KEVIN P. MILLER

AN INSPIRATION—ON ANY DAY

2012-01-15T11:07:00.002-05:00

“Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men.” — Martin Luther King, Jr.

TO THOSE OF YOU WHO KNOW MY WORK, it’s common knowledge that I admire Martin Luther King, Jr. immensely. He was front-and-center in my documentary on race relations called THE WAR WITHIN and was the driving force behind my comparative analysis of the Civil Rights movement and the Health Freedom movement in my 1993 film LET TRUTH BE THE BIAS, which was narrated by James Earl Jones. In 2005 he was featured again in my documentary WE BECOME SILENT, a film about "Free Trade," multinational corporations, and something called "Codex Alimentarius." That film, produced in mere months, was narrated by the internationally revered actress, Dame Judi Dench.

As it happens so often with artists, the title for WE BECOME SILENT came as an inspiration in the middle of the night. It was 3:00 a.m., I believe, and I was in the midst of 17-20 hour days. I was determined to produce an honest film about the dangers of Codex and the deleterious effects of “free trade.” As I began to doze deeper into my well-earned slumber, I heard Dr. King’s voice say, “Our lives begin to end the moment we become silent about things that matter.”

Spaced out and disoriented, I sat straight up in bed. The words I heard the strongest were "we become silent," and a few hours later, well, after at least one cup of coffee, I discerned that these three words would make a great title for the film. After all, they had been whispered to me in the middle of the night by the most powerful speaker in American history, and "we become silent" seamlessly correlated to the scheming of governments, big business, bureaucrats and other dirty dealers who incessantly try to assert their will over the rest of us. Their collective goal, of course, is to eliminate medical freedom of choice and to keep the status quo in tact. Then — as now — they want us to simply shut up.

With the FDA ‘walking point,’ they have tried mightily to achieve their monopolistic goals through regulations, by banning health books from health food stores, through ridiculous undercover sting operations, the falsification of scientific research, and worst of all, through guns-draw raids at holistic clinics and even health food stores.

This is not America.

So once again — in the middle of the night — Dr. King played a pivotal role in my professional and personal life. His moral clarity helped align my values and put the struggle for medical freedom of choice into perspective. Oh, and by the way, since people love the title WE BECOME SILENT, it is only fitting to give credit where credit is due.

I am reminded of something that occurred during a screening of LET TRUTH BE THE BIAS in 1994. There’s a scene in the documentary where hordes of armed policemen—with batons at the ready and with the strength of a football team pushing a blocking ‘sled’ — thrust dozens of African Americans backwards. Elderly men, women and children are forced to the ground—and are trampled in the ensuing melee. While this scene was playing out, I heard someone comment rather loudly, “Hey, this guy must be a liberal” — as if showing the struggle for basic human rights was somehow a liberal issue.

Today, we should all humbly acknowledge that there is much more work to do.

As a humanistic writer, I have often been compelled to take the path less traveled — to follow my innate sense of right and wrong. As one who vividly recalls the assassination of Dr. King in 1968, I can attest that many of the ideals he put forth during his short time on this planet are indelibly branded into my heart and soul.

We should all honor Dr. King for blazing a peaceful trail to positive change. We can learn from not only his courage in challenging injustices, but from his unyielding vision of fairness and equality. “Life's most persistent and urgent question,” said Dr. King, “is, 'What are you doing for others?'”

Amen, Reverend Dr. King. Amen.

Your words are an inspiration — on any day.

REBORN ON THE 4th OF JULY

2011-07-04T01:46:00.003-04:00

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly when I was little, and as the next sibling above me in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?”

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I was 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than Chris, and suddenly, we were the same size.

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park outside of Cleveland, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing.

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

TEENAGED ANGST AND ALL, my friend Robin and I were looking forward to the fireworks. Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day and we were really looking forward to the evening.

When we were about five minutes from Lakewood Park, the sky turned from beautiful sunshine to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, Robin and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. So much rain drenched us that we were shivering, and the temperature felt like it had dropped by twenty degrees in just a few minutes time.

And then there were the power lines. . .live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets.

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as Robin and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris.

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. The transistor radio was on — and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones Robin and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang.

It was Lakewood Hospital—my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it.”

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree of more than four feet in diameter had hit Chris. We also discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed the sister of one of my classmates.

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother — who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 42nd anniversary of that day.

On the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God—that if he would spare the life of my brother that I would not fight with him—ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

But forty-two years later I am happy to report that God did indeed answer my prayers — on that night when the storm changed everything.

AN ODE TO CANADA - (abridged from the film 'A Question of Sovereignty')

2011-04-23T22:28:00.000-04:00

Has Canada lost its way?

"A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY - An Ode to Canada" explores how Canadians are being stripped of their civil liberties by government agencies — and how powerful forces are using legislative efforts, free trade deals and other international agreements to override Canadian democracy.

Written and Directed by international award-winner Kevin P. Miller, this abridged version features the voices of some of Canada's greatest political figures, from Diefenbaker to Turner. The film not only identifies modern-day threats to personal and national sovereignty in Canada, but offers solutions to the constitutional challenges facing the nation in the 21st century.

Interview with Kevin P. Miller - ARC Conference in Bath UK - part 2 of 3

2011-04-17T14:14:00.000-04:00

SARAH'S LAST WISH - a book by Eve Hillary

2011-04-03T23:54:00.001-04:00

Ancient philosophers often stated that there can be no personal or spiritual growth without pain. Suffering and anguish, we are told, are the brutal conduits to enlightenment; they are the catalysts to inner-questioning, exploration, and ultimately, metamorphosis. Pain and suffering force us to face cold hard truths and help define our ethics.

I am no stranger to pain. As a filmmaker since 1990, I have documented thousands of individual medical nightmares. In truth, I have seen too much...and felt too much hurt. So the prospect of reading about another personal train wreck...another tale of tragedy and heartbreak made me wary. Within the opening pages of Sarah's Last Wish, however, Eve's Hillary's powerful writing immersed me into the world of 11-year old Sarah Westley, a young girl diagnosed with ovarian cancer. . .and there was no turning back.

Sarah's Last Wish is a transformative book, a passionate homage to millions of people harmed by conventional medical institutions. But is also a prayer to return freedom and humanity back to healthcare worldwide.

Sarah's Last Wish shares not only the pain, but the Light that was Sarah, whose childlike, if not Godlike wisdom haunts us with the reminder that the smallest voices can offer the most profound lessons.

As we debate how to create not only a better healthcare system, but a better world, Sarah's Last Wish offers lessons on how our medical systems must change if we are to ever truly reach societal enlightenment. It asks whether we are humane enough to hear the gracious wisdom of an 11-year old girl...and whether we are willing act to preserve all we hold dear about humanity itself.

Kevin P. Miller

Writer/Director

April 2011

IN LOVE AND REMEMBRANCE: PAMELA DICKENS GILCHRIST

2011-04-02T12:27:00.001-04:00

PAMELA DICKENS GILCHRIST WAS AN ANGEL ON EARTH. From the first time we met in the early 1990s, we had an intimate connection. I honored her repeatedly when I was in her presence; it was quite easy to do with such a gentle soul.

I was the best man at her wedding, when she married my dear friend Charles Gilchrist. She had this silly giggle of a laugh that was so endearing. And so I tried — incessantly so — to make her laugh, just to unleash the glee.

It was glorious when I succeeded.

Though she would never concur, she was just a gorgeous gal — and one of the most gracious people to have ever crossed my path.

Today is the 11^th anniversary of her death from breast cancer. She was 47.

Even though I had a special place in her heart, I knew I was not alone, for there were many whom she loved in such innocent and spectacular ways.

I can honestly say that not a week goes by without me thinking of her. I see her in my dreams — and my daydreams. She speaks to me, I think, just to let me know that I still have responsibilities to carry forth.

So today, Breathe. Take in every minute. Do not take for granted even a moment of Life. Honor your time here. Express your love. Live your dreams. Now.

Don’t wait.

THE WISDOM OF COMMON PEOPLE

2011-03-31T14:53:00.010-04:00

I have learned so much by simply listening to the thousands of people I’ve met as a result of Generation RX and my other films like We Become Silent and Let Truth Be The Bias. Often times, the revelations come from individuals who have traveled to hear me speak; to be “taught” by me — but it is I who walks away feeling invigorated and educated by the personal sagas they share. It is, believe it or not, one of the reasons I wanted to become a writer in the first place.

As writers, we are supposed to be good listeners, supposed to be the link to reason, caring, and wisdom—but often, we dismiss the kind of knowledge that can only come from listening to countless someones we meet on our path.

George Edwin Bielby is one of the men who touched me during my early years as a filmmaker. I’d like to honor him, and tell why his life was such a stark reflection of all things good and bad about medicine in the modern age.

Mr. Bielby passed away on February 28, 1997 at the age of 90 years old. He led a relatively normal life—he and his wife Elizabeth raised two fine boys, whom they loved dearly. His life was unspectacular by Hollywood standards, with the exception of one important footnote: he was supposed to die 10-12 years before he did. Mr. Bielby suffered from arteriosclerosis, the most pervasive form of cardiovascular disease in the world. It is a plague which accounts for 40 to 50 percent of all of the deaths in the United States. It is our number one killer.

Mr. Bielby had his first heart attack in 1962 while fishing in a small town in Colorado at very high altitude. His next came nearly ten years later, and a third, nearly fatal attack came in 1984. The attacks increased in severity each time, and Mr. Bielby was prescribed beta blockers and other prescription drugs to quell the problem. He was not told to change his diet, watch his fat intake, decrease his sodium intake, or take any supplements. He was only told to take his prescription drugs. He said he could feel his heart getting physically weaker, but he didn’t know what else to do.

The bills were worrisome, adding tremendous stress to this Colorado native, so to pay for the expensive medical bills, he decided to sell his prize possession—his home of forty plus years. Adding further insult was how much out-of-pocket money his heart disease cost him: in excess of $50,000 over the years, even though he was “partially covered” by insurance and Medicare.

Mr. and Mrs. Bielby, who thought their golden years would be immeasurably different from what they were experiencing, were forced to move into a trailer in a small rural Colorado town during the 1980s. “It’s not so bad,” Mrs. Bielby told me once over tea in their cramped living room. “ The kids are gone now, so we don’t need as big a place....”

Mrs. Bielby was a strong woman who faced adversity head-on for over 80 years. She put up a good front. Her words didn’t reflect the pain of parting with most of the material possessions they spent a lifetime accumulating, but her eyes did—her eyes told the real story as she spoke.

By the time his fourth heart attack came in 1986, Mr. Bielby was near death, looking at riding out the rest of his years in a less than dignified manner. His conventionally trained cardiologist recommended angioplasty, but the surgeon on duty refused to operate, saying his arteries were so clogged—and his heart so weak— that he didn’t believe Mr. Bielby would survive the operation.

At what was undoubtedly the lowest point of this soft-spoken man’s life, the doctors sent Mr. Bielby home to die. He would be lucky, they surmised, to survive a few months in his present condition.

In their meagerly adorned trailer home, Mr. Bielby was depressed and found it nearly impossible to sleep. He couldn’t lie down because the oxygen wasn’t circulating well enough for him to breathe, so he had no choice, he had to sleep upright in his reclining chair, attached to an oxygen tank which clanked noisily outside the living room window. Mrs. Bielby slept on the sofa because “I was so afraid that my husband was going to die in the middle of the night.” She recalled Mr. Bielby, with tears in his eyes, asking her, “Why did you bring me home from the hospital, honey? I didn’t want to come back to this...I don’t want to live if I have to live like this.”

It was the Bielby’s darkest hour in fifty plus years of marriage. This gentle man, who had spent his life climbing mountains and fishing in coldwater streams, was going to die. It seemed like a sure bet.

THEN MR. BIELBY’S SON MADE AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY

Mr. Bielby’s son Dave is an industrious sort. While he suffers from Multiple Sclerosis himself, he just knew that something could be done to help his father, despite what the conventional doctors were telling him. Before they sent his dad home with no hope of survival, Dave began research that would change his father’s life in an amazing way.

Dave, also a resident of Colorado, began looking through medical journals for information and seeking out alternative/complementary doctors to treat his father. What he discovered both angered and elated him.

First, he began researching conventional medical journals, the ones trumpeted nearly every evening on the national news. After an elaborate intensive search, he found editorials in the New England Journal of Medicine which questioned the efficacy of the invasive conventional treatments for heart disease: angioplasty, heart bypass, and others. He discovered that for all the talk about “double blind controlled studies,”—the veneer which most in conventional medicine hide behind—that there were no studies which proved the scientific efficacy of heart bypass and the other major heart therapies. In fact, the further Dave Bielby dug into the data, the more disturbed and angry he became.

Armed with this new knowledge, he went to a seminar in Boulder in search of a natural remedy which would save his father’s life. He listened intently to what the doctors were saying about the positive effects of diet, nutrition and something called “chelation therapy.” He read Elmer Cranton’s Bypassing Bypass and learned more about chelation, and he even read Prescription for Nutritional Healing to get an overview of how to treat his father’s illness nutritionally. A whole new world was opening up to him—and much of it included treatments he had never heard of before.

“My father was a perfect example of why people are losing faith in conventional medicine,” said Dave. “In December of 1986, his doctors sent him home to die. They wanted him to sit around the house with an oxygen bottle running into his nose. When I asked my dad’s doctors about this new information—this new hope I had acquired for saving his life, they really got defensive, and told me ‘chelation is unproven—it is unsafe,’ and that he would die even sooner if he didn’t do the drugs they told him to. These men, who made tens of thousands of dollars off of my father over the years, literally used every scare tactic in the book. My family was quite offended that they wouldn’t even LOOK at the information we brought with us. They wouldn’t discuss it, they just dismissed us outright. It still astonishes me today.”

MILLIONS ARE DYING FROM PREVENTABLE DEATHS

Surprising as it might have been for Dave, it is quite apparent from the state of our nation’s health that millions are perishing because of a lack of knowledge. Cancer and heart disease are epidemic, and health costs continue to rise, even though modern medicine’s attempts to eradicate these plagues have failed miserably.

Health might be defined as "freedom from disease," however, doctors are trained about disease, not health. How to cure disease, not prevent it. In fact, very few hours of medical schooling are allotted to preventive health measures, concentrating instead on diagnosing disease and caring for the sick and dying. Don't misunderstand me, it is imperative that treating the sick and afflicted remains a primary goal of the modern medical practitioner. But along with the treatment of disease, physicians must become teachers of health as well.

Prescriptions for health should become the doctors primary tool, not just the CAT Scan, the laser, and the newest surgical intervention for atherosclerosis.

Heart disease, you see, is inherently reversible. One can reverse the blockages, reverse the symptoms, and get well again, even after years of weakening the heart through invasive and often ill-informed treatment choices.

We know now that nearly every conventional therapy for cardiovascular disease weakens the heart. Beta blockers weaken the heart. Calcium channel blockers weaken the heart. Diuretics don’t necessarily weaken the heart, but they dehydrate the body.

It may seem controversial to you, but most conventional cardiologists would admit that the whole theory behind treating a cardiovascular disease with drugs is to weaken the heart so it cannot work hard enough to bring on angina.

How many of those millions who have heart disease have ever been told to take L-Carnitine by a conventional doctor? Basically, conventional doctors would never give you L-Carnitine. It is a natural substance, available over the counter—and it was even advertised in the New England Journal of Medicine a few decades ago to a thundering silence. L-Carnitine is a unique substance that transports fat into the mydochondria and enhances energy. It is one of those elements that can enhance the strength of your heart and the efficiency of the heart, without many of the negatives associated with the conventional beta-blockers. Indeed, almost all drugs for cardiovascular disease make the heart weaker, they bring the heart down. They lower the ejection fraction, they slow the heart rate, and slow the blood pressure down. They actually weaken the heart. The weak heart won't feel the pain or doesn't get to the point where it needs enough oxygen for the pain, but in my opinion, the long time use of these beta blockers are debilitating, to be sure.

There exists, however, a natural, wonderful substance that can make the heart work better and stronger, and it was published in, of all places, the American Journal of Cardiology. As a matter of fact, there were several articles in the American Journal of Cardiology on L-Carnitine. But few physicians seem to be listening, except, perhaps, for so-called alternative doctors, who are handling the patients flocking to alternative medicine in droves.

There is a doctor I know in California who is in pediatrics and she gives all of her kids with failing hearts L-Carnitine. It is miraculous for cardiomyopathy in pediatrics. There’s another fellow whom I met at a bookstore in New Jersey whose grandson was told he had fatal cardiomyopathy. The child was six months old at the time—and the doctors gave him about another four or five months to live because his heart was very large and swollen.

Six years went by. And believe it or not, the doctor still told the parents that the child was going to die of cardiomyopathy, even though there was no cardiomyopathy that could be diagnosed. But the most important battle was won: that of the life of a young healthy boy, probably the only kid on the block who took L-Carnitine and Co-enzyme Q-10!

All of this means that it's your life. Don’t trust it to a doctor who isn’t willing to listen to your unique story.

In truth, that’s what Dave Bielby did: he made certain that his father saw a more open minded medical doctor. The result was a period of vitality and wonder for a man who— by the age of 80—had suffered four heart attacks.

By seeking out another Colorado physician, the Bielby’s went ahead with chelation therapy. They changed his diet, and gave him nutritional supplements for the first time in his life. His health turned around rather dramatically. Three days after the first chelation treatment, Mr. Bielby slept soundly in his recliner. Three weeks later, the combination of chelation, a changed diet and nutritional supplements allowed him to go back to his own bed. He was sleeping throughout the night without any problems!

Unfortunately, the Bielby’s had to pay for these treatments out of their own pockets. Each chelation treatment cost the Bielby’s $75. Medicare initially re-imbursed $26 per treatment—and steadfastly refused to pay for the supplements. Then Medicare cut the re-imbursement to $10; then $8; then they just stopped paying altogether.

The irony is, of course, that if a senior citizen is under the care of a conventional cardiologist enters a hospital for conventional treatment, Medicare pays for nearly all of the expenses: the cardiologist, the room, the prescription drugs, the x-rays and testing—everything! Something is dramatically wrong when less costly, less invasive, more helpful treatments exist and yet insurance companies won’t pay their fair share. But to the Bielby’s, all of the money for chelation and nutritional supplements were well worth the price. The boys enjoyed their father’s company—and Mrs. Bielby counted the blessings of every day for nearly a decade with her husband.

To hear Dave tell the story, the years from 1986 until his death in February 1997 were the best of his father’s life. “If anything, he over-enjoyed his newfound health,” Dave told me. “During that period, Dad never saw a hill he didn’t want to see the other side of. He beat us all to the top—and was waiting for us at the bottom. That’s how he lived the last ten years of his life—with dignity and vigor and an unbelievable passion—for life.”

George Bielby, it turns out, wasn’t a common man at all. He was a clear thinker—a man who led by example. He was an extraordinary man who sought the best that life could offer—grateful for every sunset, every drop of rain—every hill he encountered on the path of life.

That’s what I wish for all of you—the best life can offer. Armed with the proper knowledge, you will see that the road doesn’t always end where the doctors say it does.

Fourteen years after his death, and 17 years after I interviewed him, George Bielby is still an inspiration to me. He taught me early on that the wisdom of common people still mattered...and set me on a path to reveal their truth, despite the incantations of far too many in the medical field.

QUESTIONS ABOUT GENERATION RX FROM A CURIOUS TEEN

2011-03-05T20:27:00.007-05:00

IT GIVES ME GREAT HOPE when I receive thoughtful questions from students about world affairs — and the topics covered in Generation RX. Thanks to Tom for forwarding these questions to me. Here are my answers, verbatim:

Answers to Jessica's Generation RX Questions

After making GenRx & knowing what you know today, would you ever take or give your loved ones anti-depression or ADD medication?

KPM: Personally, I would never take SSRI drugs for depression or methylphenidates for ADHD, but it should be said that I rarely take a prescription medication for anything. After researching this area for nearly 25 years, I have determined that there are better alternatives for me.

Regarding my family, well, my sons are both adults now. Obviously they have seen Generation Rx many times and know my research as well as my thoughts and fears about these drugs. Having said that, I would never try to impose my will on my sons. If they were considering using one of these meds, I would merely discuss the “big picture” with them. If they chose to use ADHD or SSRI meds I would certainly keep a watchful eye on them, watch their behavior etc.

2) What was it that "lit the fire" to make this documentary?

I first discovered footage of civilians testifying before a 1991 FDA public hearing (about Prozac/SSRIs) in late 1993. It disturbed me, but I didn't know what to do with the footage, so I put it “on the shelf” where it collected dust.

I believe it was 2005 when I came across more footage from another FDA hearing from 2004. I wasn't looking for it...at all...it just appeared while I was researching for another film. But when I listened to the story, it was deja vu … and I realized then that I had heard these nearly identical stories more than a decade prior. The same heartbreak, the same terror, the same sad tales. I sat with that for quite a while—almost a year, in fact, before saying to myself that nothing had changed...and nothing was going to change if I didn't try to tell this “untold story.” That was the genesis of how Generation RX came to be. That footage is clearly identified in GenRx, so it's safe to say that it the voices of those “real people,” desperately trying to tell their government of the potential harm of SSRIs, is what truly motivated me to create this film.

3) What was the most surprising or even disturbing thing you learned?

Well, again, the most disturbing thing I learned was that our FDA was NOT listening to it's citizens...that in fact, they were helping plan public relations to address the “side effects of bad publicity” rather than determining that there was a potential problem with suicide and violence with SSRIs—and creating a strategy to alert consumers to that fact.

The other thing which was surprising—and disturbing—was discovering how shoddy most of the science for these “mental health drugs” really is...and how deep the conflicts-of-interest run throughout the profession. I was stunned to learn how the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders)—the so-called “Bible” of mental disorders, is pseudo-scientific at best, and outright corrupt at worse. I have conducted a lot of medical/scientific research for my film and writings over the years...but I never expected to discover how woeful the research and the ethics of “mental health drugs” really are.

4. What message was important to you that audiences walk away with?

I take my job incredibly seriously. I know that if I use conjecture instead of facts, that I am hurting not only myself, but millions of others. So I hope that the audience walks away feeling that their minds have been well-fed, if you will, and that the movie has great integrity. That is really important to me.If you are a parent considering ADHD or Bipolar or SSRI meds for a child, you need all of the information provided in GenRX PRIOR to making a decision about whether these drugs are appropriate. This film provides the kind of depth of knowledge that is needed in order to make a fully informed choice.

5) How do you personally deal with seeing first hand how corrupt the world is?

That's a great question! As a humanistic writer, my main focus is always on the way medicine or government legislation or trade policies or multinational corporate activities affect “real people.” Ultimately, I have great faith that the People will win; that they will force reform; that they will insist walking a different path than the international power brokers want.

Read my blog 'A Prayer for Egypt' and you will see one example of how we might achieve that; how we must be accountable and active and aware so that we might change the world around us.

Lastly, only my true friends know my secret:

As serious as I am about these issues (and more), I am every bit as goofy, at times. I LOVE to laugh, some times over the silliest and most sophomoric things. It's a built-in defense mechanism for me. Humor is an important balance to one who has witnessed what I have over the years. It keeps me from getting too “down,” and helps me realize that even at the end of a bad day, there is always beauty to revel at or something to smile about.

I wish you peace and success, happiness (and much laughter) on your journey, Jessica. Keep questioning...keep probing...and keep the faith.

Kevin P. Miller

March 2011

A REQUIEM FOR A SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN

2011-02-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

I MISS SPEAKING TO MY DAD. There were so many times, over a thirty-year period when I would call him just to hear the sound of his voice.

Of course, I never told him that, but it is true.

Dad was a Southern gentleman: raised Baptist; a convert to Catholicism; conservative to the core. He was, without a doubt, the most ethical man I’ve ever known. He would never associate with anyone or anything he deemed ‘shady’ or unethical. And if he caught wind of one of his children doing so, there would be Hell to pay.

As the second last of seven children, my relationship to my dad seemed different. As a writer, I often challenged his notions of how the world worked — and recall some short stories and articles I wrote in high school that must have put Dad in a terrible quandary — and made him uncertain how to react.

To his credit, he never once forbade me from writing about any subject, no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel. He could have done so — and I believe I would have honored his command.

But he did not interfere, sensing that this was who I was born to be: an artist, ‘agitator,’ of sorts, a mirror for society. . .a writer.

In February 2007, I was engulfed by Generation RX. The call came on a Sunday that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness and that it wouldn’t be long before he would die. It took me about 10-12 hours to process that, as I was rather numb upon hearing the news.

During my flight from Cleveland to Boise 36 hours later, however, I had plenty of time to sort through our many years of physical separation and replayed many of the events of my childhood. The nuggets I re-discovered have been applied — successfully or not — to my life as a single Dad.

AT 35,000 feet, I thought a lot about how affectionate I had been with my father. I sat on his lap and watched TV — far beyond the point of being a young child. I was 13, I think, before he finally threw me off his lap. I was already taller than Dad’s 5’9” frame — and I’m certain I already weighed more than him.

It took him months to enforce his new law for good, however, and something tells me he realized that I was the end of the line of Miller boys — and that like me, he wanted to relish every moment before I, too, was grown up and gone.

Most of my elder siblings say that my incessant, outward expressions of love for my dad simply “broke him down” over the years, and stripped away any remaining veneer of what were “appropriate displays of emotion."

I, on the other hand, have always asserted that my poor old Dad was just worn out after five children — and by the time he got to me, his personal “Berlin Wall” had fallen.

The truth probably lies somewhere in between, but one thing seems certain: Dad realized somewhere along the line that no two children are alike — and that there is no “formula” for success.

WHEN I ARRIVED IN BOISE, my Mom led me to their bedroom, and forewarned me that Dad had not opened his eyes for nearly 24 hours. He had suffered another stroke and was unable to speak.

I got down on my knees, at eye-level with my father, who was turned on his side.

“Dad,” I said softly. “It’s Kevin. . .I am here.”

And Dad opened one eye. . .a final ‘miracle,’ of sorts.

Tears filled his one opened eye. Mine too. The Prodigal Son had returned. . . in time to see him off to the next realm.

Over the next 24 hours, I whispered to my Dad and spoke to him for hours, even though he never again opened his eyes. I told him what a good father he was; how proud I was to be his son, and more. I thanked him for allowing me to be the creative spirit I had become — even when it threatened him — and I thanked him for being the best Dad on the planet.

I told him it was okay to let go — his shift was over. . .his time here well-spent — his impact undeniable — his suffering complete.

Within a few hours, he was gone. That was four years ago today.

There is so much more I’d like to tell you about my Dad: that he played minor league baseball with the Phillies before the war, that he adored my Mom for well over a half-century; that he lived a good and productive life. But those will have to wait for another day.

Because now, I’m going to spend some time with my own sons — to make new memories — ones I pray they'll recall with fondness at a ripe old age.

A PRAYER FOR EGYPT

2011-02-11T23:04:00.018-05:00

Christians Protecting Muslims During Prayers

photo by @NevineZaki

THE HISTORIC EVENTS OF THE PAST 18 DAYS — the millions marching through the main cities of Egypt, the takeover of Tahrir (Liberation) Square, the military 'standing down' with civilians have captivated the entire world.

Revolution came with the explosion of not bombs but Tweets — replete with acronyms like #Jan25 and #Tahrir attached. Through means both electronic and personal, a new language fused into a kind of morse code of oneness.

The propelling force of this worldwide sway in emotion were the Egyptian people, of course, who with courage and peaceful tenacity snuffed out the corrupt leadership of President Hosni Mubarak. Now, the world has witnessed and will forever know that anything is possible if the people will it to be so.

As a result of the unbelievable events of the past few weeks, some Westerners, particularly in the United States now fear the uncertainty of this Egyptian revolution — and wonder whether this is another sign of the Mideast “turning against us” only to become another Islamic state. This self-obsessive anxiety is fueled by the likes of Faux News and greedy internationalists who just want the world to run the way they see fit.

But it can be no more.

As citizens, too many of us have disassociated ourselves from the truth regarding U.S. foreign policy. We have turned our heads away from the cries on the streets from El Salvador to El-Mahalla el-Kubra. And the truth is, we are accountable. We are responsible for our plain ignorance — our utter refusal over the decades and generations to create a more genuine and unfettered relationship with the both the Egyptian people and the Arab world en masse.

We are accountable for the fact that in 30 years, we never helped Egyptians facilitate their own social and democratic change. We backed the 'strongman' again. We backed the military. . .again. This cannot continue.

The people of Egypt have shown us this.

We need to change. We need to care about legislation, interactions with other nations and current events. We need to know history.

THE LAST TIME EGYPT FACED NEW LEADERSHIP, it came in a fire of bullets and hand grenades. Thirty years later, most Americans still have little or no consciousness of the leader who died that day: Anwar Sadat. This too, reflects our collective arrogance; it betrays our laziness and uncaring about foreign policy — and how those policies affect real human beings.

Sadat was an army general before becoming president, and fought Israel mightily as a warrior. The Egyptian President later signed the “Camp David Accords,” the treaty with Israel. As president, he wanted to make peace with Egypt's longstanding enemy — and did. He won the Nobel Peace Prize, but the latter years of Sadat's eleven-year reign were tumultuous, and ended with his assassination.

The Mubarak era had begun.

Three decades hence, as we have all witnessed, bullets did not determine the outcome...peaceful exertion did. Among the chants heard by western journalists was "Muslims...Christians...We are One."

The people are reclaiming their nation.

Today we see that there is hope for a better world. There is hope for peaceful change — even at home.

The people of Egypt have shown us this.

AN INSPIRATION- ON ANY DAY

2011-01-17T09:53:00.002-05:00

“Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men.”
— Martin Luther King, Jr.

TO THOSE OF YOU WHO KNOW MY WORK, it’s common knowledge that I admire Martin Luther King, Jr. immensely. He was front-and-center in my documentary on race relations called THE WAR WITHIN and the driving force behind my comparative analysis of the Civil Rights movement and the Health Freedom movement in LET TRUTH BE THE BIAS. In 2005 he appeared in my documentary WE BECOME SILENT, a film about Codex Alimentarius that was narrated by the internationally revered actress, Dame Judi Dench.

As it happens so often with artists, the title for WE BECOME SILENTcame as an inspiration in the middle of the night. It was 3:00 a.m., I believe, and I was in the midst of 17-20 hour days worth of editing — and determined to produce an honest film about the dangers of Codex and the deleterious effects of “free trade.” As I began to doze deeper into my well-earned slumber, I heard Dr. King’s voice say, “Our lives begin to end the moment we become silent about things that matter.”
Spaced out and disoriented, I sat straight up in bed. The words I heard the strongest were "we become silent," and a few hours later, after at least one cup of coffee, I discerned that these three words would make a great title for the film. They had been whispered to me in the middle of the night because they directly correlated to the scheming of governments, big business, bureaucrats and other dirty dealers who incessantly try to assert their will over the rest of us. Their collective goal is to eliminate medical freedom of choice and to keep the status quo in tact. Then — as now — they wanted us to simply shut up. With the FDA ‘walking point,’ they tried mightily to achieve their monopolistic goals through regulations, by banning health books from health food stores, through ridiculous undercover sting operations and guns-draw raids at holistic clinics, and yes, even through legislative means.

So once again — in the middle of the night — Dr. King played a role in my professional and personal life by helping to align my values and to put the struggle for medical freedom of choice into perspective. People loved the title WE BECOME SILENT, so it is only fitting to give credit where credit is due.

On this day, we should also humbly acknowledge that there is much more work to do.

I am reminded of something that occurred during a screening of LET TRUTH BE THE BIAS in 1994. There’s a scene in the documentary where hordes of armed policemen—with batons at the ready and with the strength of a football team pushing a blocking ‘sled’ — thrust dozens of African Americans backwards. Elderly men, women and children are forced to the ground—and are trampled in the ensuing melee. While this scene was playing out, I heard someone comment rather loudly, “Hey, this guy must be a liberal” — as if showing the struggle for basic human rights was somehow a liberal issue.

The comment from my countryman made me chortle, albeit sadly.

As a humanistic writer, I have often been compelled to take the path less traveled — to follow my innate sense of right and wrong. As one who vividly recalls the assassination of Dr. King in 1968, I can say categorically that many of the ideals he put forth during his short time on this planet are indelibly branded into my heart and soul.

Those same ideals of dignity and personal sovereignty apply to the health freedom movement also, and we should all honor Dr. King for blazing a peaceful trail to positive change. We can learn from not only his courage in challenging injustices, but from his unyielding vision of equality.

“Life's most persistent and urgent question,” said Dr. King, “is, 'What are you doing for others?'”

Amen, Reverend Dr. King. Amen. Your words are an inspiration — on any day.

RETURN TO THE PROMISED LAND

2011-01-12T03:20:00.009-05:00

READERS OF THIS BLOG KNOW that over the past few years, I have consistently written about the quandary of the poor and homeless in our society. 'One Paycheck Away From Humanity' reported about the growing numbers of homeless I witnessed while GENERATION RX was being screened at the Cleveland Film Festival; and 'How the Other Half Lives' shared my journey to the other side of the world, only to be reminded of the homeless men I met as a young boy in Cleveland many moons ago.

Yesterday I posted my 1991 film, 'The Promised Land' online after days of restoring the documentary with my friend Charles L. Gilchrist. It is a film about homeless war veterans and hordes of men and women caught in the grip of poverty — and forced to the streets to survive. During the restoration process, the memories from 20 years ago came flooding back...and as I watched the film for the first time in over a decade, so did the tears.

During the frigid Cleveland winter of 1991, at 4 a.m. — in six-degree weather, we found dozens of men sleeping under a bridge in an area known as 'the Flats,' a stones throw from the arctic air blowing off Lake Erie. Many of my interviews with the men are featured in 'The Promised Land,' alongside stories of the “middle class homeless.”

As I outline in the film's description at my channel at vimeo.com, 'The Promised Land' was the highest-ranked TV program in prime time, but most importantly, it raised nearly $500,000 in donations after its first showing — and just under $1,000,000 total. The donations went directly to transitional housing, veterans groups, Foodbanks and job training for the poor and homeless.

It's a story about people living on the brink of disaster. . .and a few who crawled their way back — inch by inch — to self-sufficiency. One of those was a woman named Kathy Pinkis, whom I had met months earlier when I was producing a video for the Cleveland Foodbank. Kathy was a lovely lady with red hair, educated, and articulate. She was a single Mom who nearly lost everything after her divorce. When I first interviewed her, she cried...movingly so. When I asked to interview her again for 'The Promised Land,' she peered at me and said “yes, but this time I am not going to cry.”

I smiled, but realized that this would be a very difficult promise to keep. Kathy was a passionate survivor, and she wore her heart on her sleeve. Near the end of the still-tearless second interview, I told her I was a new father, and that I couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been for her with her young children in tow. . .with only $100 to last six weeks.

Kathy broke down. “I vowed then that I would do whatever I can to help someone else so that they won't have to go through what I went through...because it was the worst time in my life . . . and I won't ever be there again. . .ever,” she said sobbing.

As I stated above, the film was a big success: Emmy nominations and an International film award were the topping to near seven-figure success in fundraising for the homeless.

And Kathy was right. . .she never was forced to return to the streets.

About two years after 'The Promised Land' aired on television, I received a phone call from one of Kathy's teenaged sons. He began by introducing himself and by thanking me for including his Mom in the film. She had healed her bruised psyche after the trauma she'd endured, but now, he said bravely, “Mom is in the hospital with liver cancer...and only has weeks to live.” I was distraught with the news and as I hung up the phone, I promised Kathy's son that I would write her immediately...and did.

In the letter, I told Kathy what an inspiration she had been to hundreds of thousands of people; that she was a voice for so many — that she was so selfless that she was willing to tell her painful story publicly not once, but twice in order to help others. Almost singlehandedly, I said, she had shattered all of the myths people harbored about the 'face of the homeless;' she, with her shining red hair and her educated air.

“You touched them all,” I wrote. “They felt your courage. You gave others hope. You are a hero.”

A few weeks later, Kathy's son called again. His Mother read the letter many times. She smiled, he said, and cried.

“But she was at peace when she died,” he said. “Thank you.”

As you watch 'The Promised Land' — twenty years after it was produced, you may note an eerie connection to the present. As you meet Kathy and all of the others I had the privilege of speaking with, I hope you will be motivated to help the poor and homeless wherever you live. Foodbanks need food, the homeless need beds, and millions need job re-training if they expect to survive.

Do so in honor of Kathy Pinkis, the thousands of homeless veterans, the poor and the unemployed who need your help. . .now more than ever.

YOU CAN VIEW 'THE PROMISED LAND' AT THIS LINK:

http://vimeo.com/18652969

GENERATION RX NOW AVAILABLE ON CABLE THROUGHOUT NORTH AMERICA

2011-01-04T15:59:00.009-05:00

As of January 1^st 2011, GENERATION RX will be available on various Cable VOD (Video on Demand) outlets throughout North America.

Please support the film by choosing GENERATION RX from the following cable operators:

Charter

AT&T U-Verse

Rogers (Canada)

Mediacom

Blue Ridge

KPU

IVN

Valley Connections

Bristol Virginia Utilities

Burlington Telecom

Access Comm.

Bluewater TV Cable

Cable Cable Inc.

Eastlink Halifax

NorthwesTel Cable

Seaside Communications

Source Cable

Twin Valley Communications

Valley Connections

Verizon Fios (as of January 11^th)

Please know that GENERATION RX is now available On Demand and will run for only 90 days. Most remotes now have a button that says "on demand" which will immediately take you to the correct channel for the operator. The cost is $5 for two days.

Please pass this message on to anyone whom you believe needs access to more information about this vital issue: teachers, parents, police, politicians, or anyone who cares about ADHD, bipolar, or other 'mental illnesses.' Please help put the important information contained in GENERATION RX before the public at large so that they might have total access to all of the important science, marketing and politics surrounding the issue of children using powerful psychiatric medications.

We do not earn much money from the VOD format, but your 'rental' of GENERATION RX from Video on Demand could help get my other independent films onto this format — and available to millions.

NATIVITY AND TRAGEDY

2010-12-25T19:33:00.004-05:00

SOMEWHERE IN CLEVELAND, there is a child being born at this very moment. Somewhere, pure spirit is being inspired into form.

For Chase Alan Carter that moment arrived on December 22nd at about 2:35 a.m. at Fairview General Hospital — a stone’s throw away from the city limits. His father, Nick Carter is a 16-year old high school student — a good kid who became a young man that morning, and will forever be charged with the awesome responsibility of fatherhood.

But this is a Christmas tale of two teenaged Nick’s — and a few hours earlier, with the Christmas break finally upon him, 15 year old Nicolas Rauser was anxious to hang out with his friends, so he jumped into the back seat of the 2001 Hyundai and sped off towards the Great Northern Mall. “Free,” he must have thought while cradling himself into the back of the car. “No school for two weeks.”

Ten miles away, Nick Carter’s girlfriend was about halfway home — at 5 centimeters. She was being brave, but she was exhausted. The two had checked into the hospital some 15 hours prior, not knowing, of course, what to expect. My 16-year old son Gabe was by his side; excited for his young friends and determined to be with Nick until the baby was born. They yammered on and on about this profound experience and Nick imagined aloud about how different his life would be from this day forward. He seemed simultaneously calm and hyper — and the two friends were embarking on their vacation together in a new and very unusual way.

NICK RAUSER came from a ‘mixed family,’ and his Dad married the mother of Alicia, a dear friend of my eldest son Jacob. As with so many families brought together through divorce, Alicia and Nick had their awkward moments, but eventually they grew quite close. Nick teased his stepsister often, as teenagers are wont to do, but Alicia would usually giggle or feign anger — and the teasing would subside. Late on December 21st, while Nick and his friends were enjoying their first few hours of freedom from school, they didn’t know they were heading right into the teeth of a classic Lake Erie snowstorm.

AT ABOUT 10:15 p.m., a worried Gabe called home. “Dad, they’re saying that the baby is upside down,” he said with obvious concern. “Nick is kind of worried and the doctors are too.” I did my best to talk Gabe down from his anxiety. “This happens a lot more than you think, Gabe,” I told him. “Be strong for Nick — he needs to know that everything is going to be all right.”

A few minutes later, Jacob called from across town to tell me that the storm was getting bad in North Olmsted, but that he was okay. “I’ve already seen two accidents, Dad. The police blocked off a road near the Mall. I’m coming home.” Unbeknownst to Jacob, he had just witnessed the evolution of a tragedy. Within a few hours he was to receive a text from Alicia, and it was then that he discovered that her stepbrother was in an accident — the very one he saw outside the Great Northern Mall. The crash took place at 10:25 p.m. and Nick Rauser was rushed to St. John’s Hospital in nearby Westlake.
He was pronounced dead at 11:05 p.m.

AT 2:56 a.m., THE PHONE RANG AGAIN, this time from Gabe at Fairview Hospital. Chase Alan Carter was born — as the family of Nick Rauser grieved.

And yesterday, on Christmas Eve, 15 year old Nicolas Rauser was buried. . .it was a beautiful remembrance of a life cut far too short. Across the border of North Olmsted, the baby boy of 16-year old Nick Carter was enjoying his second day of life. He is indeed a Christmas child — held in the loving embrace of two teenaged parents.

During this Holiday, in the wake of this nativity and tragedy, we should think to embrace our children more — no matter what age they are. As they open their presents, as they bicker over the Playstation or the new computer and cause parents anguish, we should commemorate the love we had for them as infants.

They may not live the life of Jesus or work miracles, but as this Christmas tale of two Nick’s shows — we should cherish each moment — and take nothing for granted. The Rausers did just that — and the Carters are now following their path.

Today of all days, love your children.

Merry Christmas.

ANGELS AND AIRWAVES

2010-12-02T23:49:00.004-05:00

MY BEST GUESS IS THAT ABOUT THREE MINUTES HAD ELAPSED. I awoke to a surreal din of extraneous audio, a cacophony of murmurs, cars, and even the wind echoing and blending together like the elements of a great soundtrack that had yet to be mixed.

It was very much the stuff of fantasies, and as the darkness slowly lifted, I was still confused and disoriented. Amid the shock and the jumble of thoughts, however, I didn’t realize that I was lucky to be alive.

So many times in my life, perhaps too often to recall, the Angels have been at my side. I have been saved countless times and lived through events I never dreamt possible —and in each case, I felt the hand of a powerful presence beside me.

One such incident came as a young man in my twenties as I returned from a Halloween party. It was late, somewhere around three in the morning, and as I made my way from the party, I approached an entrance ramp to the Expressway outside Boston. After a few seconds I approached a car — on fire and blocking the entrance ramp.

I panicked for a few seconds. Was there someone in the car unconscious or injured? I parked 50 yards away from the burning Chevy and approached the car cautiously.

I wrapped my hands in some rags and inched my way forward. . .frightened but just ignorant enough to continue. As I reached the car, I opened the drivers’ side door and backed off quickly, which allowed some of the smoke from inside the vehicle to dissipate in the chilly October air. Then I lunged into the front seat, yelling “Is anyone in here? Is anyone HERE?” I began by feeling around the front seat and floor, flailing my arms about like a mad man. The smoke and flames were awful, and quickly drove me back outside. I retreated ten feet, took a deep breath and dove into the backseat, frantically searching again.

I found no one, but I did hear a voice saying, “Get out NOW” and I obliged.

As I walked back to my car, coughing and wiping my eyes, the car exploded like something out of Hollywood pyrotechnics display.

That Halloween eve, I was dressed as Clark Kent — but on that night, Superman didn’t rescue anyone. The suit was ruined, singed by fire and smoke, but I had been saved — again.

It is one of probably two dozen times I can recall feeling a spiritual presence directing me away from or warning me of imminent danger.

IN JULY OF 2008, it happened again. I looked up at a dark gray sky, still groggy and filled with ethereal visions, when I heard my son’s voice. I was floating, it seemed, when a wisp of his voluminous hair drifted into my periphery.

“Dad,” he said. “DAD!”

The fact that I had awakened at all had not yet dawned on me, but I felt beautifully calm.

“DAD,” Gabe said again, more determined than ever to get a response. Finally, I could see him clearly and realized what had just happened. I was being loaded into an ambulence.

We had just been in an accident. . .forced into an unmarked, elongated pit. The two of us were on my beloved Yamaha 180cc motor scooter. I had successfully slowed down the bike — well aware of my precious cargo on the back — and had skillfully navigated the road that had engulfed us on the last 100 feet of our journey.

As we hit the back of the pit, I was catapulted from the scooter. My son, as any father would have planned it, landed on top of me, suffering only from some road rash on his forearm and some bruises.

As I lay in the hospital awaiting yet another MRI, the immensity of my good fortune began to overpower the physical pain I felt. I was alone in the room and had no idea that tears were streaming down my cheeks as the nurse entered the room.

“Ohhhh…” she said with obvious sensitivity. “You must be in a lot of pain right now.”

“I am,” I answered. “But I am just so grateful that my son is all right.”

I have rarely been a fearful person, but today I am much less afraid than I used to be. The process of wounding can awaken us to our strength — if we are willing to examine life through the lens of our Blessings, not our challenges. A life- threatening event can re-shuffle our values, and what emerges from our soul searching is scarcely about anything material.

It’s never about perfection or power — or the politics at work. For me, it’s always about love; whom we cherish and whom we can touch.

Knowing that we are vulnerable — and that our time here is limited — we’re free to choose a different path for ourselves. We’re free to live more passionately and to question what’s worth fighting for and who we really are in this world.

To me, our real strength lies buried in the depths of the wounds we have survived. It could be a tragic death, or it could be a divorce, but it need not take a life-threatening event to pursue a more meaningful life.

This time around, all it took for me was to see the wisp of my Gabe’s hair floating by as I was having a conversation with Angels. As I left their embrace, they whispered, “there is more to do.”

And so I thanked God for my son — and for my life — so very grateful that my path was illuminated so long ago.

A BIRTHDAY WISH FOR 'TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND FOREBEARANCE'

2010-11-13T00:57:00.001-05:00

IT IS 4:00 IN THE MORNING AND VOICES ARE ECHOING strangely in a blur of confusing sounds. They meld together — trails of lights and moans. . .then screams. . .then more screams.

Wherever I am trapped, I reflexively fear for my children. “WHERE ARE YOU,” I yell to no one. “I CAN'T SEE YOU.” Yet another scream — this one is closeby and rattles me to my core.

Panicked, I sit up in bed, sweating profusely — confused and anxious, weary, but wired. My heart is racing. . .I am breathing heavily, and more than a little freaked out. I have no idea where I am.

I launch myself out of bed and begin moving through the darkness towards the shrill sounds of conflict. The voices get louder as I, completely blinded by blackness, run into the corner of a desk. Grimacing, I look up to find the tiniest pinhole of light, so I head towards it seconds before one more blood-curdling scream.

I open the door rapidly and spy two women: one is bloody around her mouth, the other has scratches on her arm. I see a man in the doorway to his hotel...he is trying to pull the women into his room.

“HEY!” I yell. “LET THEM GO!” As I try to reach the man he loosens his grip and frees the women: one has obviously being struck by the mystery man. As I reach for the doorknob he slams the door shut and the two ladies lunge away and hug me, shivering.

They are speaking Chinese, a mile-a-minute.

I invite them into my room. “Let me call security...please come in.” They follow; I turn on a light, shaking a bit as I reach for the phone.

I look at the girls; they are both smiling. I now realize that I have no clothes on, except for my boxer shorts. After instantly turning red-faced, I excuse myself and dash for the bathroom to grab a robe. For the few minutes before security arrives, I politely speak broken Chinese, trying to calm them.

The young ladies giggle as I butcher their language...only to jump as a knock on the door startles the awkward silence. With the hotel security standing before me, I tell them what had just occurred. The girls both hug me, utter something, and leave.

It is now 4:08 a.m. — and I'm definitely not going back to sleep. I whip open the curtains and the serenity a beautiful city on the water is revealed. The lights flicker off the surface of the river. . .and finally, I sit down, take a deep breath and admire the monumental city across the Harbor.

“Welcome to Hong Kong,” I say aloud, “the City of Magic.”

FIVE HOURS LATER I AM SITTING before a Chinese energy healer at the the city's “first alternative medicine conference. “Ni hao,” I say to greet him. The practitoner smiles and returns the pleasantry. Within a minute he is holding both of my wrists and tilts his head somewhat quizzically.

“Sir,” he says is rhythmic English, “you have had some trauma to your heart within the past six hours?”

My mouth drops. I nod. The man instructs one of his assistants, waving his arms and hands, to fetch a small blue vial twenty feet away. He tells me this is a special formula containing Suan Zao Ren (or Sour Date Seed) and directs me to take one immediately and to repeat the dosage at bedtime.

“Xie Xie,” I say, thanking him as I began to rise, but before I can leave, he puts his palms out, requesting that I stay seated. He again speaks to his assistant, who hurries off. Within minutes, an older Chinese man in his 80s returns with the female. He sits before me and smiles, and like the previous healer, takes me wrists, then touches my forehead.

“Mmmmmm,” he says, while gesturing. He asks me, through a translator, to breathe deeply and slowly, and after a long first night in Hong Kong, I happily comply. The old man then stuns me with what he says next. “You saved those girls,” he declares quietly, pausing for the translator. “You hold Zhen-Shan-Ren close to your heart.” He spends the next few minutes meditating, or so it seems, before standing. He pats me on both sides of my head, and appears to say one final prayer.

Prior to leaving, he turns to the healer and says, “Tell him in his 54^th year he will touch millions of people.” Before the healer could relay the message, he smiles, nods and then disappears into the crowd.

Today marks the beginning of my 54^th year on this planet. Since I left Hong Kong, I have come to learn that “Zhen-Shan-Ren” — for which there was no literal English translation — means that I hold “Truth, Goodness, and Forebearance” close to my heart.

According to the wonderful Chinese elder, Truth, Goodness, and Forebearance is the Highest calling of man.

In this 54^th year, may it be so.

THINK DIFFERENT. NOW MORE THAN EVER.

2010-11-10T13:34:00.000-05:00

ALL HAIL THE DYING BREED OF HEROES

2010-10-19T22:59:00.001-04:00

FOR EVERYONE WHO TALKS ABOUT MEDIA COP-OUTS AND COWARDICE — and God knows I have done my share of that over the years, today we should all be honoring two hard-nosed journalists — two modern heroes who lost their jobs while fighting to reveal the truth about “the mystery in the milk,” namely rBGH and rBST. For today, in the State of Ohio, AgriBusiness was delivered a crushing blow when a Federal Appeals Court ruled that BigFood could no longer censor dairy farms and grocery stores who want to label their milk and dairy products as “rBGH or rBST free.”

JANE AKRE AND STEVE WILSON HAVE BEEN HERALDED on these pages many times, long before they appeared in The Corporation or had been written about elsewhere. I met Jane during the early years of the Bush Administration, not long after she and Steve had been summarily fired by Rupert Murdoch's Faux News for refusing to change the facts of their five-part investigation about Monsanto's Posilac, the growth hormone that swept through the dairy chain beginning in the mid-90s.

The infirmity of today’s corporate journalism is reflected by the fact that good reporters — the ones who uncover abuses by government and corporate interests — are few and far between, particularly in television news. Nowhere has this been more frighteningly apparent than the saga of reporters Akre and Wilson, two pros who revealed that rBGH, the synthetic growth hormone found in milk and other dairy products, was potentially harmful to humans.

After repeatedly refusing an order by Fox corporate attorneys to present a story more favorable to corporate advertisers (and rBGH-patent holder) Monsanto, Akre and Wilson were fired by the network. And though the story should have been a fight about journalistic ethics, the integrity of science and “covering the backsides of one of their own,” no one at NBC, CBS, ABC or even PBS would report the story.

Akre and Wilson, like a lot of high-profile whistleblowers, paid a terrible price.

After they won an early lawsuit against their former employers, a phalanx of Fox corporate attorneys appealed the ruling, sparing no expense in the process. Ultimately, a second judge reversed the award given to these two courageous reporters, and ordered Akre and Wilson to fork over $400,000 to Fox.

If the truth is to be told, the lack of integrity among many corporate journalists is indeed the real reason why the rBGH additive exists in the milk supply today. It is also the reason why some estimate that two-thirds of foods on supermarket shelves are laced with genetically enhanced ingredients — without the knowledge of consumers. The media’s lack of attentiveness to public service is also the reason why trans-fats, damned years ago by doctors everywhere, remain in scores of products consumed by millions of children and adults.

The “inside-the-beltway” reporters, perhaps fearing that they would lose precious contacts within the government, have refused to question former FDA second-in-command (and current FDA consultant) Michael R. Taylor about his time at the Department of Agriculture when he helped rBGH slip through the approval process after a mere 90 days of testing on rats, thereby opening the floodgates to a new era of rBGH-laced food. It's even more curious and scandalous because, as I revealed a decade ago, Taylor not only worked for the Dept. of Agriculture and the FDA...but on Monsanto's legal team as well.

After billions of dollars of profits by Big Food and Big Pharma have already been registered, a Federal Appeals Court has finally overturned an Ohio state ban on label statements such as “rbGH Free,” “rbST Free” and “artificial hormone free” on milk from cows that have not been treated with genetically modified bovine growth hormone (a.k.a. bovine somatotropin, or rbST). This “freedom of choice” that was granted by the Federal Court came after years of petitioning by health food stores, organic food suppliers and many others.

But for Akre and Wilson, both who are unemployed, the news came far too late. For these heroes—ten years before their time—the pats on the back will not help them feed their families or pay for much-needed health care. Wilson recently had heart surgery; Akre has yet to find another job in television aside from some freelance work she masterfully performed for me a few years back.

As consumers, will we continue to succumb to this bullying? Will we expose the corporate interests that dominate our news? Will we demand balanced reporting from the networks — and boycott their programming if they do not deliver on that basic tenet?

Just as we boast about our nation delivering the finest health care in the world, we often brag about “the free press” here in the United States. But in the words of Julian Whitaker, M.D., “How can we say we live in a free country when we can’t even tell the truth about nutritional supplements?” — and in the tragic case of Akre and Wilson, who are still facing bankruptcy — “How can we say we live in a free country when we can’t even tell the truth about rBGH?"

It is only through the active support of independent journalists and yes, independent filmmakers who dare to produce work with integrity—despite all of the odds— that we will ever attain “fully informed choice.” We must speak for it, vote for it, spend our heard-earned dollars to support it—or it will wither away.

If we fail to support the truth tellers, the forces of secrecy and money will win — and we will all lose.

Just ask Jane Akre and Steve Wilson.

Heroes. A dying breed.

WATER, WATER, EVERYWHERE. . .

2010-10-15T01:45:00.001-04:00

IT'S ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS LINES EVER WRITTEN, but when Samuel Taylor Coleridge published 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' he could not have envisioned the nightmarish truth to the words "water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink."

When I was filming my documentary GENERATION RX, I met a British psychiatrist and we talked about the revelation that Prozac had been discovered in the River Thames . . .had entered the water supply and was literally being consumed by millions of Brits.

"Are people in London really THAT depressed?" I asked him, somewhat sheepishly.

"No, no. . .no," was his response while chortling.

As it turns out, however, our conversation was no laughing matter.

Over the past few years, events have proven that the concern over drugs in public rivers and streams are not limited to the UK. In America, the Associated Press (AP) uncovered that “at least 271 millions of pounds” of unused pharmaceuticals are being released by the drug companies in our public waterways annually. Millions more are flushed down the toilet and down the drain, according to environmental watchdogs, including the painkillers ibuprofen and naproxen as well as gemifibrozil, a cholesterol-lowering medication, and further research has shown that drugs containing hormones such as estrogen are causing changes and deformities in fish and other aquatic creatures..and endangering human health.

Make no mistake: we are also the victims of industry, hospitals and nursing homes which are pumping powerful contaminants and intoxicants like lithium into the world's drinking water every single day, which is being mixed in a cesspool of antibiotics, nitroglycerin (a heart drug that is also used in explosives), and dozens of different active pharmaceutical ingredients used for treatment of hypertension, heart disease, chronic liver ailments, depression, gonorrhea, ulcers and other ailments.

It's not only bad news for the fish, but for tens of millions of us.

If one refuses to take this threat seriously, they need only look to India, where a growing environmental and public health disaster is looming. When researchers analyzed vials of treated wastewater from a plant where about 90 Indian drug factories dump their residues, they were stunned to discover that a powerful antibiotic, ciprofloxacin, was "being spewed into one stream each day." Enough antibiotics were being released daily "to treat every person in a city of 90,000."

And it’s not just ciprofloxacin. The water — supposedly cleaned by a wastewater filtration plant — was "a floating soup of 21 different active pharmaceutical ingredients, used in generics for treatment of hypertension, heart disease, chronic liver ailments, depression, gonorrhea, ulcers and other ailments," according to the AP.

Researchers in India said, "It is the highest levels of pharmaceuticals ever detected in the environment," but then again, this level of testing has yet to arrive in North America, where the AP has confirmed that this nightmare is coming to an ocean, stream, lake, or landfill near you.

"One thing is clear,” the AP report warned, “the massive amount of pharmaceuticals being flushed by the health services industry is aggravating an emerging problem: the commonplace presence of. . .pharmaceuticals in the nation's drinking water supplies, affecting at least 46 million Americans."

The AP series follows one by the New York Times last Spring, the BBC last year, the UK's Guardian newspaper and probably countless others. Millions of tons of narcotics, antipsychotics, antidepressants, stimulant drugs and more are being ingested by children, the elderly, and well, ALL of us who do not use some kind of sophisticated water purification system.

Now, that the AP has confirmed that codeine, lithium (used in bipolar drugs), blood thinners, chemotherapy agents like fluorouracil, epilepsy drugs and sedatives are being released into the environment by the ton, North America and the rest of the world had better take notice — and take action to protect themselves. Anyone who does not have access to a powerful water filtration system is playing Russian roulette every time they drink water from the tap.

Indeed, the situation gets darker and far more dangerous every single day. As tons of drugs taint the world's water supply, this issue only underscores the horrors we must confront as petrochemical and other multinationals vie for water privatization — and more power over our health — and our lives.

Kevin P. Miller is an award-winning writer/director. This article was submitted as part of BLOG ACTION DAY 2010. Go to blogactionday.change.org

FREE WILL IN THE AGE OF NEUROSCIENCE

2010-09-26T17:58:00.000-04:00

Photo Illustration by Buckner Sutter http://intao7.wordpress.com

IT WAS LARGELY A BOOK ABOUT EVIL, the Holocaust and one man's decades-long obsession with finding the most genocidal tyrant to ever walk planet Earth. In 1982, literary critic and essayist George Steiner took his fixation with Adolph Hitler and delivered The Portage to San Cristóbal of A.H., a daring and disturbing philosophical fantasy about one man's belief that Hitler had survived World War II and the destruction of Germany. In the novel's opening pages, the Führer is discovered in the jungles of South America. He is an an old man and looks a lot like the images we recall of a wild-eyed Saddam after he emerged from his subterranean existence and was forced into the arms of his American captors.

While I have not read Portage for over 25 years, the most memorable passages of the book explore German sensibilities during the war itself, in a time when Nazism began to eviscerate human rights and human lives. The Germany Steiner richly details is one of societal dualities; on the one hand, the nation had been considered among the most culturally rich societies on earth; yet from this beauty, there existed a dark and inescapable brutality that was evident for all to see.

As we know, Germany offered the world the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, the late Middle Age art of Albrecht Dürer, and technological achievements such as automobiles with gas-powered combustible engines. They even developed one of the finest university systems in the world, so how, Steiner asks, did these people — rich with wealth, culture, education and technology, allow this horror to occur?

In one very powerful chapter, Steiner meticulously paints a portrait of the country's elite, perched at windows far above a popular theatre, as they witness the extermination of commoners and Jews on the streets below the playhouse. The same people who “shed tears during a tragic play,” Steiner wrote, displayed an odd ambivalence to the tragedies of real people crying for help as the Nazi atrocities unfolded.

I am reminded of Steiner’s work once again because as I approach the two year anniversary of my documentary GENERATION RX — a film about the wanton use of psychotropic drugs among children and teens — I realise that the same indifference abounds as it pertains to the health and futures of our young people. Every day — for two years — I have been bombarded with horrifying letters and tales of real people affected by the trauma these powerful drugs have caused. . .and they keep coming. . .from parents and teachers and students and loved ones.

Yet, there is silence — from doctors who should know better, from educators, from elected officials , government agencies, and yes, most horridly of all, from the media.

In the wake of this realisation, I will admit to be absolutely stunned at how little North Americans understand about the drugs they are forcing down the throats of so many young Galileo's. For reasons of public politeness, we bow before profit-based science and ignore the journalistic cowardice which surrounds us. This “disconnect” between what medicine has told us about ADHD, bipolar and the “plague of mental illness” — and the reality of the life-changing harm these drugs often inflict, is a gulf so wide that it is, well, maddening.

JUST THIS MORNING, I received a phone call from a health food storeowner and nutritionist. Every day, she is approached by parents who are desperate to find help for their beloved children as the side effects of ADHD drugs, antipsychotics and antidepressants take their toll. They have tried every drug the “experts” have recommended, only to see their loved ones slip further away. . .drunk with dark images and in need of help.

She told me the tragic tale of yet another teenager whose health has been stolen from him by the deadly thief called methylphenidate, or Ritalin. One year ago, the young man apparently possessed the good looks of a soap opera star, and teenage girls swooned as he walked the halls of his high school. He was a superior athlete and student, but that was all prior to him being diagnosed with ADHD.

Ten months later, his weight has dropped to around 100 pounds and there is a real possibility he could die while under a doctor's “care.”

Since Methylphenidate was classified in the U.S. under the 1971 Convention on Psychotropic Substances as a Schedule II drug, we can’t say we didn’t realise the dangers. Many times since that seminal report, methylphenidate has been characterized as “Speed” — as highly addictive and risky. In 1971, despite the warnings, psychiatrists and MDs began using speed for the pre-ADHD diagnosis of a condition called “Minimal Brain Dysfunction.” By doing so, they ignored the potential for abuse, for addiction, and of atrophy of the vital organs, especially the heart.

IN THE HEALTHFOOD STORE, the young man was extremely sick by the time his parents finally decided they needed another opinion. Worried to death about their son — and saying they were not sure if he would live to see his next birthday — they pleaded to speak with the owner and nutritionist. They had followed the advice of their doctor and psychiatrist , they told her, but their son continued to decline.

The owner explained to the parents that her store could be shut down by Health Canada for simply speaking with them about ADHD, pulled them into her office and then continued in whispered tones. The methylphenidate, she said, had taught the boy’s body not to eat. “This child is starving,” she told the mom, noting that Ritalin, with its cocaine and speed-like properties, was the obvious culprit. “But the psychiatrist diagnosed his lack of appetite as depression,” the mother said. “So they added an antidepressant to his regimen.”

A few weeks after taking antidepressants, the mother said between sobs, the young man uttered aloud, “I just don’t want to live like this anymore.”

The parents stood before the health food store owner with tears streaming down their cheeks. It is a scene she has witnessed innumerable times since the 1990s, and each time she discusses disease conditions like this, she never knows for sure whether the people standing before her are undercover agents for Health Canada. . .or just what they appear to be: people in distress. . .people in need of answers.

When I produced GENERATION RX, I did so to arm parents with the facts they need in order to make a fully informed choice about healthcare. I produced the film to amplify the ‘cries from the street’ — to give a voice to those who are being ignored by society at large, and to provide the tools to enable parents to fight back if necessary.

But I wonder — in this age of neuroscience — if we haven’t brought George Steiner’s commiserations to life? Whether we’d shed tears watching It’s a Wonderful Life, but not for real the traumas of a tortured child or his parents?

Will futurists ask, “How did these people, rich with culture, education and technology allow this horror to occur?”

I wonder.

Like Steiner's book, though, one thing is very clear: citizens of this planet must choose — whether to exercise our freedoms in ways that do not conform to the wishes of those in power — or whether to take part in a history from which we avert our eyes. . .away from the horrors on the streets below.

A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY

2010-08-26T09:21:00.001-04:00

We must vigilantly stand on guard within our own borders for human rights and fundamental freedoms which are our proud heritage. The experiences of many. . .make it clear that we cannot take for granted the continuance and maintenance of those rights and freedoms.

—John G. Diefenbaker, 1960

THERE WAS A TIME, early in my life, when everything I knew about Canada emanated from the people I met in a small town on the banks of the Trent River in Ontario. Every summer I made the annual trek to the same humble cottage outside Peterborough to be with my Canadian friends. We fished, soaked up the wilderness which lined the river, threw baseballs, played horse shoes and read comic books until we were forced to separate at bedtime, only to begin the cycle all over again upon sunrise the next morning.

Even though I was not yet in my teens, my parents recognized their son's cultural curiosity and my appetite for news and current events. They both encouraged me “as a visitor to Canada” to absorb as much I could about Canadian life. I remember my Dad underscoring that it was a sign of respect to the nation and its people, and more directly to our hosts whom he befriended until the time of his death in 2008. Part of that ritual entailed listening to the CBC on radio and watching “Canada's Walter Cronkite,” anchorman Lloyd Robertson, but we also spent time contrasting and comparing the Parliamentary system of government with the U.S. Congress.

In a way, my recent documentary A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY was drawn directly from the experiences of my youth. The film returned me to the age of John Diefenbaker and John Turner — to an age of integrity and activism. . .and to a time when I thought that Canada, not the U.S., was the greatest nation on Earth.

But all of that is in danger now, as steady streams of unconstitutional legislation like Bill C-51, C-6, C-17 (the “anti-terror bill), and the latest affront to Canadians, Bill C-36, keep getting sent to Ottawa. Even though these bills violate basic civil liberties and clearly flaunt language that could make Canadians subject to the dictates of foreign authorities, few seem to have noticed, let alone sound the alarm bells for their neighbors.

A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY has been described as a “patriotic and sentimental” film. I believe that's true, and I hope my brothers and sisters in Canada seek it out (it's online for free here ), and take a long and sober look at where the nation is headed. For, if the trends I outline in the film continue, our beloved Canada will not only lose its identity, but its sovereignty — and could become virtually undistinguishable from the United States.

What is the catalyst for this Orwellian legislation? The answer is 'Free Trade,' the very thing John Turner tried to warn his countrymen and women about 25 years ago. Turner knew that there would be a terrible price to pay if former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney was able to pass what Turner called “the sale of Canada act.”

Like so many visionaries, he was scoffed at. But decades later, with 20/20 hindsight, we see he was right. Free Trade deals have punished Canada — and pulled the nation into a whirlpool filled with multinational sharks. Canada has suffered, and stands at a tipping point with dangerous legislation like Bill C-36.

But it doesn't have to be. Canadians can stand and be counted. . .and just say no.

PROPONENTS OF MODERN FREE TRADE AGREEMENTS have long opined that global trade and commerce would transform the social, economic, and political landscape of world. This “new global commerce,” they argued, would be the vehicle of unprecedented economic growth for the poor, and prosperity for the rest of us. When the new General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) was presented to the world in 1994, media “insiders” hailed it with glowing reviews, calling it a “breakthrough trade agreement” that would finally liberate global capital and third-world economies.

The modern multinational mantra for a new era of free trade agreements began when the GATT treaty was signed and the World Trade Organization (WTO) was born to replace it. In the years that followed, NAFTA (the North American Free Trade Agreement) continued the cavalcade of free trade agreements between Canada, Mexico, South America, the United States, and now, the European Union. The latter is particularly troubling, as the EU continues to cede authority to international bureaucracies like the World Health Organization, the WTO, and another mysterious international body called Codex Alimentarius.

Is this Canada's future?

The cycle of ‘free trade’ agreements has increased exponentially: the Canada-Colombia Free Trade Agreement mimics many others like it, and the proposed CETA, the Comprehensive Economic and Trade Agreement with the EU, awaits Parliamentary approval in Canada.

Rather than heralding a new day for the poor, as promised, chaos has increased in Mexico and South America, where millions have been protesting the effects of the treaties since their inception. The biggest beneficiaries of NAFTA were multinational corporations who, after shutting down small farms and businesses that were the lifeline to their communities, have used the trade agreements to create new monopolies on everything from water to food to energy. The Council of Canadians, led by Maude Barlow, has been a vocal opponent of CETA and many free trade deals, wisely pointing to the massive unemployment they have caused, particularly in the manufacturing workforce.

In Canada, NAFTA has decimated the textile industries in Ontario and blindsided non-corporate agriculture as well. The National Farmers Union concluded in 2002 that free trade agreements, “may increase trade, but much more importantly, they dramatically alter the relative size and market power of the players in the agri-food production chain. Free trade helps Cargill and Monsanto, not farmers.”

Each trade agreement signed by members of the World Trade Organization ties each nation closer to the WTO and it’s bureaucratic backroom decision-making process. It’s problematic for many reasons. As the WTO becomes judge and jury, it usurps more power to regulate healthcare, genetically modified organisms (GMOs), pesticides, and indeed, what is “allowable” in foods and chemicals of all kinds. Since the sunshine of public scrutiny is not allowed in this elite club, Canada and the U.S. face unfathomable hardships if these trends continue unchequed.

With each 'Free Trade' agreement Canada signs, it loses more sovereignty to another international trade body, which have become bureaucratic sledgehammers for Big Food and Big Pharma to further exert their will over the masses. One group, called Codex Alimentarius (Latin for 'Food Code'), now threatens to control the food and medicine supply worldwide, backed by the enforcement power of the WTO. When Codex was spawned back in 1963 as a creation of two arteries of the United Nations — The Food and Agricultural Organization and the World Health Organization — nearly everyone endorsed their two major goals: to provide nutritious foods for developing nations — and to shape guidelines for dangerous industrial chemicals in the food supply. Within the past decade, however, Codex Alimentarius has altered its' mission dramatically to include a wide swath of products including dietary supplements, pesticides and genetically modified organisms.

How does this affect Canada, you might ask? Simply put, language in Bill C-36, like its predecessors Bills C-51 and C-6, allows for bypassing something called Canada's Statutory Instrument's Act. The Statutory Instrument's Act was instituted to protect citizens from runaway bureaucratic agencies (like Health Canada, who wrote the language of these Bills). The Act was put in place so that if Health Canada introduced unlawful regulations and policies, Parliament could scrutinize them and revoke them if necessary.

In the new Bill C-36, Health Canada has proposed that the powers provided to Parliament should be forfeited so that Canada can “honor its international agreements and commitments.” If Bill C-36 and similar Bills are adopted, foreign entities, multinational corporate interests, Codex, WTO and WHO would be free to write self-serving laws that affect Canadians — and they could do so by bypassing Parliament completely.

Perhaps this is what they mean by 'Free Trade' — 'free' of oversight by elected officials.

As I say in A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY, “the bold mention of C-51, C-6, or C-36 circumventing public debate and surrendering sovereignty to an international body should send shivers up the spines of Canadians.”

According to Canadian Trade lawyer Steven Shrybman, “The best evidence of what lies in store for governments is provided by claims now proceeding under the NAFTA dispute regime,” which featured a dispute by Centurion Health, a US health service provider, for $160 million because it claims that Canadian governments prevented it from establishing a chain of private health clinics. Next came Dow AgroSciences, who sued for millions because Quebec is banning the use of their herbicide 2, 4 D. The notorious defoliant and herbicide Agent Orange, used widely in Vietnam, contained 2, 4D, which is highly toxic to the liver, has caused male reproductive problems, and more. Yet the Quebec government stands before an international tribunal “accused” of the awful crime of trying to protect its citizens from Dow's madness.

Because Canada signed NAFTA, however, Dow, Centurion and hundreds of other multinational corporations can demand compensation through the WTO dispute resolution process because of what they term “unfair trade practices.”

This is one of the “big lies” of what has been termed as “Free Trade.” As we now know, there is nothing “free” about it, save for the handouts being given to Big Food, Big Pharma, and the rest of the petrochemical industries.

Canada is at a tipping point. Unless we use our democratic mechanism to oppose what agencies like Health Canada are doing, legislation like Bill C-36 and its twin, the infamous Bill C-51 (waiting in the wings to be relaunched) will go far beyond being just a nuisance. This is not hyperbole—this is fact.

For those who rely upon natural products like dietary supplements, Health Canada has hired PR hacks to infiltrate social media like Twitter and Facebook to push the notion that Bill C-36 does NOT apply to Natural Health Products, or Drugs, or Cosmetics. They are, as usual, only telling part of the story. Health Canada continues to intentionally delay the approval of safe herbs, amino acids, and mineral/vitamin formulations for no legitimate reason whatsoever, thereby restricting the legitimate use of these supplements by Canadians.

As I have described, the language in the Bill itself—like Bill C-6 and Bill C-51 before it— is so dangerous that it literally threatens Canadian life as we know it. If Dr. Eldon Dahl can be raided over B-vitamins, if Truehope Nutritional Support and health food stores and pharmacies can be raided before these bills are passed, what does the future hold for Canada after this unconstitutional legislation makes it through Parliament? If inventories can be seized on mere “suspicion” of illegal activities, if citizens are allowed to be terrorized in guns-drawn raids over some of the safest products on the planet, what will Health Canada do with the increased powers they would be afforded through Bill C-36?

Make no mistake: we have already seen the future, dressed in the guise of Free Trade Agreements and multinational corporate control...and it's not a pretty sight.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” wrote Charles Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities. “It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way.”

I choose to believe that Canada can still become the world leader I envisioned in my youth, but as my film points out, the nation's entangling alliances have seriously endangered that boyhood vision. This silent coup could happen in a matter of years — not decades — if Canadians refuse to act. Bill C-36 — and all other unconstitutional legislative efforts must be defeated.

It's a question of sovereignty.

Kevin P. Miller is an international award-winning Writer/Director. His latest film is called A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY. This is his first column for Agora News, a Canadian monthly magazine, which can be found at www.AgoraNews.org

MONSANTO, DOW, BAYER SOWING DANGEROUS TRENDS IN SEED INDUSTRY

2010-07-29T07:56:00.004-04:00

Frank Morton thinks we are heading for trouble as consolidation has overtaken the seed industry. In this video, Morton, an organic seed breeder from Philomath, Oregon, explains the current structure of the global commercial seed industry and describes how the giants of agriculture and chemicals are usurping the majority of seed businesses—and why we should be concerned about that.

WE BECOME SILENT- polskie napisy

2010-07-27T14:36:00.000-04:00

...And for our Polish-speaking friends, here's a translated version of my 2005 film WE BECOME SILENT (polskie napisy), my film about Codex Alimentarius. It was produced in a few months' time back then...and I look forward to releasing a brief update on Codex very soon.

I love this stuff...!

Press For Truth Interviews Kevin P. Miller

2010-07-26T20:18:00.000-04:00

Generation Rx continues to generate interest among international media. Here is an interview with me that was just released by Press for Truth from Canada.

Please let me know what you think.

REBORN ON THE 4th OF JULY

2010-07-04T10:27:00.002-04:00

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly when I was little, and as the next sibling above me in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?”

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I was 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than Chris, and suddenly, we were the same size.

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park outside of Cleveland, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing.

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

TEENAGED ANGST AND ALL, my friend Robin and I were looking forward to the fireworks. Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day and we were really looking forward to the evening.

When we were about five minutes from Lakewood Park, the sky turned from beautiful sunshine to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, Robin and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. So much rain drenched us that we were shivering, and the temperature felt like it had dropped by twenty degrees in just a few minutes time.

And then there were the power lines. . .live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets.

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as Robin and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris.

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. The transistor radio was on — and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones Robin and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang.

It was Lakewood Hospital—my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it.”

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree that was over four feet in diameter had hit Chris, and discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed the sister of one of my classmates.

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother — who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 41st anniversary of that day.

On the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God—that if he would spare the life of my brother that I would not fight with him—ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

But forty-one years later I am happy to report that God did indeed answer my prayers — on that night when the storm changed everything.

A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY

2010-07-03T02:12:00.000-04:00

A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY - a film by Kevin P. Miller from Kevin P. Miller on Vimeo.

In this patriotic and sentimental film, international award winning Writer/Director Kevin P. Miller (GENERATION RX, WE BECOME SILENT) exposes how Canadians are being stripped of their personal sovereignty by government agencies — and how free trade deals and other international agreements imperil Canadian democracy.

Quietly, over a period of many years, unconstitutional legislation encompassed in Bills C-51, C-6, and the current Bill C-36 have placed not only basic civil liberties and freedoms at risk, but Canada's national sovereignty as well. The film shares how entangling alliances with groups like the World Trade Organization, the World Health Organization, Codex Alimentarius, the United States and even multinational corporate interests have become so powerful that they literally threaten to make elected officials in Parliament irrelevant.

A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY discusses why this dramatic shift in the balance of power puts the nation and its people at a vital crossroad early in the 21st century — and why some of the past giants of Canadian politics may hold the answers to Canada's future.

A BALLET AT SEA

2010-06-30T16:19:00.009-04:00

On days like this, I am so grateful to still be in possession of my conscience.

I received an email from a friend counseling me, "Do NOT boycott BP," because, as his logic went, "this is minus-IQ thinking. If they go under, who will pay for ten years of clean up? Right, us, the tax payer."

His solution? "I say find a BP station and fill up. After they repair my beach then go ahead and Boycott them."

This startling recommendation followed a discovery I made about a month ago that BP had hired PR flaks—er, "bloggers" to report on the progress of the cleanup effort. One of the writers, Paula Kolmar, who is obviously a fan of science fiction and fantasy, wrote the following about the clean up efforts as if she were describing the epic travails of Odysseus:

"Watching the captains weave the long black boom as seamlessly as a professional ballet troupe performs an intricate dance," Kolmar writes, was "a ballet at sea as mesmerising as any performance in a concert hall, and worthy of an audience in its own right."

In this oddly American life: one person advises to give BP — the 4th largest corporation in the world more money; while another Hemingway-to-be says the fight to contain oil gushing into the Gulf is 'a ballet at sea."

How the latter author can sleep at night mystifies me, but then, Hemingway or not, she is probably far wealthier than I.

And all she had to do to earn that cash was to check her conscience at the door.

ISLANDS OF TROUBLE IN CANADA

2010-06-27T16:02:00.008-04:00

"Cowardice asks the question, 'Is it safe?' Expediency asks the question, 'Is it polite?' Vanity asks the question, 'Is it popular?' But conscience asks the question, 'Is it right?' And there comes a point when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor polite, nor popular, but one must take it because his conscience tells him that it is right." —Martin Luther King, Jr.

I have just uploaded my new film about Canada called A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY. You can find it online at vimeo.com — but know that I will publish it here tomorrow as well.

Unlike many, if not most of my countrymen, Canadians rarely display the kind of angst and vitriol that we do on a daily basis here in the U.S. It's one of the things I love about Canada. But it's also a bit problematic when the G20 comes to town and Ontario Police—quickly and all-too-quietly, secure unbelievable powers—Charter of Rights and Freedoms be damned.

The Toronto Globe and Mail reported the following yesterday:

"The Ontario government was more than just heavy-handed and oppressive in giving police wide powers at the G20 Summit in Toronto – it was sneaky, too. With no forewarning, no chance of debate, no time for a court challenge, it quietly declared the downtown area within the security fence an “island of non-constitutionality,” as a civil liberties lawyer describes it. The secrecy is nearly as bad as the substance. While the state has a right to prevent violence, what right has it to pre-empt debate and challenge?"

My ultimate question for the G20 leaders is, "Why do you put your citizens through this trauma every year?" Over $1billion Canadian dollars were spent on security alone—and the actual figure for the entire G20 summit could be twice that amount. I mean, seriously, people, if securing the safety of these world leaders is going to cost so much, both in terms of dollars and the loss of civil liberties, why not move the G20 meetings to an ISLAND somewhere so we can pretend that we still live in democracies. . .you know, places where dissent is actually allowed? Or will the “islands of non-constitutionality” simply grow larger, and encompass whole cities and provinces in the future?

As my new film reflects, Canada is a land of unparalleled beauty. Though they live in the shadow of the U.S., many of us are praying that they do not emulate the pattern we have here — one of capitalism becoming more important than democracy.

As we go forward together to publicize A QUESTION OF SOVEREIGNTY, I hope many of my Canadian friends and loved ones follow their conscience—and not be intimidated by the tactics being employed by the government surrounding the events of the G20. Health Canada has ALREADY pushed the "island" way past the border of constitutionality. . .so where will it stop?

Have courage, my Canadian brothers and sisters. STAND TALL. For if we don't demand our rights, government agencies, from Health Canada to provincial governments will usurp civil liberties permanently, as they have done in Toronto during the G20.

They have put their treasonous language in plain sight for all to see in Bills C-51, 52, C-6, and the newly introduced Bill C-36. The time to act is now. . .in the name of Mother Canada.

TORONTO STAR PHOTO by LUCAS OLENIUK

AN EPITAPH FOR FATHER'S DAY

2010-06-20T12:40:00.001-04:00

I MISS SPEAKING TO MY DAD. There were so many times, over a thirty-year period when I would call him just to hear the sound of his voice.

Of course, I never told him that, but it is true.

My dad was a Southern gentleman: raised Baptist; a convert to Catholicism; conservative to the core. He was, without a doubt, the most ethical man I’ve ever known. He would never associate with anyone or anything he deemed ‘shady’ or unethical. And if he caught wind of one of his children doing so, there would be Hell to pay.

As the second last of seven children, my relationship to my dad seemed different. As a writer, I often challenged his notions of how the world worked — and recall some short stories and articles I wrote in high school that must have put Dad in a terrible quandary — and made him uncertain how to react.

To his credit, he never once forbade me from writing about any subject, no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel. He could have done so — and I believe I would have honored his command.

But he did not interfere, sensing that this was who I was born to be: an artist, ‘agitator,’ of sorts, a mirror for society. . .a writer.

In February 2007, I was engulfed by Generation RX. The call came on a Sunday that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness and that it wouldn’t be long before he would die. It took me about 10-12 hours to process that, as I was rather numb upon hearing the news.

During my flight from Cleveland to Boise 36 hours later, however, I had plenty of time to sort through our many years of physical separation and replayed many of the events of my childhood. The nuggets I re-discovered have been applied — successfully or not — to my life as a single Dad.

AT 35,000 FEET, I thought a lot about how affectionate I had been with my father. I sat on his lap and watched TV — far beyond the point of being a young child. By the time I was 13, I think, he FINALLY threw me off his lap. I was already taller than Dad’s 5’9” frame — and I’m pretty sure that I already weighed more than him also.

It took him months to enforce his new law for good, however, and something tells me he realized that I was the end of the line of Miller boys — and that like me, he wanted to relish every moment before I, too, was grown up and gone.

Most of my elder siblings say that my incessant, outward expressions of love for my dad simply “broke him down” over the years, and stripped away any remaining veneer of what were “appropriate” displays of emotions.

I, on the other hand, have always asserted that my poor old Dad was just worn out after five children — and by the time he got to me, his personal “Berlin Wall” had fallen.

The truth probably lies somewhere in between, but one thing seems certain: Dad realized somewhere along the line that no two children are alike — and that there is no “formula” for success.

WHEN I ARRIVED IN BOISE, my Mom led me to their bedroom, and forewarned me that Dad had not opened his eyes for nearly 24 hours. He had suffered another stroke and was unable to speak.

I got down on my knees, at eye-level with my father, who was turned on his side.

“Dad,” I said softly. “It’s Kevin. . .I am here.”

And Dad opened one eye. . .a final ‘miracle,’ of sorts.

Tears filled his one opened eye. Mine too. The Prodigal Son had returned. . . in time to see him off to the next realm.

Over the next 24 hours, I whispered to my Dad and spoke to him for hours, even though he never again opened his eyes. I told him what a good father he was; how proud I was to be his son, and more. I thanked him for allowing me to be the creative spirit I had become — even when it threatened him — and I thanked him for being the best Dad on the planet.

I told him it was okay to let go — his shift was over. . .his time here well-spent — his impact undeniable — his suffering complete.

Within a few hours, he was gone.

There is so much more I’d like to tell you about my Dad: that he played minor league baseball with the Phillies before the war, that he adored my Mom for well over a half-century; that he lived a good and productive life. But those will have to wait for another day.

Because now, I’m going to breakfast with my own sons — to make new memories — ones I pray they recall with fondness at a ripe old age.

Happy Father’s Day.

BILL C-6 BECOMES BILL C-36—BUT THE TREASONOUS LANGUAGE REMAINS

2010-06-15T09:48:00.006-04:00

First Bill C-51 & C-52, Then C-6 and NOW Bill C-36

The Canada Consumer Protection Act is back with a new name. On Wednesday, June 9th, Health Minister Leona Aglukkaq introduced Bill C-36, replacing the defeated Bill C-6. Bill C-36 is a proposed “modernization” of the Consumer Protection Act which will give government inspectors and agents more powers and consequently remove rights and freedoms from individual Canadians.

If you have been following the past incarnations of Bill C-36 you know what I’m talking about. Bill C-51 and C-52 contained language and provisions that were very disturbing and allowed for actions to be taken against individuals without legal recourse and without regard to “the rule of law”.

The Stop Bill C-51 movement received mainstream media attention and demonstrated to the Conservative Government that a significant number of Canadians are not in favour of this type of draconian legislation in Canada.

Constitutional lawyer Shawn Buckley has authored discussion papers on Bill C-51, C-52 and Bill C-6 which can be found at the Natural Health Product Protection Association’s website. Shawn Buckley is currently reviewing the newly tabled Bill C-36 and will present his analysis soon.

So far we have been lucky. Bill C51 and C52 were killed when the election was called. Bill C6 was stopped by the Senate and sent back to the House of Commons for amendment. Thanks to the hard work of Canadian Health Freedom Fighters and others who value freedom of choice and individual rights, the Senate heard loud and clear that this type of legislation is unacceptable. It also helped that we had a Liberal Senate while Bill C6 was under review in the Senate. This is not the case now that Prime Minister Stephen Harper has stacked the Senate by appointing more Conservative Senators. With a Conservative Majority it will be very difficult to fight Bill C36 in the Senate. The battle will have to be won in the House of Commons.

Click here to read Bill C-36

We should learn from the Fight the HST Campaign which is a very well organized and effective campaign to stop the HST in British Columbia. Bill C-36 can be defeated if enough people let the government know that they don’t support this type of regulation.

The Natural Health Products Protection Association are not merely fighting against these regulations they are promoting a better alternative. One which is balanced and respects the rights of individual freedom of choice. One which recognizes the need for effective regulation but does so within the rule of law. The Charter of Health Freedom is the legislation that will protect consumers and individual freedom of choice in health care.

HIGH SCHOOL DREAMS AND VICTOR MARTINEZ

2010-06-09T22:55:00.010-04:00

WHEN I WAS A TEENAGER, I wanted to be a sportwriter. It seemed natural enough, particularly because I was an athlete who ate drank and slept sports. After I won my very first award for writing as a sophomore, I was hooked—and declared to anyone who would listen that this would be my job in the future—there was no doubt about it.

I still remember the article; and it is true that the feeling of that first award has never been surpassed; not by film awards, Emmy nominations...nothing. It just so happens that I wrote about a kid named Scott Patterson, who was the leader of the Lakewood High School basketball team at the time.

“Seven minutes had elapsed since senior co-captain Scott Patterson wondered how—just how in the world—he made a 40 foot jump shot that won the championship for Lakewood,” the story began.

Scott Patterson and I were never friends, but I recall taking photographs of that game for our newspaper, The Lakewood High Times, and being in the thick of the post-game crush afterward. “Leaning against a wall in the Lakewood locker room,” I continued, “Scott was trapped—surrounded by reporters and well-wishers, each of whom could not believe what they had witnessed a few short minutes before.”

Patterson had been expected to lead the Rangers to the championship that year, based on his unbelievable shooting from the year before... but that is not what materialized in his senior year. Only once had he scored 13 points or higher. He was not the same player defensively, and kept getting beat off the dribble. Not surprisingly, Scott was down. Fame—even at the high school level—can become a cruel mistress, and Patterson's season of dreams had become a nightmare.

I AM REMINDED OF THESE HIGH SCHOOL DREAMS because of an article I read today by ESPNs Gordon Edes, one of the finest baseball writers around. It served to remind me why I am a writer—and why I wanted so desperately to become a sportswriter back then.

Before 24-hour TV sports and the hyping of sports figures as celebrities, sports encompassed something far more innocent. For athletes—and sportswriters—“the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” were only part of the story. In the off-season, most pro athletes stayed in the cities in which they played. They sold cars, worked in steel mills and sold insurance. They were part of the fabric of the entire town—not just their teams—and it was nice to know that these men were just “one of us.”

Okay, perhaps not “one of us,” but at least accessible to us.

In a masterful article written today by Edes, a few of those memories came flowing back as he wrote of Victor Martinez, the former Cleveland Indian catcher who is now with the Boston Red Sox. Last year when he was traded, Martinez was so distraught that he could not speak with reporters. He cried—and then gathered himself to face the bright lights.

Then he cried again. Those of us who knew Victor understood. He wanted to stay in Cleveland. He loved it here... and wanted to raise his family here. Inexplicably, as Cleveland teams are wont to do, the Indians traded one of the few who wanted to stay.

WHEN VICTOR MARTINEZ was drafted by the Cleveland baseball team, he did not speak a word of English. He arrived in Ohio from Venezuela and was assigned to play for the minor league Class A baseball team, the Mahoning Valley Scrappers, deep in the rust belt near Youngstown, Ohio. They played ball behind a shopping mall and as the story goes, walked two miles to and from games and stayed in a dilapidated motel.

But then Patti Bixler walked into his life.

As Edes writes, Martinez “had no idea who Patti Bixler was or what she was saying when she approached four Scrappers after one of their first games,” but when she discovered that the boys were walking—and where they were staying, she said, "Go home and get the van," to her husband, Bob. "We're taking these four boys home with us."

Bob's reaction? "You're not taking four boys home with us," he said.

"Oh, yes, we are," Patti said. "Two of them will stay with us, and we'll find homes for the other two."

Patti, Bob, and their son Ryan helped teach Victor Martinez the English language and how to manage his money. . .but they taught him so much more. They showed him the love of family.

"They're like my mom and dad," Martinez told Edes last night as Victor returned to Cleveland for the first time since being traded.

“By the end of that first summer, Martinez's English had improved dramatically,” Edes writes. The next season, he was in Kinston, N.C., where he hurt his shoulder, spent two months on the disabled list and then spent the rest of the summer in Columbus, Ga. The Bixlers went to see him play in both places. They returned the next summer to Kinston, where this time he won the Carolina League batting title, and they celebrated when he returned to Ohio to play for the Indians' Double-A team in Akron.

And then came his major league debut.

"Sept. 10, 2002," Bob said Monday night.

It was a night that none of them would soon forget, for very different reasons.

Ryan Bixler was 16 at the time and in the hospital, which was nothing new for him. He had cysts on his brain and had had so many operations that it was hard to keep track. "I think this was my 12th or maybe my 13th operation," he said. "I've had 16 in all."

That day, Martinez was called up to the big leagues. That night, Martinez hit a two-run single, knocking out the Jays' starting pitcher, before making the final out of the game. Bob and Patti Bixler sought him out afterward. Patti said, 'Victor, if you would, Ryan would love for you to come to the hospital.'

"He said, 'Mom, let's go.' I said, 'Are you kidding me?"'

All of them -- Bob and Patti, Victor and Margaret -- piled into Bob's car. Victor made sure he brought along the ball he'd kept as a memento of his first big league hit and the lineup card that he'd been given by interim manager Joel Skinner.

"As soon as he got to the hospital, he sat on the bed with Ryan, and for a couple of hours they played video games," Patti said. "That's what he did for the night of his debut."

The day after Martinez was traded this past summer, Ryan called him. That night, the Red Sox were scheduled to play the Orioles in Baltimore. "If you want to leave us tickets to the game so you will have a familiar face there, we'll come," he said.
Ryan and three of his buddies hopped in a car and drove to Baltimore, six hours away. You do those things for family.”

The Edes story catapulted me back—if for but a brief time— to the days when I wanted to become a sportwriter. Even then, I guess, I knew that the best stories are human ones. . .and that the best sports has to offer has little to do with who wins and loses on the field.

I learned about life's poetry at an early age. . .and though it seems I write about injustice—sometimes far too often, my roots are easy to spot.

“Scott Patterson walked out of the locker room. His hair uncombed, his shoes untied, Scott lumbered around the corner of the gymnasium. Before he could raise his head, he was greeted by a thunderous ovation from the fans who stood applauding and cheering his name.

He couldn't help smiling.

It had been a tough season—the worst that he could could have imagined, in fact. But now, Scott beamed at the sound he had been so unaccustomed to hearing.

It was a miracle shot, in more ways than one. . .a miracle shot indeed.”

Last night, after the Red Sox defeated the Indians, Victor Martinez drove "home" to Mahoning Valley to sleep at the home of his adopted family—even though it is sixty miles away. And today, for this old sportswriter, all is well with the world.

COWS ON DRUGS

2010-06-05T13:28:00.005-04:00

Here is a Letter to the Editor of the Cleveland Plain Dealer
Chances are slim that they'll publish it...so here you go:

Editor:

The editorial by former FDA chief Donald Kennedy (“Cows on Drugs,” PD) that you published was selectively incomplete. Kennedy discussed the widespread use of what he termed “the nontherapeutic use of antibiotics” in livestock and agriculture — and how this leads to antibiotic resistance among humans who consume meat, dairy, and other foods.

I agree with those sentiments, but Kennedy neglects to mention the other commonly accepted practice of injecting cows with another drug: a synthetic hormone known as rBGH, a recombinant bovine growth hormone. This hormone is a clear and present danger to children across the country and continues to be ignored by Kennedy and officials at FDA.

Why? Well, it's really quite simple. FDAs Michael R. Taylor, the former second-in-command at the agency, used to work as part of the legal team for Monsanto, the creator of the rBGH product called Posilac. After leaving FDA, Taylor went to the Department of Agriculture, where he quickly — and quietly helped get rBGH approved for consumer use.

It's been in the milk supply ever since.

Thus, the vast majority of the milk that parents encourage their children to drink is laced with this chemical growth hormone. . .yet not a word in Kennedy's missive addressed this very serious public health problem. According to research scientists Dr. William von Meyer, "A human drug requires two years of carcinogenic testing and extensive birth defect testing. rBGH was tested for 90 days on 30 rats at any dose before it was approved," yet there is more concern about regulating antioxidants at the FDA than this class of recombinant drugs originated by one of the world's greatest villains.

If you want to know why the breasts of so many young girls seem to be developing at younger ages, wouldn't a growth hormone in milk be a likely suspect? And should we not be concerned about the fact that cows injected with rBGH often live much shorter lives — and have a history of serious hoof and other problems? Dr. Daniel Epstein from the Univ. of Illinois certainly believes so. After studying these synthetic growth hormones for decades, Epstein said, “There are highly suggestive if not persuasive lines of evidence showing that consumption of this milk poses risks of breast and colon cancer."

Monsanto has now sold their Posilac unit. How appropriate. They already made billions off of consumers nationwide—and then passed the risk onto consumers. But before they left the rBGH market, they sued small dairy farms who wanted to label their milk as “rBGH Free.” Here in Ohio, agribusiness has been fighting to remove the same labels, and to disallow “organic” labels on milk and dairy. Consumer advocates wonder why their freedom to know which chemicals are present in the milk supply is being challenged.

And whither Michael R. Taylor, the former FDA bigwig? Ah, — the Obama administration, in their infinite wisdom, hired him as a “consultant.” If one wants petrochemicals to rule the world, Mr. Taylor is in the perfect position to "help."

The reality is, until we stop the revolving door between business and government, we will not be able to stop the abuses of insiders who craft public policy based on corporate interests. The media and the general public should drive Michael R. Taylor out of his advisory role at FDA and back to big business. From there, as I've said before, at least Taylor will know for whom he is fighting... because it certainly is not the US consumer.

Kevin P. Miller is an international award-winning writer/director from Cleveland. His latest documentary is called Generation RX.

FRIENDS AND VETERANS—AGAIN

2010-05-30T21:35:00.010-04:00

TODAY IS MEMORIAL DAY IN AMERICA. Thousands of miles away in Belgium, however, young schoolchildren began their day at the Flanders Field cemetery, honoring the fallen American heroes from World War I who helped save their country at a desperate time in Belgian history. As is customary, they sang the Star Spangled Banner and placed small American flags next to Belgian ones in memory of those who died to preserve the liberty of this great nation.

It gives me pause to consider that we're nearly 100 years removed from the ‘Great War,’ yet small children in Belgium still take the time to learn our national anthem and pay respect to our nation for its sacrifice.

Last Memorial Day evening, a family friend named Eric — an 18 year young man who had just graduated from high school — shipped off to boot camp as a Marine. This August he goes to Afghanistan. With the world in turmoil, it pains me to think that his tour of duty will mean long days and months of hazardous duty in such an unforgiving terrain. “Thank God his mother has passed on,” I sometimes think, but in reality, he probably would not have enlisted had she not died three years ago. That makes it extra sad for me.

I am a child of Vietnam. As a teenager I listened to audiotapes mailed home by my brother Martin from DaNang and for the first time heard what bombs and mortar fire really sounded like. I heard my brother's voice—while desperately trying to convey calm—speed up, then slow down, then go silent as the sound effects of bullets and explosions and helicopters filled the void. I finally told him of this experence at my Dad's funeral a few years back, and for a time, at least, it seemed to bridge a gulf molded by differences in age, distance—and yes, war.

Perhaps as penance, I became very involved with Vietnam vets. I interviewed and befriended many who served there. . .and truth be told, most are still not entirely free. Many are haunted; drunk with dark images of sniper fire and eerie, ghostlike images appearing — and dying in the jungle before them. These nightmares, this PTSD, persist after all these years. . .and that is what makes me wince when I think of young Eric.

I am proud of him — obviously. I pray for him every day. I honor his selflessness and courage, but I wish I could protect him—as if he were one of my own. He is strong as an ox, and yet I pray he is protected from the psychic horror of war as well.

On this Memorial Day, while we honor all of the brave men and women who serve; all who fought and died in foreign wars, perhaps we should also ask, “what will we do to support Eric and others when they return home from war?” It is a vital question to ponder as a new generation of young men and women return from the trauma of war. For, we cannot simply drug them; numb them; expect them to forget. Increasingly, that is what we're doing... and it's not right.

If we are going to ask them to fight on our behalf, then our solutions must be more personal and meaningful than that. We can't just fly a flag, nor pat them on the back. We must commit to be with them for the long hall—whatever that takes. If it means more taxes in order to try behavioral therapy, then so be it. If it means bringing back the real GI Bill so that these heroes can start a new life with a free college education and a new home, then they should be afforded that. If it means volunteering to be with them — when they return with a mental or physical prosthetic—if it means any of this or more—we must do it. There can be no more copping out, by politicians, the VA, military leaders or psychiatrists.

There is nothing more important than our human capital—our young men and women. There is no excuse any longer. As a nation, we have asked them to do our bidding; as a nation we must share the sacrifice necessary to help make them whole—if we humanly can.

As a very young boy, I tried, unsuccessfully, to extract the meaning of war from my father, who served in the Army overseas during World War II. He resisted, time and again, looking rather distressed and puzzled by the notion that his youngest son — the second last of seven children — had this persistent curiosity about his time in Italy fighting the enemy. Being a Southerner by birth, Dad was always a private man, with little interest in divulging excessive emotion or grandiose stories. But after years of pestering, he finally told me some painful stories about his experiences in WWII.

He had been sobered by war, to be sure — and I suspect he knew that the questions I asked as a boy were important to my understanding of him as a father—and as a man. Later, as he saw the unconditional respect I paid to Vietnam vets... it made him proud.

So on this Memorial Day, I choose to give thanks to not only the veterans who suffered — and perhaps died in faraway lands, but to the new recruits like Eric who are bracing themselves to fight in the nightmare of war. We should also thank our friends, who despite political and cultural differences, despite being called out for their opposition to the Iraq War, have stood at dawn, young and old, year after year, to honor us.

That's what friends do.

Happy Memorial Day.

May God Bless us all with peace.

A SIOUX PRAYER THAT 'THIS BLEEDING WILL STOP' IN GULF OF MEXICO

2010-05-29T23:01:00.005-04:00

My Relatives,

Time has come to speak to the hearts of our Nations and their Leaders. I ask you this from the bottom of my heart, to come together from the Spirit of your Nations in prayer.

We, from the heart of Turtle Island, have a great message for the World; we are guided to speak from all the White Animals showing their sacred color, which have been signs for us to pray for the sacred life of all things. As I am sending this message to you, many Animal Nations are being threatened, those that swim, those that crawl, those that fly, and the plant Nations, eventually all will be affect from the oil disaster in the Gulf.

The dangers we are faced with at this time are not of spirit. The catastrophe that has happened with the oil spill which looks like the bleeding of Grandmother Earth, is made by human mistakes, mistakes that we cannot afford to continue to make.

I asked, as Spiritual Leaders, that we join together, united in prayer with the whole of our Global Communities. My concern is these serious issues will continue to worsen, as a domino effect that our Ancestors have warned us of in their Prophecies.

I know in my heart there are millions of people that feel our united prayers for the sake of our Grandmother Earth are long overdue. I believe we as Spiritual people must gather ourselves and focus our thoughts and prayers to allow the healing of the many wounds that have been inflicted on the Earth. As we honor the Cycle of Life, let us call for Prayer circles globally to assist in healing Grandmother Earth (our Unc’I Maka).

We ask for prayers that the oil spill, this bleeding, will stop. That the winds stay calm to assist in the work. Pray for the people to be guided in repairing this mistake, and that we may also seek to live in harmony, as we make the choice to change the destructive path we are on.

As we pray, we will fully understand that we are all connected. And that what we create can have lasting effects on all life.

So let us unite spiritually, All Nations, All Faiths, One Prayer. Along with this immediate effort, I also ask to please remember June 21st, World Peace and Prayer Day/Honoring Sacred Sites day. Whether it is a natural site, a temple, a church, a synagogue or just your own sacred space, let us make a prayer for all life, for good decision making by our Nations, for our children’s future and well-being, and the generations to come.

Onipikte (that we shall live),
Chief Arvol Looking Horse
19th generation Keeper of the Sacred White Buffalo Calf Pipe

OUR CHILDREN ARE WATCHING US. . .

2010-05-22T18:26:00.002-04:00

I recall seeing this on public television almost 20 years ago, when I was about to be a father for the second time, and I also recall being moved to tears by the simple and eloquent challenge laid forth by Severn Cullis-Suzuki.

Watch this and tell me what you think. . .and remember, in the words of the beautiful Dixie Chicks song, that "our children are watching us, they trust in us. . .and they're gonna be like us."

I hope. . .