A Stimulating Thanksgiving for L

 

“It’s cool being a black man, ‘cuz everybody’s afraid of you.”

My family’s Thanksgiving was destroyed by the greed of AT&T and the Kohl’s Department Stores.  We had to postpone it until tonight, so that my sister, her son and her grandson could toil in the plantations of Big Business, making sure no coin was left un-snatched from America’s silly consumers.

So, I did what any proud, self-respecting senior citizen would do.  I invited myself to dinner at my long-time neighbors’ who have been trying to get me to their Thanksgiving table for nearly 20 years.  For the purpose of this post I will refer to them as the Guxtables, for this is a family right out of the mold of the famed, but fictitious, TV family.

My friends, B and C Guxtable, have a total of seven children, but only one of them is from their biological union.  Three of them are B’s nieces and nephews who, for one reason or another, were not able to be raised by their birth parents.  Two of them came to the Guxtables via private adoptions when they were infants.  One of them is Mr. Guxtable’s daughter who lives in another state with her mother.

They bought the antique Victorian across the street from my old house in 1995.  It was a shambles, with a crumbling foundation, jungle-like overgrowth in the huge yards and looking as if the only remedy for what ailed it was a bulldozer.  This is what it looks like today.  It is a Bed and Breakfast Inn and the home for the Guxtable clan.

Mama Guxtable is an IT executive who travels the world on business, while Papa G., recently retired from General Motors, helps run the B&B and makes sure the children and two dogs are accounted for, driven to lessons/practices/games, and the grounds stay as pristine as they can possibly be.  Happiness just pours out of those windows – along with the usual angst and drama that comes with teenagers and an 8-year-old who was born an adult. 

B and C are black Southerners, both born in North Carolina.  Two of their “daughters” (nieces, but they claim them as daughters) have a white mother and their father is B’s brother.  They look like me.  One of the adopted sons has skin the color of ebony piano keys and the chiseled facial features of movie star Lupita N’Yongo.  And their oldest “son” (nephew claimed as son), the product of another of B’s brothers and a Mexican woman, represents the most visually attractive aspects of each ethnicity.

B’s favorite sport is teasing me about my “pasty pallor,” once referring to me as White Chocolate.  I feign being insulted, after which we both dissolve in giggles.

I tutored their now 21-year-old daughter and their now 16-year-old son for several years.  I baby sat for all of them at one time or another, if only for a few hours.  They are like family to me.  That’s why it was not as bodacious as it may sound for me to simply crash their feast.

Ferguson, MO came up during the table talk, somewhere between the second-helpings of cornbread stuffing and candied yams.  Despite our pretty visible diversity of DNA, we were all on the same page when it came to our sense of hopelessness for ever seeing the end to America’s Dirtiest Not-So-Little secret.

There were a couple of non-family diners at the table.  One was another mixed-race young man who is the boyfriend of one of the older daughters.  The other was the young man who lives just down the street --I’ll call him John -- whose family was scheduled to eat at 4 p.m., but he was hungry at 1 p.m., so he decided to get an early start at the Guxtables’ table.  That’s the kind of family they are.  All are welcome all the time. 

John is a handsome, mocha-hued young man with the shoulders of a linebacker and the smile of a movie star.  His personality could light up the entire Christmas tree without having to plug it in.  After participating in the discussion about Mike Brown and the recent failure of Brown’s killer to be held accountable, John blurted out the sentence opening this post.

“It’s cool being a black man,’cuz everybody’s afraid of you.”  The laughter that followed was a combination of true appreciation of his humor and the nervous twitter of those of us who weren’t quite feeling the “coolness” of that statement.

John went on the describe the day he and his girlfriend were jogging on the hugely popular new Atlanta Beltline.  Apparently, his girlfriend is either white or a fair-skinned woman of one color or another.  A white man jogged past John and slowed down next to the girlfriend long enough to whisper “Be careful.  There’s a suspicious-looking man following you.”  John was wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

We all agreed we were most thankful, this brilliant and cold Thanksgiving Day, that none of our sons or brothers have had the misfortune of being gunned down while looking suspicious, scary, menacing, thuggish, threatening, or just plain guilty…of something.

I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND…

Coming as a surprise to absolutely no one I know, the grand jury in Ferguson, MO, in their infinite wisdom, decided there was not probable cause to charge the police officer who shot an killed and unarmed teenager, firing ten rounds of ammunition in the process.

Coming as a surprise to absolutely no one, the Ferguson District Attorney, in his conniving plotting, delayed the announcement of what was a foregone conclusion until 9 p.m. Monday, virtually guaranteeing the outbreak of destruction, looting and shooting they had been predicting for weeks.

Coming as a surprise to some, however, there is a huge difference between an organized protest demonstration and an outbreak of hooliganism staged under cover of darkness just for the hell of it.  Because they can.  Because it’s cool or dope or some other stupid adjective for describing willful delinquency. I say it is because they are damned fools who don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground.  How many IQ points does it take to understand that trashing, stealing and burning local businesses that serve ones own community is nothing short of insane?  What are they trying to prove, besides giving credibility to those misguided Americans who are convinced there is something inherently wrong with black people?

I need you, the reader, to understand some things about this latest exercise in judicial futility:

Let’s say we all take on face value the statement made by the DA that the evidence, and lots of it, pointed conclusively to the innocence of Officer Darren Wilson.  Let’s say we accept as fact that Michael Brown assaulted the officer, attempted to take his service revolver inside the patrol car and delivered a number of severe, injurious blows to the cop’s face.

Let’s say we all simply dismiss the multiple eye-witness accounts of the incident outside the patrol car that reported young Brown being shot from the back, turning and raising his hands in apparent surrender, and subsequently being fatally shot in the head.  Let’s all decide those eyewitnesses are, by definition, liars, because they are black and young and in cahoots with all young black men who have the balls to snatch a handful of cigarillos right in front of the storekeeper’s nose and then shoves a tiny man aside as he strides defiantly out the door. 

Let’s say we all agree that Officer Wilson was in fear for his life because Michael Brown was young, large and black.  I, myself, have absolutely no doubt that is true.  Let’s even disregard a recent article in the Daily Kos that demonstrates convincingly that the distance between the shooting officer and the victim, described repeatedly as 35 feet by the police, was actually 148 feet.

Let’s say we let slide the testimony reportedly given to the grand jury that “Office Darren Wilson never stood over” the sun-simmering corpse of Michael Brown, even though we can see clearly that is not true. 







I am willing to concede every last one of these “facts” to those of you who believe Michael Brown’s death was justifiable homicide on the basis of self-defense, if you can explain to me why it took ten rounds to neutralize the perp who was undisputedly unarmed, and why the only choice Wilson had to defend himself from this giant kid who was clearly nuts (as I’m convinced Wilson thought) was to put a bullet in his head and kill him.

I need you to understand that no matter how many different ways you explain to me that the police officer was within his rights to use what I consider excessive force, that Michael Brown still had at least one right – the right to remain alive.

I am not anti-cop.  I am not blindly loyal to all black people, regardless of what dumbass things they might do.  I am not in denial about the cesspools of humanity that produce children with no morals, no sense of right and wrong and no accountability to authority.  I am not in denial that Michael Brown behaved very badly on that fateful day in Ferguson.  I get it. 

What I need you to understand is, I don’t get why Michael Brown had to die.

Another American Icon Crashes and Burns

I hadn’t heard about the rumors before now.  I didn’t know someone had alleged  America’s most loveable father figure was not just a rapist, but a conscious predator.

Then comedian Hannibal Buress, during his recent comedy set in Philadelphia, said this:

"Yeah, but you rape women, Bill Cosby, so turn the crazy down a couple notches. I've done this bit on stage and people think I'm making it up.... when you leave here, Google 'Bill Cosby rape.' That sh** has more results than 'Hannibal Buress.'"

The bit went viral and our beloved Dr. Cliff Huxtable is tumbling from grace like a boulder.  Cue the talking heads.  Feminists are aghast when another woman dares to suggest that the allegations might not be true.  Many men feel attacked by proxy by the parade of “me,too” victims surfacing on a daily basis.  And corporate America, afraid of its own shadow when it comes to negative publicity, drops Bill Cosby like a hot stone.

The mailman asked me yesterday what I thought about all this.  I tried to reduce my response to one-word descriptions, after a cliché about smoke and fire raced through my head.  Of course, that was impossible, because my thoughts ricochet all over the place and can barely be articulated, much less characterized with one adjective.

I remember all this circusy clamor when Tiger Woods’ furious wife beat the hell out of his luxury car with a nine iron.  Huge icon.  Poster man for all that is good and right with the world.  Tiger freakin’ Woods!  Whatever could he have done to make this crazy-ass woman go postal like that?  Oh, wait.  What?  An affair? Two affairs?  Twelve affairs!?!?!?!?  Who ARE these whores?  They must be looking for hush-money.  Not OUR Tiger!

Here is my interview of myself:

L, do you believe Bill Cosby could be guilty of these allegations?

Of course I do.  Bill Cosby is NOT Cliff Huxtable.  Cliff Huxtable is a fictional character, written from someone else’s imagination in an attempt to portray a politically correct patriarch of a “typical” American family who happen to be black.  Bill Cosby is an actor.  What he portrays on stage or screen gives us absolutely zero insight into Bill Cosby, the man.  We are so easily misled into  embracing the character and disregarding the person behind the character, because none of us know that person.  So, yes, I do think he could be guilty of at least some of these allegations.

L, why have these women waited all these decades to come forward with these claims?

Obviously, I can only guess the answers to this one.  You’d have to ask each one of his accusers why they’ve been relatively silent until now.  My guess is, just like is happening today, they probably knew many would refuse to believe them.  I don’t know if you have noticed this, but all the alleged victims thus far have been white women who were extremely young and presumably ambitious.  Cosby was already one of the most powerful people in Hollywood and most assuredly one of the most powerful black people.  Would these young women appear to be racists if they spoke out?  Would they be shamed and discounted and ultimately ruined?  Probably and probably.

One of the women, Andrea Constand, who was the first to publicly accuse Cosby, was a Temple University basketball player.  Temple is Cosby’s alma mater.  She described in her testimony how Cosby groomed her, offered to mentor her and give her career advice.  She said he drugged her and raped her in her drug-induced stupor.  Cosby settled with the young Canadian out of court.  Today she is a massage therapist in Canada.

It is not difficult for me at all to understand a young woman’s reluctance to step forward with such incendiary accusations against a powerful man.  Many less-than-powerful men -- regular, everyday fathers and grandfathers and uncles and athletic directors – have gotten away with such behavior because the victims are simply not believed if and when they attempt to discuss it.  There is an all-too-common tendency to want to believe the victim has ulterior motives or is mentally disturbed, rather than investigate the possibility that the accused could be guilty.

Hero worship is a concept fraught with land mines.  Behind that NFL jersey or PGA golf hat or actor playing a role is a human being who is just as susceptible to foibles and frailties as the rest of us.  Some of them are even criminals, drug abusers and womanizers.  Some are insensitive to the cruelty of dog fighting or cock fighting.  Some resolve their arguments with their wives and girlfriends with their fists. Some are rapists and murderers.  And some are really, really, good, upstanding family men.  How can we tell the difference?  We can’t.  Because we do not know them at all, despite their presence in our everyday lives.

Am I a Wimp or a Wise Woman?

 

I am feeling quite conflicted this cold, overcast morning.  About a month ago, after several months of non-stop troll activity on Open Salon, the blogging site I’ve used for nearly five years, I had a hissy fit and announced my departure forever. (Note: the site is no longer tended by its owners.  The cover page is a year old and no new members are being admitted.  The place reminds me of the 1960s novel The Lord of the Flies.)

I understand that internet trolls are, for the most part, mentally ill misfits who try to work out their frustrations at the expense of those with whom they disagree (read: progressives).  I know they come with the territory. 

I made it through the first four-plus years without too much flak because I do not resort to ad hominen arguments.  I carefully avoid judgmental adjectives and adverbs.  I stick to what I think and what I think I know.  I offer my opinions and discuss my reasons for having those opinions.  Disagreeing with me is perfectly fine.  Calling me a smug phony or a race baiter or a liar-by-definition-of-my-former-profession is most certainly not. 

I also have a visceral reaction to certain profanity, most often the F-bomb.  I think the looks of sheer horror on the faces of the adults in my family whenever that word was employed by anyone around us deeply embedded themselves into my psyche.  I was convinced (and still am) that only people with limited vocabularies had to resort to such language. 

My indoctrination was so complete that when, in my first year of college,  my dorm mates noticed my visible recoil whenever they dropped the F-bomb (frequently!) they thought that was so funny, they started chanting the word over and over and over again, just to get under my skin.  (The bitches!  LOL)

Anyway, now, a month out from my poetic parody of the song “Take This Job and Shove It,” there are so many things happening that tweak my writing muse and there are so many posts on Open Salon that I still read and have to force myself to withhold comments,  I am starting to regret allowing the handful of hateful baiters to push my buttons far enough to drive me away.  I am, after all, nothing if not a self-control freak!

Yes, the planet will continue to spin without my comments appearing in the threads of the dwindling number of sane writers on OS and/or Our Salon, a new blog site created for OS-fleeing writers.  Of course, nothing stopped some of the trolls from opening accounts there, so there they are again.  But I miss the company of my “imaginary internet friends,” as the wife of one of my virtual friends calls us.  I miss the exchange of ideas and thoughts, the short anecdotal entries and the longer, deep-dive type scholarly works that many offer. 

Another one of the childhood mantras drilled into my head was “do not cut off your nose to spite your face.”  Yeah.  I don’t have to deal with the nasty-tempered haters anymore, which is really good for my health.  But…

Objectivity and Taking Sides

 

I am not known for being indecisive.  I have opinions, some of which are pretty strong and non-negotiable. 

I am absolutely clear about my stance on:

-- abortion (for it), gay rights (for them)

-- public  education (yes. It is the only way to pull people out of generational poverty)

-- racism in America (as if I had to say that!)

-- religion (fine with me, as long as you don’t try to force me to practice yours. I have opted out)

-- taxation (yes, it is necessary to sustain social health, but let’s spread it fairly, which means taxing the rich at least as much as the poor)

-- voting rights (stop trying to suppress the vote, GOP!)

I have been called “opinionated” more than once.  I reply that I think everybody should formulate their opinions on everything controversial in order to make intelligent decisions, so thank you!  I know the word is not meant to be taken in a positive light, but I choose to do so.

But ask me about the Palestinian/Israeli conflict and I will fail to choose a side.  It’s not for lack of trying, though.  For the past week and a half I have pored over articles linked to Open Salon posts, and I have read all the comments on posts from both camps.  I have seen opposing videos that make all kinds of sense, but each video argues unequivocally for one side or the other.

I cannot take a side.

Why? Because I refuse to ignore the small and/or the historical details.  Anyone who has the most basic understanding of how Israel came to be should be able to entertain the notion that Israelis may not see things the way we in the US see them.  For us to denounce as “wrong” their strong needs to feel safe and secure in a small country surrounded by many “enemy” countries –countries whose stated purpose is to eliminate the Jewish state -- is hubris at its ugliest. 

Would we tolerate Mexico, for instance, lobbing rockets over the border into Texas or California for more than a day or two?  No matter that the rockets are pretty pitiful in comparison to what we could be returning and no matter that those rockets are “only” killing people in the hundreds as opposed to our perceived and probably real ability to take out several Mexican states at one time, Americans would be screaming at the tops of their lungs for Obama to do something to stop it.

Yes, Israel does look like the Jolly Green Giant to Gaza’s Jiminy Cricket, but do we really expect them to tolerate incoming rockets, day in and day out, sending a majority of the Israeli population to bomb shelters several times a week? We wouldn’t put up with it if it happened once every quarter!  Why do we expect Israel to put up with it?

On the other hand

The long, narrow strip of land called Gaza, situated on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean Sea, has 1.816 M people residing, working and fighting within 139 square miles.  My city of Atlanta, Georgia, USA is 132.4 square miles, with roughly 500,000 residents, just to help with perspective. 

When the Israelis drop evacuation leaflets or drop their “knock” bombs, where are the people expected to go?  Schools you say?  That would make sense, since the Israelis are determined to minimize the number of civilian casualties, but the Palestinians elected and put into power members of Hamas, the terrorist organization that has repeatedly vowed to blow Israel off the face of the earth.  And, although this school was actually vacant at the time, 20 Hamas rockets were found stashed in a school building.  It is widely reported that Hamas “hides themselves and their munitions in plain sight,” making collateral damage to women, children and the elderly almost certain.

I am a pushover for a suffering child.  My brain doesn’t work the way it is asked to work by those supporting Israel.  Eighty dead children are 80 dead children.  They have done nothing to anyone.  They didn’t even vote for the terrorist regime!  Telling me what the number of dead would be if Israel actually unleashed their fearsome capabilities does not make me feel better.  My brain understands the point.  My soul cannot.

Hamas is using their own people as human shields.  That is against international law.

Yes, they do seem to be doing that.  So what?  Is that supposed to make me feel resigned to the fact that women and children and the elderly make up far more of the Palestinian casualties than do Hamas operatives?  Am I supposed to be comfortable with the Palestinian voters’ chickens coming home to roost on the heads of their children?

I cannot take a stance.  This is one of the few problems I have encountered that doesn’t seem to have any kind of viable solution.  Because the conflict is based primarily on religious principles, there is little chance for a compromise that will last longer then the failed two hour ceasefire the Palestinians refused to honor.  Logic and rational thought are taking a back seat to differences in belief systems and extremism courtesy of both regimes. 

I have never felt so frustrated.  World wars have started over these kinds of clashes.  We are expected to take a side, when there is no logical side to take. 

And, I’ll admit it.  Sometimes I wonder where the hell this God, this Allah, for whom all this allegedly is staged – where the hell is this entity who is believed to be all-powerful?  I could never believe in a deity that expects its followers to kill in its name.

Technology is Ruining the Doctor/Patient Relationship

 

Fifteen years ago, when I started using my current doctor as my primary care giver, the best part of any office visit was the chitchat, the catching up on family and work issues.  Dr. M. is a petite, gentle-voiced woman in her forties or early fifties. 

Her long hair and hippie-style fashion preference suits her demeanor perfectly.  One would never mistake her for a technophile, although she is clearly bright and she knows her stuff. 

Dr. M’s husband is her partner in the practice.  Although I have only seen him once, I gather from things his wife has said that he is the business brain in the duo.  And his brain told him around a year ago that he could no longer allow Dr. M’s preference for paper medical records to prevent him from computerizing them.

During my recent visit I suddenly realized how sweeping a change that computerization had made…on everything! 

Dr. M. has always had the ability to make her notes during our visits without taking her eyes (and ears) off me, the patient.  She made me feel that what I was saying was of utmost importance to her, the person, not just the doctor.  But now, instead of my three-inch thick manila folder of records, she walks in with an iPad-like tablet in one hand, a stylus in the other.  I could tell immediately that she wasn’t comfortable with that thing at all.

Before, when a question arose about what the lab work of 2012 showed, Dr. M would rifle through the stapled pages of that folder faster than a hummingbird flaps his wings.  I used to smile at her and ask her when she was going to join the 21st century and computerize that file.  She’d shrug, smirk and and shirk the question.

When such a question arose recently, she sat motionless for a few seconds, staring at the tablet in her hand. She began muttering to herself, struggling to remember how to get to the information she needed.  As always, I continued talking, but unlike always, she wasn’t hearing a word I said.  The rapport we had shared for one and a half decades was disrupted by her need to master the technology she never really wanted in the first place.  For the first time I can remember, she actually turned her back to me to consult her computer, the desktop one that had information she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) find on the tablet.

This same feeling of separation of patient and doctor occurred the second time I met with the neurologist who diagnosed my MS, and has continued ever since. He had spent the first visit sitting at a keyboard typing as I responded to his questions about symptoms.  Instead of a conversation, we were having a dictation session, I felt, and it didn’t make me feel cared for or about.  At each subsequent visit, he would enter the room, greet me nicely, and proceed to his computer.  I would have to sit in silence while he brought himself up to speed about who the hell I am, what my problem was/is, and how much testing he had thrown my way.  There is no longer enough time left between patients for a doctor to review the file BEFORE entering the examination room.

The neurologist sees, on average, close to 40 patients per day!  Office hours are from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and the guy has to get a lunch break. That means he must see at least five patients PER HOUR in order to meet his daily quota.  And he spends 10 of my 12 allotted minutes typing?!?!

Technology is a wonderful thing.  I am a fervent consumer of its newest applications.  But the price we sometimes pay for the supposed conveniences of the internet and all the nifty devices being rushed to market by manufacturers is often in units of human relationships, and I find that disappointing.

Amazon Prime: Still a Great Value for Me

 

It’s so funny to me the way things happen sometimes.  Just the other day a Facebook friend who had just signed up for Amazon.com’s Prime Membership was wondering if she had done the wise thing.  I assured her that I certainly thought so.

This morning I received an email from Amazon.com announcing their intention to raise the Prime Membership fee from an annual $79 to $99.  Of course, they blamed the rising costs of fuel and transportation.  I felt the heat rising under my collar.  It won’t happen until February 2015, but still…

Prime Membership has been a great deal for me, the maven of online shopping, but a 25% jump in fees felt…well, it felt familiar.  Every doggone time I find something that really works for me, it either becomes discontinued, out of stock or out-of-this-world expensive. 

The email went on to explain that while the fee hadn’t been increased since 2005, the number of items eligible for free 2-day shipping and handling under the membership had grown from 1 million to more than 20 million.  (They wrote “over 20 million,” a grammatical error that seldom gets edited but which pushes my buttons every time.) 

So I decided to put a skill to work.  You know, the one your kids whine about and wonder when they will ever need to know it in real life – mathematics.

Between January 1, 2013 and today’s date, I placed 193 orders on Amazon.com.  Yes, that is a lot!  I told you I am an expert on this mode of acquisition.  I only go to brick and mortar stores for groceries, and that’s only because the great home-delivery service, Web Van, went belly up.  I have developed a phobia of parking lots and parking decks, okay? 

So, out of 193 orders placed, only 9 of them were not eligible for the free 20day S & H.  But the S & H fees I paid on those 9 orders totaled almost $55!  That’s an average of  a little more than $6 per shipment.  Now multiply that number times the 184 orders placed during the same time period for no cost. 

184 orders x $6.00 = $1104

Subtract the new fee:  $1104 - $99 = $1005

Total saving, even at higher fee is $1,005!  I’ll take it.

The other perks of Amazon Prime are not even included in these calculations.  There are hundreds of free movies and Kindle books on loan included, plus access to first-run movies at a price much lower than going to the theater.

No wonder Amazon.com is kicking ass and taking names among brick and mortar retailers.  Not once have I gone to the site looking for something and not found it there.  If you do as much online shopping as I do, try it.  I think you’ll like it.

Oh, and one more thing.  I only paid tax on 24 of those 193 orders.  Georgia has now joined the states that requires Amazon.com to collect sales taxes on items sourced inside the state.  Darn!

Woody Allen: Genius or Pedophile?

 

I’ve just finished reading the Open Letter to Woody Allen that was written by his adopted daughter, Dylan Farrow.

I have no doubt at all about her story. I just saw a comment on Facebook that said we ought to wait until the truth is determined before we string the guy up.  Of course, Allen denies it, just as he denied having a sexual relationship with another one of his adopted daughters who is now his wife.

Why are people so reluctant to believe girls and women who finally shed their cloaks of shame and bring their abuse to the attention of whomever they feel safe to tell?   Does a person who has created an impressive body of work in the film industry get an automatic benefit of the doubt, just because of his celebrity?

My answer to the question posed in my title is: both.  Woody Allen is both a creative genius and a probable pedophile.  That is why I think his selection for a Lifetime Achievement in Film Award does not and should not have anything to do with his highly questionable personal appetites.  That his films have received both critical and box-office acclaim is undeniable.  Unless some of the young actresses he featured in his movies come forward (pretty fast, I’d say) to reveal that Allen actually molested them during filming, I think his pedophilia is irrelevant to the quality of his work.

I completely understand Dylan Farrow’s motivation for finally coming forward publically just before the man she despises is celebrated by Hollywood on the Oscar broadcast.  The justice system failed her because her molester had the piles of money needed to get the best judgment money can buy.  The idea of such a monster being lauded for anything is probably repugnant to this haunted woman.

It will be interesting to see what unfolds in the run-up to the Academy Awards broadcast.  If the award is bestowed as planned, will the audience give him a standing ovation, as is usual, or will there be a few who are silent or even boo him? 

In a court of law, defense attorneys fight tirelessly to make the jury understand that the defendant’s being a philanderer, a thief, a liar, and an all-around jerk is not admissible evidence that the defendant is a murderer.  For me, a person who has NEVER admired Woody Allen for reasons having nothing at all to do with his probable pedophilia, the Lifetime Achievement Award should be determined on his work and only his work.

Do I believe he should be behind bars for his treatment of his daughters?  Absolutely!

A Heavenly Chat

 

Date: January 20, 2014

Place: Heaven or a reasonable facsimile

Martin Luther King glances over at Malcolm X.  From their fluffy perch in the clouds, they were both watching as MLK’s holiday played out.

Malcolm:  I don’t know, Martin.  It doesn’t look like they are making much progress toward social justice from where I sit.

Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Martin: It is disappointing.  I thought we were getting somewhere until recently.  Now that the voices of the far right are so easily accessible, my ears are filled with words of hate and selfishness.  The far left isn’t any better.

Malcolm:  I told you this would happen.  All your so-called passive resistance accomplished was to have more black people than ever thrown into jails and penitentiaries.

Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.
Malcolm X

Martin:  Your way would have resulted in bloodshed.  Lots of it. 

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Malcolm:  So where’s the love, Martin?  Our people are still poor and uneducated.  They still can’t get good jobs, for the most part.  True, many have managed to escape the trap of poverty and achieve some manner of personal wealth, but what good has that done?

You show me a capitalist, and I'll show you a bloodsucker.
Malcolm X

Martin: It takes time, Malcolm.  If we love those who continue to keep us down, they will eventually come to understand their hate and discard it.

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
 

Malcolm:  Well, you certainly got your message across better than I did, I guess.  Which one of us has a national holiday? 

They both chuckle.  They both stare down at the people and shake their heads.

Power never takes a back step only in the face of more power.
Malcolm X