Just a Wee Blether…

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About My First US Gun Scare

A couple of weeks after I arrived in the States I spotted a news headline that read ‘Kansas Bans Cruises for the Poor”. It sounded like a quirky story. For a start cruise ships don’t sail out of land-locked Kansas and a cruise is way out of the reach of the average impoverished American. So I read on.

It turns out it was a catchy headline to a story about the State of Kansas cracking down on how welfare recipients could spend the money they received. A long list of spending possibilities was now off limits to them including a night at the movies, public swimming pools, lottery tickets, expensive restaurants, tattoo parlours, lingerie shops and concert tickets.

But the most shockingly ridiculous revelation was buried far down the story. It was of course perfectly acceptable for these people to buy essential items. And among the items state politicians deemed essential for day-to-day life in Kansas were GUNS AND AMMUNITION – yes, you read that right.

This was justified on the grounds that weapons were needed “to protect a family in a ‘dangerous neighborhood’ or to hunt for food”.

So welfare claimants in Kansas can’t see the new Star Wars film, but they can buy a Glock or a Beretta in their neighbourhood gun store. It is as crazy as it sounds but it is, sadly, symptomatic of America’s obsessive love affair with guns.

And the reason I am writing about this? Well this week, for those of us living in Phoenix, that obsession came dangerously close to home – way too close for comfort.

It started last weekend when several pot shots were taken at cars on the various highways and freeways that criss-cross the city. No-one was injured but bullets had struck car doors. These were real bullets, not air pellets or ball bearings. If they had hit a driver or passenger, they could easily have been killed.

After that it happened every day – 11 shots in all. Different roads were targeted by “the shooter”, the story led the news all week, police issued warnings to drivers not to use their cars unless necessary. But of course a car is necessary here.

People were, not surprisingly, terrified. It was the talk of every household, workplace, coffee shop and radio station. The closest call came when a bullet hit the windshield trim on the door of a small truck, only a foot or so from the driver’s head. That picture was published and only served to increase the panic.

Eventually on Friday a 19-year old was taken into police custody. On Saturday two more “copycat” suspects. Since then the shootings have stopped and people are beginning to breathe more easily.

Over the years I have had conversations with Americans about the gun infatuation and why it persists. I haven’t yet got a proper answer. Some cite their Constitutional right to “bear arms”; others say it is for protection.

Every single day in life, there are fatal shootings in America. Some, like the Sandy Hook school killings and the TV journalists shot while broadcasting, make worldwide headlines. There are hundreds of others, domestic incidents for example, that warrant just a few paragraphs in newspapers.

Of course many hundreds of thousands of people own guns and behave responsibly. But guns are as readily available as sweeties in the US. Whenever there is an atrocity, nothing is ever done to curb that availability. If relatives of the victims call for gun restrictions, they become the “enemy”, such is the power of the gun lobby.

To be honest I find it a strange and alien culture, I don’t pretend to know the answer and I’m not in a position to make judgments. All I can say is that people are shot to death here every day. Surely that death toll can be minimized.

It is the first time I’ve felt threatened by America’s love of guns. Yes, this is a huge city but the knowledge that someone could be across the road ready to fire at my car is not a comfortable feeling. For now the panic has subsided but I daresay it will rear its ugly head again.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About What Happened to the Railroad

When I am next back in Scotland I’ll be making a point of taking a trip on the newly-opened Waverley Line connecting Edinburgh with the Borders – and let’s hope more similar projects, even on a smaller scale, are completed in the years to come.

I was only a primary school pupil when the Beeching Axe fell but I have always thought it was one of the stupidest Government decisions of my lifetime. And let’s face it there have been many stupid decisions to choose from.

Travelling by train is one of the joys of living in Scotland. A rail journey from the Central Belt to Oban, Fort William or Inverness passes through some incredible scenery. So do the “inter-Highland” lines that service Mallaig, Kyle of Lochalsh and Thurso. The east coast services to Aberdeen that traverse Speyside and hug the North Sea coast offer equally stunning views.

You can sit in relative comfort, lap up the scenery, have a beer or a glass of wine, read the paper, do the crossword – it removes the hassles of driving. Commuting might be a bit more stressful but there is no shortage of services, especially between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

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In the Greater Glasgow area, with a population of 1.1million, there are in the region of 95 railway stations. A quick calculation shows that, on any given weekday, a total of 458 trains travel between the two cities.

Why am I telling you this? Well, let’s compare and contrast what I’ve left behind in Scotland with what I’ve come to in Arizona.

Phoenix is the state capital of Arizona and is now the sixth most populous city in the United States. It is home to 1.5million people.  But Phoenix is only one city in a massive metro area that contains a handful of other heavily populated places such as Mesa, Tempe, Scottsdale, Chandler, Gilbert, Peoria, Glendale and Surprise.

They are all cities in their own right and all house more than 100,000 residents. Mesa on its own is the 38th largest city in the US. The total population of the metro area is more than 4.4million. It’s a huge centre of population and getting bigger by the day.

This is where the comparison between Glasgow and Phoenix gets silly. To cater for this great area and all these people, the grand total of ZERO train services are provided – none.  Not a single train is ever seen. There is one railway station – Union Station – but it is no longer in use and is on the National Register of Historic Places.

The city of Tucson is a 90-minute drive from Phoenix to the south. It’s slightly longer than the journey between Glasgow and Edinburgh. But instead of 458 trains a day there are none. All commuters have to drive.

Buses are available and there is a limited light rail service– effectively a jumped-up tramcar – in Phoenix. Beyond that everybody travels by car. The reality of living here is that a married couple needs two cars; a family made up of mother, father and two teenage children will often have four cars.

I find the situation insane to say the least. There is so much wide open space in America that laying tracks would not be a difficulty. Some are in existence already, used exclusively by freight trains.

America, of course, is the nation where many millions of dollars went into the building of the railroads to help open up westward expansion back in pioneer days. Every town and village had its own station. If Jesse James and his gang were alive today they would have nothing to rob.

I have to be biased and say I far prefer the lochs and glens of Scotland to the scenery here. But parts of Arizona are stunningly beautiful. It would be wonderful to sit in a train carriage and drink it all in.

 

 

 

 

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About being Scottish, NOT Irish

Moving to the US may have taken a while but it is working out well. Life in Arizona since I relocated here from Scotland in March has been as good as I had been expecting.
The food is great; the weather is phenomenal compared with what I left behind – despite the dire warnings of the extreme desert summer heat. And the people have been exceptionally friendly and welcoming.
But I do have one complaint. It is small, but it is something that crops up with annoying regularity.
I am a born and bred, kilt-wearing, whisky drinking Scotsman with a thick west of Scotland brogue. So why does everyone I meet in America think I am Irish?

Let me give you a couple of examples. I recently attended a neighborhood garage sale. The stalls were being “staffed” by a man who I took to be in his 70s and a middle-aged woman, who may have been his daughter. They heard my accent and asked where I came from. When I replied Scotland, the old fellow leaned back and, in a fake Irish accent, said, “So you’ve got a touch of the Oirish in you then.”
A few days later another gentleman, on learning of my Scottishness, asked if I had ever seen the film The Quiet Man. “You would love it,” he said. “John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara…and set in Ireland. It would remind you of home.”
But it wouldn’t remind me of home. It might remind me of holidays in Ireland. Scotland is the country that means home to me.
Let me be clear that none of this offends me. I love the Irish; I have had some great times with Irish people, in Irish pubs, singing ribald Irish songs. And of course Scotland and Ireland have much in common in terms of shared history and culture.
I also have an Irish grandfather from Downpatrick who came to work as a gardener in Scotland and married my Highland grandmother. But the fact remains I am Scottish through and through. Imagine if I was introduced to someone from Michigan or Montana or Illinois and referred to them as “US-Canadians” or some such term?
The phrase Scotch-Irish or Scots-Irish is used exclusively in the United States – nowhere else in the world. It came into currency several hundred years ago as a rather ham-fisted way of describing people who emigrated from Ireland to America – some of whom had Scottish ancestry.
To make it worse, many of the so-called Scotch-Irish had no connection to Scotland. Some had emigrated via Ireland from Germany, France or England but were still saddled with the Scotch-Irish label. It was as confusing and wrong then as it is now.
It may have been an easy way of categorizing immigrants in the 1700s but the term has, in my opinion, long since outlived its usefulness and relevance. It should be consigned to the dustbin of history.

Scotland and Ireland are separated by a stretch of water, they are two separate countries (albeit within an increasingly disunited United Kingdom) and they have clear, separate identities.
So far I’ve been called English, Australian, even South African…but the vast majority of people I meet here think I’m Irish. Only one person got it right, and he was a barman from – you’ve guessed it – Ireland.
So to my new American acquaintances. I really don’t mind if, next time you meet me, you call me Paddy or sing ‘Danny Boy’ for me. But I hope you won’t take it personally if I ask you to call me Jock instead. I’ll even teach you the words to ‘Flower of Scotland’.