My daughter, who was two at the time, my mom and I were in the room when he died. We knew this moment was upon us because the room suddenly was quiet — his labored breathing had stopped.  Holding his hand, and checking for his pulse, I felt those last seconds.  Then there was stillness, and for the first time in perhaps years, dad relaxed.

Dad wanted to be cremated and had no desire for big funeral.  So we gave him that as well, and in the spring when the New Hampshire weather was more cooperative, we held a simple graveside ceremony.  Later that summer, my brother and I trekked to a favorite fishing hole of dad’s and scattered some of his ashes.  Mom and my sister mixed some of the ashes into the tennis court where dad spent so much of his time.  Another little bit was deposited at his parents’ grave and the rest buried at another family plot.

I don’t know what happens to a person after death.  My mom gains much comfort from her belief that they will be reunited.  I assume she’s aiming for heaven. My daughter has a more immediate connection to dad.  She believes that “we hold papa in our hearts.”   I like that, though it doesn’t quite capture my continued relationship with dad.  For me, dad is sitting on my shoulder — coaching, guiding, admonishing, questioning.  He is doing what he always did, trying to get me to get on and then stay on a path through which I can reach my full potential.

Upon learning that he had died, a long time friend wrote this observation — “he was a formidable presence in your life.”  She was right.  There was probably no other single person who had such an impact.  This is not to say we had an easy relationship.  We both were stubborn, had tempers and did not suffer fools gladly. He demanded a lot and expected that whatever you did, you would do it well.  I know he was  perplexed with some choices I made – most noticeably in the partner category (frankly, and in hindsight, so am I).

Yet through it all, I never doubted that he was “in my corner.”  Dad was not given to displays of emotion or heaps of praise, yet I nonetheless understood that he was proud of my accomplishments.  And when he did signal that you’d done a good job, it was pure gold.  Perhaps most significant – dad never said that I couldn’t do something or accomplish something because I am female.  To have a constant grounding message that I could aspire to anything, accomplish anything (as long as I worked for it) was an amazing gift.

There may come a time when I don’t think about him, or have conversations with him, but I can’t imagine when.  I miss him intensely, especially now that I am parenting.  He did get to spend some time with my daughter, but had he lived longer, she would have gained so much from him.  Instead, I try to conjure up his insights and words of wisdom, try to channel some of his energy and focus, and wish that I could get a kid to behave with just a glare (a special talent of his).  In the darkness of night, I ask him for ideas or solutions.  Sometimes I vent my frustrations.  I share my desire that he be with me to help me guide this remarkable daughter of mine.  And then I listen.

And so, dad has been gone for two years.  But not entirely.  He still is a powerful influence on me.  He remains a strong presence.  He’ll always be “dad.”  My goodbye to him will never be final.

These publications are exquisite.  Pictures of beautifully ripened fruits and vegetables.  Amazing flowers.  Enticing text.  It’s easy to become addicted to the idea that one (that is me) could become a master gardener.

I could literally blow thousands of dollars feeding this addiction.  The absurdity is that I have a garden the size of a postage stamp.  And while I can coax out of it decent lettuce and pea crops, the green beans, tomatoes, eggplant and peppers often fall victim to the hot, humid summers of Philly.  What begins as a grand experiment in container gardening, vertical gardening, small spaced gardening often ends with bolting vines and bug chewed produce.  And then there are the over-eager attempts with new veggies — cabbage one year and brussel sprouts another took over the garden.

My two smallish flower gardens suffer similar fates.  And frankly, if it weren’t for hostas, I’d probably have little to show for all the effort that goes into these gardens in the spring.  I’m never sure what’s coming up and whether its good or bad.  The soil in most places is hard, poor and root-bound (thanks to a water sucking pine tree).  There’s too much shade.  And the neighborhood kids love to run through, not around, many of the plants.  Still, I will try to cram as much flowering things as possible and hope for the best.

And I do this every year.  Because every year I think maybe I’ll figure it out.  I’ll beat the slugs.  I’ll have a better watering schedule.  I’ll keep the cats from using freshly tilled soil as a giant litter box.

This fantasy starts with the January arrival of the garden catalogs.  Page after page of luscious promise.  And in the dead of winter, when the ice and snow is on the ground, one forgets the frustration of gardening and tries to imagine that moment in time when the produce gets picked and nothing could possibly taste better.  Quite the act of seduction.

There is one word that stands out for me as capturing the essence of 2011 and offering a guideline for 2012, and that word is occupy.  Most of us probably now associate this word with the Occupy Wall Street (and beyond) movement that burst into our collective consciousness over the past few months.  This movement has been subjected to a number of criticisms (no leadership, unclear message, drumming circles, etc.), most were undeserved and usually way off the mark.  It is worth taking a moment to reflect on what this movement has brought to and demands of us:

• Socio-economic issues are THE issues.  The heart of most problems in this country have to do with class.  Pure and simple.  This movement drove home the basic point, and in the process raised for discussion, that the U.S. is a grossly unequal society (come on — 50% of all Americans at or near poverty).  And is usually in abject denial about this.
• Citizenship is not a spectator sport.  To be a good citizen mean assuming the responsibility of acting — whether is through self-education, calling officials, leafletting and canvassing or protesting in public.
• The elite and their allies have no shame.  The manipulation of people’s fears so that they would work against their own interests was amazing.  The abuse of the media was astounding.  The attack on public school teachers and other workers was disgusting.  The mocking.  The denials.  The pepper spray.   All appalling.  These shameful attitudes and actions need to be called out.  Silence is their friend.
• Community matters.  I was amazed at the mini-villages that sprung up in the Occupy camps.  People wanted social connection and established all sorts of creative ways to make that happen.  Critical within these networks was communication.  People talked, debated, tweeted, and dialogued.

We need to carry these movement gifts forward.  We need to embrace the double meaning of “occupy” –  to take possession or control of and to engage the attention or energies of others (thanks Merriam-Webster).  To honor the incredible work of the Occupy activists (who often placed themselves at all sorts of risks), we need to make the commitment to occupy our legislatures, communities, houses of worship, schools, workplaces, playgrounds, neighborhoods, and civic organizations.  We need to occupy our families.  We need to occupy our own lives.

No, you can’t do it all.  And don’t even try.  But, we can all do something, and probably more than we are already doing.  The responsibility for keeping the Occupy movement alive rests on all our shoulders.  Democracy can not be sustained when the citizenry is uneducated, uncommitted and unequal.  And ultimately, that’s what I saw as the core message of the movement — “fight for our democracy before it is sold and dissembled.”  So let’s occupy democracy.  Let’s take control of it.  Let’s engage the energies of ourselves and others in it’s preservation.  The alternative is simply too frightening to contemplate.

OCCUPY.  And that’s the word of the year.

I realize that Thanksgiving is considered one of those truly American, family-centered holidays.  This is, no doubt due to the Pilgrim story with a dash of Norman Rockwell.  And perhaps for some, it still fulfills that purpose.  But for me — well, I can’t stand this holiday or at least what this holiday now seems to stand for.  Here’s why.

First, I’d like to be able to say that my antipathy for Thanksgiving is because of a carefully reasoned political analysis of what whites have done to Native Americans — that the tale of the first Thanksgiving is just a myth to make many of us feel better or just ignore the betrayal and exploitation of indigenous people.  But I’d be lying to claim that as the reason for my intense dislike of the day (though I do agree with this perspective and suggest this site as a place to start: http://www.uaine.org/).

In no particular order – here’s why this holiday bugs the sh*t out of me:

• The food is, for the most part, bland and beige.  Has anyone really had a turkey that actually tastes yummy?  The lengths that folks go to make that impossible goal happen are absurd — brining, seasoning, smoking, basting, etc., and if you still screw up you can call a 24 hour help hotline.  Really — this is a good use of resources?  The only color comes either from that nasty green bean dish with fake onions or cranberries in a can (though I’ll admit, I love the sound of that jellied cylinder coming out of the can).
• A second food point — I’m amazed at the number of food disasters I have witnessed as folks attempt to get a complete meal on the table.  These include a thoroughly burnt turkey (totally black), a boiled in a bag turkey (a soggy mess — though moist), and a turkey that was put in the oven frozen (let’s call that the salmonella bird).  Dishes are never ready all at the same time, so some get set aside and served luke warm to cold (when they should be hot), or you eat in shifts (sure, I’ll start with some brussel sprouts and wait 2 hours for the dinner rolls).  And then, some guest has to bring his or her favorite side dish, which requires an elaborate preparation your kitchen, and doesn’t fit into the overall menu (and tastes like cardboard).
• Yet the food debacles notwithstanding, this holiday seems to stand for gluttony.  Pants and belts undone, people groaning on the couch.  Am I the only one who finds this repulsive?  Do people really need to sample all the pies by creating one big pie with 8 different slices on a dinner plate?
• And the gendered roles come into full display.  Men disappear into the TV room to watch football games and eat pre-dinner noshes.  And as an aside – the football games feature either the Cowboys (which I hate) and/or the Lions (which til this year just sucked).  But no matter, the guys are in their cave getting their feedbags on.  On the other hand, the women are in the kitchen and dining rooms trying to make a ridiculous meal come to life.  There’s tables to set, chafing dishes to dig out of the attic, potatoes to mash into oblivion.  Once the meal is finally on the table, the head male gets to carve the turkey (and often acts as if he personally shot, cleaned and cooked it).  Once the food has been annihilated, clean up beings.  And guess who gets to do that?  Guess who heads back to the cave until the multi-flavor pie plates get created?  This makes me crazy (and I don’t want to hear about those men who are modern enough to help in the kitchen — this is my rant).
• The stress is often off the charts.  Food prep stress.  People getting along stress.  Travel stress.  ”This needs to be perfect” uber-stress.  Is it worth it to drive oneself so crazy?
• I also have some bad personal associations with Thanksgiving.  My marriage imploded over Thanksgiving.  The last time I saw my maternal grandfather was over Thanksgiving.  Some of the worst fights I had with my dad was over Thanksgiving.  Why didn’t Arbor Day get wrecked instead?
• Crass commercialism has completely taken over.  Supposedly, this is the start of the Christmas shopping season, though in actuality, that started around Labor Day.  I hate this — I really really hate this.  I hate all the ads.  I hate the crazy Friday when everyone has to go to the malls.  I hate that we can’t slow down and just focus on one holiday at a time.  If I could change one thing, this would be it.  Absolutely no Christmas anything until after Thanksgiving.

Now, in case anyone is worried, I have had some good Thanksgivings, and wouldn’t necessarily turn down an invitation in the future (though these probably won’t be forthcoming any time soon).  But for the most part, it is just too stressful, awkward and unfulfilling.  Yes, I know that there are many folks who love the holiday and all it means (and good for them).  But I’m not one of them.

What I’ve realized over the years, is that it is essential that I stay in touch with what works, and what doesn’t, for me.  For the most part, Thanksgiving doesn’t work.  Being grateful for all that I have is important and I try to do that, at least in some small way, each day.

It is also why the “holiday” that I truly celebrate (complete with family, friends, and lots of food) is “Gotcha Day.”  On March 14th, I mark the day that the adoption of my daughter became official.  It is the day we honor becoming a family, and I have never been more thankful for anything or anyone in my life.

MLK Memorial in Washington DC

Last week while in Washington, DC, I had the opportunity — really the privilege — of going to the newly opened Martin Luther King, Jr. monument.  I know there was some controversy about it, though I can’t remember what.  And after spending time there, on a spectacularly beautiful day, I can’t imagine what the concerns would be.

The photo doesn’t do this incredible work of art justice.  King stands in the foreground of an area that is rimmed by waterfalls and granite walls engraved with some of his inspiring words.  Behind King is the “mountain,” out of which he emerged.  King holds a scroll — representing the power of the written word.  He is looking out over the Tidal Basin. A powerful tribute to all he stood for.

Jefferson Memorial (image from Google)

Across the Tidal Basin is another favorite site — the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.  More classical in style, there is a quietness to this monument.  Jefferson also holds a scroll — fitting for the primary author of the Declaration of Independence.  I like that this memorial is not part of the Mall, but rather off to the side.  It seems to reinforce the idea that Jefferson, while central to the birth of this nation, might have preferred being elsewhere.  Away from the chaos of revolution; at his home tending his garden.

These two inspirational, yet flawed, men face each other across the water.  As if contemplating a conversation.  What would they choose to talk about?  I would imagine King would ask Jefferson how he could be an advocate for liberty while owning slaves.  Perhaps Jefferson would question King as to the wisdom of having religion holding so central a place in the pursuit of justice.  I would think both would express dismay with the current state of our country — the gross inequalities, the shredding of the constitution, the dominance of party politics or corporate greed over thoughtful debate that leads to needed solutions.  I am guessing that both would be heartened by the Occupy movement (I know I am).

Imagine this monumental conversation, that might include statements such as these:

• “All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.” Thomas Jefferson
• “An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.”  Martin Luther King, Jr.

What would we add, what should we add, to this discussion?

What was going through the minds of the actors on both sides?  At what point did Gaddifi’s delusional bubble burst?  Or did it?  Maybe he somehow thought that his world, his vision, his self would be salvaged.  After all, the extraordinary warped views of those in power has been observed before.  At what point did those who participated in his capture turn into, as some have said, a “lynch mob?”  Was their intent ever to take him alive and bring him to justice, or was that more the hope of observers than any real desire by those on the ground.

Much was said and written, in the days that followed, about Gaddifi’s apparent execution. There have been calls for investigations.   Commentators, such as Christopher Hitchins, claimed they understood how the need for revenge trumped a more measured response of capture and take to trial.  But, they admonished, that the new Libya had gotten off to a bad start.  A Gaddifi on trial before the world would have served them better than a Gaddifi dead on display in a meat locker.  The bloodlust of the mob sabotaged the democratic potential of the new Libya.

Noble sentiments – but not entirely realistic.  I doubt any of these commentators truly understood the depths of horror that the Gaddifi regime inflicted on the people of Libya.  I can’t imagine it.  And I certainly can’t imagine what must have gone through their minds when the personification of evil stood before them, imploring them as “brothers.”  It isn’t a stretch to see how this would have sent anyone over the edge.

And over the edge they went.  Once that started, it would have taken an extraordinary effort to pull back.  Watching the videos it takes no imagination to guess the outcome, even if you didn’t know.

Which brings me to the real questions that all this has raised, at least for me. How does a tormented society move on?  What does justice look like, and does evil forfeit any right to the more civilized trappings of trial, sentencing and probably (at least in this case) execution?  Can reconciliation happen when the wounds run so very deep?  Or, is it better to purge one’s enemies and then move forward? Does collective bloodlust bind the oppressed together when directed against the enemy?  Or does it cost them on the world stage?  And why do we expect that those who have fought and died for their liberation, when looking into the eyes of the man responsible for their misery, would not seek immediate retribution?

I don’t know.

Have’s versus have not’s.  Oppressor versus oppressed.  Tyrant versus brutalized.  When those who have gone without for so long finally gain some control over their destiny, do the rest of us raise the bar of expectations higher than it ever had been for those deposed?  A twisted societal version of “do as I say, not as I do.” Somehow, it seems unfair (and that might not be the right word), to expect humane restraint at times like this.

Is bloodlust wrong?  Is it a form of justice?  Does it prevent future healing and  reconciliation?

I don’t know.

I must hear these statements, or variations, at least once a week.  And the answers are – “one step at a time,” “yup,” “you’d be surprised what you can do,” and “pretty much all the time.”

The topic – being a single mother.  And the queries and comments usually come from parents, mostly moms, who are part of a couple.  They understand the stream of demands, the late nights, the meltdowns, and the need to be almost constantly vigilant.  And, they appreciate the victories, the milestones, the moments that make everything else worthwhile.  But they have difficulty imagining what it would be like to do this alone.

Disclaimer #1: I’m not doing this alone.  I have the ability (really, a privilege) to send my daughter to a terrific pre-school, where she is loved and nurtured and kept safe. This takes a huge weight off of me.  I can focus my work days on work (well, usually, but that’s my choice).  And, as I’ve blogged about previously, I live in a wonderful neighborhood in which there are bunches of kids and involved parents.  My daughter has playmates and I can get some back-up.

Disclaimer #2: There are moments, especially in the middle of the night or during one of my daughter’s colossal fits, when I do think I’m am totally in over my head. That this is an impossible undertaking.  Much to my surprise, though, this thought happens less frequently than I had anticipated.  I also know that these moments will pass.  Being able to decompress after the fact helps.  A lot.

Disclaimer #3: I live in Philadelphia, which has an amazing range of child-oriented activities.  A fantastic zoo, children’s museum, art museum, arboretum, science museum, and park system mean that my daughter and I can do any number of activities.  Having these options makes a huge difference.

But probably the biggest factor in my ability to embrace and survive being a single mother is that I’m comfortable being single.  A few flings aside, I was seriously single for 10 years before adopting my daughter.  During that time, I learned a lot about myself and cultivated skills and perspectives that greatly aid me in my current role.  I like the self-reliance that I’ve had to acquire, and I appreciate those times when I know I need help (and am not afraid to ask for it).  I like the challenge of needing to plan or think things through, and I appreciate the feedback and ideas that I get from others when I need it.  I like that I answer to me, and now my daughter, and no longer worry about whatever judgments might come my way from a partner.

I did not originally plan to be single, and wouldn’t rule out couple-dom if it dropped from the sky.  But having gone done this path, I am increasingly comfortable in not having the need to be in a couple. I have found a psychological or emotional freedom in this single state. I don’t need to negotiate my life with another adult.  I don’t need to have expectations of another adult’s behavior; expectations that often get dashed.  I don’t have this sense that I always need to explain myself.  I just am.  And this is what really frees me up to be a mother.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have a lot of admiration for those couples who can make it work.  Can let each other be themselves and support that unconditionally.  Yet I can’t help notice how many friends of mine, mostly women and mostly mothers, who seem to be in a constant tug of war around who is responsible for what and how much of their labor goes unnoticed or undervalued.  Even in those couples that have very engaged fathers, there is still a disconnect.  The day to day tasks of mothering, and the almost constant monitoring and planning, takes a toll.  Having to remind your partner to help, to act, to acknowledge takes a toll.  Working through differing parenting styles and expectations, takes a toll.  Meeting the needs of your partner, as well as your children, takes a toll.  Yes I know that there are all sorts of benefits, or at least I assume there are.  But still ….

So to those who negotiate the terrain of being a partner and a parent, I ask these questions: ”How do you do it?” “You must be exhausted!” “I could never manage.” “Don’t you just go crazy, sometimes?”

I love my little neighborhood block.  About 50 families live in little row houses on a tree lined street.  There’s a nice age, gender, race, class and sexual orientation mix.  Families come in a variety of forms from empty nesters, to single moms with kid(s), couples, grandparents raising grandchildren, lone adults, and the traditional nuclear unit.  A cohort of young ones, all within a few years of each other, make for a lot of playtime activities.  And where the children go, the adults usually follow — trailing behind bikes, scooters and other tot vehicles.  One aspect of all this that I truly appreciate is the number of fathers who are involved with not just their children, but others’ children as well.  For my daughter, these guys are her “kind of dads.”

Teachers, nurses, grad students, stay-at-home moms, academics, human service workers, architects, ministers and writers dwell on this block. In our “off-hours,” we garden, cook, knit, help with fix-it projects, and babysit.  We are our own mutual aid society.  Indeed, neighbors rally to help when another is ill, or has lost a parent, or just needs a break from life’s craziness.  Comforting casseroles move up and down the street.

While solidly middle class in many ways, most of us feel the pinch of the current economy.  We are stretched to make ends meet.  Not an extravagant group, the biggest luxury is the occasional night out.  Many drive old or used cars and shop at thrift stores.  Several have become consummate trash-pickers. For the most part we are content to live relatively scaled back lives, appreciating what we have and doing what we can to nurture that.

I could not have asked for a better group of people to live with. We watch out for one another, argue with one another, support one another and cheer for one another.  We worry about what schools to send our children, the spike in crime in the area, the closing of local businesses.  There are so many threats, large and small, to these ties that bind us together.  There’s a fragility to this thing called community.

But on Sunday, worries will be set aside as we celebrate the strength of our collective good fortune.

I am a lapsed Jew, mostly the result of my ever increasing and significantly conflicted relationships with religion, worship, and God (particularly his/her existence). Nonetheless, I still maintain some favorite rituals primarily because they have personal resonance; they ground me and connect me to a life’s practice that I strive to enact.

One such ritual that occurs during Rosh Hashanah is “tashlich,” which entails the casting away of one’s mistakes.  The ritual is done by a pool of water.  Prayers are recited and individuals symbolically throw their sins into the water.  When I used to do this with a congregation, we would leave synagogue and collectively go to a river or pond.  The rabbi would say a few words about atonement, we would all say the prayers and then, using chunks of bread that we had brought, toss our transgressions away.

Now there is a certain absurdity to all of this.  Here is a group of adults, dressed in their synagogue best, standing by a body of water (often a bit muddy), throwing bread.  One of the first things you notice is that some people bring a lot of bread.  I mean, really big loaves.  They carefully tear it up and eventually toss it all.  There are some who whisper their sins to their bread pieces before relieving themselves of their mistakes.  There is often discussion on the quality of the bread.  Should it be challah?  Really good bread?  Just the heals?  And finally, ducks, geese and fish usually rush in, which seems to suggest that the sins of humans are consumed by nature.

Still, there is a comfort in this ritual that I love.  How wonderful to think that we can purge ourselves of our sins and mistakes.  If we authentically reflect on the why’s, how’s and what’s of our transgressions, we have given ourselves the chance for growth and change. We allow ourselves to peer within and acknowledge that we’re imperfectly human, and perhaps more importantly, we will take responsibility for the consequences of these imperfections. We give ourselves the gifts of humility and renewal.

And so, tomorrow, as part of a solo retreat that I do every year to mark the new year, I will head to a body of water and cast my sins away.  I will use this time to contemplate  who I have been and who I want to be.  I will embrace this time of joyful vision and somber reflection.

L’Shana Tovah.

Troy Davis, an African American male, was convicted for the shooting death of a white off-duty police officer, Mark MacPhail.  The jury’s decision was based primarily on witness accounts.  Mr. Davis has always proclaimed his innocence.  There was no physical evidence linking him to the crime.  And since then, most of the witnesses have recanted their testimony, many claiming that they had been coerced into making their damning statements.  Many saw these developments as sufficient to raise reasonable doubts.  And as the date of execution neared, ever-growing local, national and international protests condemned taking the life of an innocent man.  Once the Supreme Court refused to issue a stay, and the execution was carried out, reaction to the state’s action was wide and swift.  In the end, it seemed only Mr. MacPhail’s family and the court believed that the right action had been done.  The strong public outcry focused on a gross miscarriage of justice.

In sharp contrast, there were no last minute legal maneuvering, mass protests, Facebook postings or bloggings regarding the death of Mr. Brewer.  He was convicted in the dragging death of James Byrd, a crime so horrific that it stunned this country.  Mr. Byrd, an older black man, had been gruesomely butchered by three white men with supremacist leanings (of the other two, one is on death row and the other serving a life sentence).  Mr. Brewer made no final statement of innocence, indeed in an earlier interview he indicated that he just “wanted this over with.”  And while he, at one time, tried to distance himself from coming up with the crime, he never denied participating.  DNA evidence, in the form of Mr. Byrd’s blood, as well as eye witness accounts of placing Mr. Byrd with the three men, sealed the case.  Aside from the most adamant death penalty opponents, there was little protest.  Mr. Byrd’s family felt that this was a first step toward justice.

Do the different public reactions to these executions suggest that we can carry out the death penalty when there is no apparent doubt?  Was Mr. Brewer’s crime so brutal and his beliefs so loathsome, that they give folks cover for the death penalty in some circumstances?  Does the fact that he seemed to give into his fate matter?

I honestly don’t know the answer to these, and probably other questions.  I do believe that the Troy Davis execution should have been stopped given the recanting of testimonies and the lack of physical evidence.  This does not necessarily mean that I think Mr. Davis is innocent.  I genuinely don’t know.  And it certainly doesn’t mean that I think he’s a model citizen.  But, for me, the doubts raised counter the irreversible death penalty.  I am deeply troubled by his death and am left to wonder how people passively or actively participate in that process without being haunted.

Yet I can not muster up anything close to condemnation for the execution of Mr. Brewer.  I would like to be able to say that in principle I oppose the death penalty.  Period.  But for some reason, I can’t, even though I don’t think it brings about closure or justice.  I seem to want some wiggle room here (and I’m not proud of this) for crimes that are so beyond the pale that a “life for a life” seems to be the only way to go.  Was this such a crime?  Maybe. Probably.  Is that the threshold for execution?

Is the execution of one innocent person, be he Troy Davis or someone else, sufficient to halt the process entirely?  Who gets to make that call?  How do we know when justice is served?