that day.

Peter Christensen,
Minneapolis