Django Unchained Might Leave You Unhinged

 

Quentin Tarantino has got to be at least a little bit insane.  What else can explain the writer/director/actor’s obsession with splattering the cerebral cortexes of his movies’ characters all over the scenery?

I went today to see Tarantino’s latest box office magnet, Django Unchained, starring Jamie Fox.  I was prepared for a strange experience, similar to my viewing of one of my all-time favorites, Pulp Fiction.  Kill Bill, both I and II, certainly didn’t even remotely resemble a romantic comedy.

What I was not prepared for was the wide range of emotions I would run through during a violent movie that had me laughing at some of the oddest times.

Django is a slave who was separated from his wife in a slave trade. The plot has Django freed from his chains by a German-born bounty hunter who needs help that only Django can provide to capture or kill three wanted brothers who had once owned the feisty and intelligent slave.  The two become partners, mostly because Django’s skill with a firearm proves a valuable asset to the glib Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz.) In exchange, Schultz agrees to help Django go back to the plantation where Broomhilda was sent to free her.

If you are a movie buff, imagine A Fistful of Dollars (Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western) combined with Natural Born Killers – then throw in some very unexpected and royally out of place jokes. 

This movie is not for the feint of heart.  If the sound of the N-word makes your heart stop, you probably shouldn’t see this one.  And, of course, if blood and guts make you too queasy to finish your popcorn, either skip the snacks or skip the movie. I consider myself a pretty stoic viewer of cinéma vérité but when the camera watched a pack of vicious dogs turned loose against a slave who insisted he could no-longer fight in what the slimy slave owner Calvin Candie (nailed by Leonardo DiCaprio) called his fight-to-the-death Mandingo Games, I spent the next three minutes with my head buried in my hands.

Tiny little Kerry Washington (TV’s hit series, Scandal) said in an interview I watched last week that she allowed herself to actually be whipped in the scenes that Broomhilda is brutally “punished” in one scene.  It shows.  I don’t know any actress or actor alive who could manufacture that blood-curdling, primal scream as that whip flicked and licked her bare back.

What turned my stomach more than even all this, however, was Samuel L. Jackson’s award-worthy turn as an Uncle Tom Big House trusty, a slave in his 80s who was the second in command over all the other slaves on the “Candieland” plantation.  “Steven” had been in service to Mr. Candie for so long, he had become familiar enough to actually argue with the Master with a unheard of amount of cheek.  His unapologetic cruelty to the other slaves made the taste of bile bubble to my mouth.

No movie I have ever seen – not even Roots – has ever come closer to depicting the reality of American slavery.  The indignities visited upon black slaves, when shown in such raw detail, had me cheering on what turned out to be a single-handed massacre by a man who had a taste of freedom, had the intelligence to embrace it and was simply not willing to take it anymore.

On the trip home, where I do so much of my thinking about the film I’d just seen, I thought this:  It’s really not hard to understand the congenital rage that young black males seem to carry from generation to generation.  The lucky ones who are born into families who have managed to fight their way toward a more middle class existence in a still-racist society generally do not manifest that rage as overtly as the street-thugs who are robbing, raping, killing on a daily basis.  But, when one of those lucky ones is passed over, wrongly accused, and kept in his place by oblique institutional carryovers from the times of slavery, you can believe the rage comes bubbling up.

If you can handle it, I highly recommend Django Unchained.

Life’s Ugly Underbelly

 

There is something about Christmas that causes me to think about things most of us try not to think about. 

More and more it seems the United States is a country that operates on a foundation of lies.  We all pretend to be honest and aboveboard.  We all admonish our children from toddlerhood on to always tell the truth. 

But, for the most part, we are a nation of false storytellers and hypocrites.

Start with Christmas. There is nothing parents of young children enjoy more than deceiving their children into believing things that simply aren’t true. Think about how many lies my parents and grandparents had to tell me to get me to believe that an obese and ancient man could fly around the world in 24 hours, not missing a house where children live, in a wide-open conveyance powered by a team of cloven-hooved ruminants that defy all we know about the animal kingdom, and fly?

…and a fairy with a tooth fetish who somehow knows when we’ve lost a baby tooth and sneaks into our rooms as we sleep to swap the tooth for money?

…and a mammal known as a rabbit, for reasons completely inexplicable by scientists of the world, not only produces eggs, but also dyes them brilliantly and deposits them in candy-filled baskets on Easter Sunday?

Something Joan H. wrote in her current Our Salon post reminded me of one of the non-traditional acts of hypocrisy that was repeated year after year in my childhood. 

Back in the 1950s my family was what we would now probably call lower-middle-class.  We were just a notch or two above the poverty line, mostly because all the adults in the extended family were employed in some way, but none made much above what would become a minimum wage.

My mother was obsessed with setting us apart from The Others, Those People who were “on the dole.”  Even during periods when we would have been wise to apply for a little help from the government, she would find a way to keep the charade going.  Come to think of it, I now understand the origin of the concept “beg, borrow or steal.”

Begging and borrowing went on a lot, but only between my mother and her parents, who lived directly across the street.  And nobody was actually stealing anything…directly.  That would be so unbecoming to people like us.

I did, however, learn early on that there were multiple meanings for some pretty common words …like “hot” and “fence.”

Every so often, a neighborhood guy would knock on the door just after sundown, when the shadows were more plentiful.  My mother, who was usually pissed off by anyone who had the audacity to come to our front door instead of the back, would peek through the door’s glass and kind of light up when this guy was on the other side.

The man would have a suitcase with him, as if he were coming to spend a few days with us.  But I knew that wasn’t happening!  No, he would kind of tiptoe inside and place the suitcase gingerly on my mother’s highly-polished and seldom-used dining room table. 

My mother would gaze into the bottom of the suitcase with a critical eye, sweeping over the contents until something tickled her fancy.  She would unfold the garment, hold it up to herself to assess its chances of fitting her and refold it.  If she put it back into the suitcase, it was over for that piece.  The one’s she wanted to keep she would place on the table, near her elbow.

Sometimes I would sidle up to the table while she was distracted and glance at the price tags on the garments.  Most of the time, the prices were laughable, as in who-the-hell could afford-to-pay-so-much?

It would be at that point I was usually sent out of the room to do some make-work errand.  She couldn’t have her little-miss-perfect overhear her dickering with the “fence” about what she would pay.

Yes, many of the clothes my friends both envied and hated me for were, in fact, “hot.”  I always laugh a little when I hear young people today talk about a hot dress or a hot pair of shoes.  I’m pretty sure they don’t mean they purchased stolen merchandise from professional thieves.

As much as all these untruths have bothered me over the years, I never even hesitated to introduce the myths of childhood to my own child.  I guess, in the end, keeping him from experiencing the magical mysteries of Christmas, Easter and tooth-shedding was too big a price to pay to remain entirely truthful. 

I actually think these myths are harmful.  I wish I had had the courage to be truthful with my son.  He would have enjoyed his toys and his Easter baskets just as much if he knew they had come from Mom and Dad from the start.  Wouldn’t he?

May Your Days Be Merry and Bright!

If the World Should End on Friday

 

If the world should end this Friday

And we all go up in smoke

None of what we “care” about will matter anymore.

The piper we are all destined to pay will stand with outstretched hand.

The wrongs not yet made right will stand as wrong.

The love not yet bespoken will go unknown.

The thanks we owe so many will be vaporized along with all of us

And the pain each suffers every day will end forever.

Have all of mankind’s efforts been for naught? 

Will all the hateful deeds done in the name of God or his equivalent be forgiven without penance?

Is justice waiting on that mountain top of which King spoke?

Or will there be a universal, all-encompassing, bleak and dark…NOTHING?

Failure to Escape

I needed  a break from the mourning.  For some odd reason, I feel numb to the anguish that is being repeated hour after hour on cable news stations.  It’s as if my mind has shut itself down to protect me from the images that keep threatening to invade my consciousness.  I was a teacher once.  My students were 6 and 7 and 8 years of age. Their little faces keep floating into my line of vision.

What was the scene in those classrooms?  What were they feeling?  How many children remained alive long enough to witness the murder of their teacher?  Or did she have to watch the slaughter first before she faced her own moment of that which cannot be understood?

So, I ordered a movie on Direct TV to try to distract myself.  The description of Hope Springs called it a comedy.  The stars?  Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones.  How much better could that get, laughing with two of Hollywood’s best.

Well.  I’m not sure who decided it was a comedy.  Perhaps it was because it also starred Steve Correll, another ace who specializes in laughter, albeit wry sometimes. The premise is a middle aged couple – Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class America of the Cul-de-sac tribe – who have settled into a daily existence that includes a lot of routine and traditional role assignments, but no sex whatsoever.  Not for almost five years.

Oh, yeah, that’s hilarious.

There is no way, of course, to have Tommy Lee Jones in a movie without at least one comic moment.  There were actually several, but they weren’t laugh-out-loud comedy of the slap-your-knees variety.  More like almost inaudible “hmphs.”

No, this actually took me to a different house of mourning.  I used to believe there was something wrong with me when it came to sex and sexuality, because in every relationship I’ve ever had, I have come to a point where lust and desire crosses over to a feeling of being objectified.  It has to do with the differences between the genders’ approach to the mating dance.

It’s a very difficult conversation to have with a partner.  How many men can actually listen to his partner’s clumsy attempts at describing her feelings when his libido has kicked into high gear?  Nothing like a verbal conversation to *deflate* action.  I’ve never had much success in identifying, much less verbalizing the little things that make the difference between my feeling desired and my feeling like a faceless, soulless, aperture of convenience;  an any port in the storm sort of thing.

Some of my relationship partners have been more than willing to try to do what I thought was necessary to remedy the situation.  We would talk about the need for more foreplay, and the notion that foreplay can be a lot of simple things other than kissing and well-placed digits.  I would remind them not to forget the things they did during courtship – little niceties like a single rose or a heartfelt compliment that doesn’t sound like it is computer-generated.

But then, when he would actually attempt to do some of those things, I saw them as calculated, not spontaneous. There was still that same goofy look on his face that pointed to the happy ending he was working toward. There is little wonder about why or how a man would simply shut down and forget the whole thing.

The couple in the movie goes to a sex therapist (Correll.)  The course of their week in a quaint Maine village where the therapy takes place is portrayed with what I thought was authenticity.  All was not wine and roses and throes of orgasmic ecstasy.  The film was well-acted and spot on when it comes to insight into the secrets of keeping a long-term relationship sizzling. 

It is a very good film, but funny it is not.

Midnight Mass for Heathens

The year 1985 had been the worst of my life. My fairy-tale world had, once again, imploded when my second husband decided he really did want to leave me for the other woman.  He had left, waffled, come back and left again.  This time I was the one who said it was for good. No more turning back.
Faced with the first Christmas season in seven years without “Dad,” I was in no mood for “making” Christmas for my  14-year-old.  Hardly.  I was fighting off frequent thoughts of suicide, desperately flailing within my depression to get a foothold, climb out, be a mom.
I hadn’t thought about the Christ part of the holiday in many moons.  My husband had no religious upbringing to speak of and I had disavowed my Catholicism and all other forms of religion while I was in college. My first wedding had been a Catholic ceremony, but that was mostly because I wanted a church setting.  Seemed more romantic, somehow.   But the second one – this one that had just ended – had been in a hotel ballroom with a justice of the peace officiating.
Had I been alone, without a child to protect and nurture, I probably wouldn’t have been writing this post today.  I would have been dead, more than likely.  But I wasn’t alone, and I loved my boy more than the release from agony my death would bring,  I couldn’t bear the vision I had of his devastation.
“How would you feel about going to a midnight mass this Christmas?”  I asked him over dinner one evening. 
His eyebrows shot up and he sat that way for a bit. 
“You mean church?”
“Yes, church!” I laughed a little and startled myself.  That hadn’t been happening much those days.
“We’ve never been to church.  I don’t even know what would happen there?  Will it take long?”
Again a smile flirted with my face.  The last time he’d been to a church for any reason was to attend his paternal grandfather’s funeral, when he was only 5.
It was one of those Christmas Eve nights that couldn’t have been more perfect, at least for northern California.  Cloudless and coldish.  Stars dancing the cha-cha in a jet black December sky, with the Berkeley hills looming in the distance like big licorice marshmallows.
The church was not far from our house, but I had never entered it.  When my son and I approached the entrance, a warm and golden glow drifted out the open doors like the fog on the San Francisco Bay Bridge does every morning.  The sanctuary was ablaze in modern lighting and candlelight, with dozens of huge poinsettia plants skirting the foot of the altars. The very air in the church seemed somehow effervescent with mood.
As we strolled down the center aisle to find a pew, I felt a blissful peace descend from my head down to the soles of my feet.  The large choir of neighbors – some familiar, some not – was singing hymns familiar to all Christians, regardless of sect.  And the delightful scent of live Christmas trees filled my nose.
It was at this midnight mass of 1985 that I finally understood the role that religion plays for humanity.  No, I can’t say I still believed that Jesus Christ was present on the altar in the form of the Holy Eucharist.  I can’t say I was tempted to renew my commitment to the Catholic or any other church.  But for that hour, on a special evening of a terrible year I felt at peace.  I allowed myself to breathe and to begin to see a future for myself and for this vulnerable young man.  I experienced the virtue I had found so difficult to understand as a child – Hope.
Wherever we go to seek it, there needs to be a chance to be still, clear our heads of toxic thoughts and brokenness and to exist for an hour outside ourselves in order to restore the fuel of our mortal existence.  That fuel is Hope.

Lincoln Through the Eyes of L

 

Serendipity struck again today.  It happens to me so often, I wonder if I’m some kind of paranormal wonder.  More likely, I am just more aware of it than most.

I had just left the neighborhood Cineplex and turned on the car radio.  It was tuned to a popular urban station, the one on which “Fly Jock” Tom Joyner, as he calls himself, broadcasts each weekday morning.

“All black people should get into the new Lincoln movie for free!”

Laughter burst through the speakers and I laughed along.  It was another one of J. Anthony Brown’s outrageous and purely comedic outbursts. Brown is a comedian who mans a microphone on The Tom Joyner Morning Show.

My head was swimming from the 2 hour and 30 minute experience of Stephen Spielberg’s latest biopic based on the book written be renowned historian Doris Kearns Goodwin.

I thought to myself, “If Rush Limbaugh had made that exact statement, substituting “white people” instead of black,  a media shit storm would befall us faster than I could get the car parked in front of my house.

Many white people have a problem with the unevenness of that truth.  It is one of the legacies of the era brought to a kind of close in that spring of 1865, when Lincoln managed to force the 13th Amendment to the Constitution through the House of Representatives, abolishing slavery in the United States forever.

The movie is riveting.  I know that for myself, but even more from the theater-full of senior citizens like me, who usually have to leave for a pit stop mid-movie.  I didn’t, and not one other person did either.

First, there is the mega-talented Daniel Day Lewis.  When I heard for the first time that he was playing Lincoln, I wondered why Hollywood couldn’t have found an American actor to fill the part.  I left the theater with no reservations.  Daniel Day Lewis was Abraham Lincoln.  The high-pitched voice.  The ever-present sense of humor.The penchant for long periods of contemplation.  The love of telling stories as a means to make his points.  The stooped-shouldered gait. 

As a movie buff and the mother of an actor, I sometimes have trouble with the phenomenon known as the “suspension of disbelief.”  That is especially true when I watch my son in a production.  But this time, it took less than two minutes on screen for the actor to begin looking more like Abraham Lincoln to me than many actual photographs of Lincoln himself did.

Lincoln is the vehicle for one outstanding performance by an actor after another.  Sally Field, of all people, portrayed the hard-boiled and tortured Mary Todd Lincoln with a grit and intensity never seen before, even in Norma Rae.  The normally brilliant David Straithairn is exceptional as Secretary of State William Seward. Hollywood heavyweights Tommy Lee Jones and James Spader as Radical Republican stalwart Thaddeus Stevens and hard-drinking lobbyist for the 13th Amendment, respectively, bring a feisty comedic element to the raucous and nasty politics of the time.

This movie is so convincing on so many levels – makeup, costuming, piles of dead soldiers in mass graves – I sat in awe at the complexity of the presidential and congressional politics that drove that War Between the States, as Southerners prefer to call it.  And when the vote was counted and the 13th Amendment was passed in that man-filled chamber -- where for the first time Negroes were allowed to sit in the gallery --  and Mary Lincoln’s personal maid listened while U.S. Congressmen referred to her and her people as “niggers,” I couldn’t  stop the tears from pushing past my eyes.

The Civil War was about so much more than the abolition of slavery.  Conservatives were Democrats.  Abolitionists were Republicans.  The military endured the White House and Congress, just as it does today.  And for the most part, those ragtag legions of Confederate soldiers had no idea why they were fighting.  In the Ken Burns documentary about the Civil War a story is told about a Rebel soldier who was asked by a Union officer why he was fighting.  He answered, “Because you are here.” 

Southerners are often heard saying they were never pro-slavery as a separate concept.  What the war was about to them was the protection of “their way of life.”  Like the average American today, very few understood enough about the economy of the agrarian South to know how indispensible slavery was to it.  The morality of slavery was generally an afterthought in the entire affair. 

I came away understanding a lot more about the struggle it took to wrench away the African-American as “property” from the Southern planters.  To them, it was as unacceptable as the government seizing their lands.  I will never understand how those planters and their beneficiaries could regard their slaves the way they did their mules or other work animals.  I don’t know what a person has to tell himself or herself to make it okay to disregard the humanness of the women who cooked for them, clothed them, wet-nursed their children and sometimes “comforted” them in the dark.

What I do understand is that Abraham Lincoln was a politician first.  He was flawed in his character, as are we all.  He showed favoritism to his youngest son and had little time for his oldest one.  But there was a basic morality that informed his day-to-day decisions in those tumultuous few months of his second term.  And he was very brave.

What is it About Lindsay Lohan?

Lindsay Lohan, the extremely troubled freckle-faced actress of Mean Girls fame, has been arrested –AGAIN—in Manhattan.  Early this morning Lohan allegedly punched a 28-year-old woman multiple times in the face, causing what police described as minor injuries.  The incident occurred at 4 a.m. November 29, 2012 at a Manhattan night club.

If you have chosen to read this post you are probably well aware of Lindsay’s rather impressive – in a bad way – rap sheet, her numerous run-ins with the law in both New York and Los Angeles, and her apparently failed attempts at drug and alcohol rehabilitation.  Although it is her right as an American to go to any bar she chooses at any time of the morning or night, don’t you just wonder why this woman would put herself in this position?

The reason for the scuffle has not been revealed, nor do we know which of the two women initiated the incident. 

What I’m curious about, however, has more to do with the response this latest bad news for Lindsay has gotten in some of the media.  Time after time I have heard television news and talk show personalities seem to try to “cut the girl a break.” 

• Her recent Lifetime channel movie, Liz and Dick, in which Lohan played Elizabeth Taylor, was panned by TV critics and drew only 3.5 million viewers,( I was not one of them.) so she’s had a rough week.
• Earlier this month she canceled an in-depth interview with ABC's Barbara Walters, who said she suspected the actress' publicity team pulled the plug knowing Walters would ask tough questions. Yet Walters and Whoopi Goldberg were  reluctant to criticize her on The View this morning.
• Last month the Nassau County (NY) police were called, again in the wee hours of the morning, because Lindsay and her mother, DIna Lohan, woke the neighbors with their loud and long shouting match.  Poor Lindsay, again 26 years of age, “has not had any parenting whatsoever.”
• People “pick at” celebrities who have been in trouble, hoping to get them to react badly, according to Whoopi Goldberg.

Exactly how much slack does an individual deserve?  At what point does Lindsay Lohan start getting the kind of vilification that was heaped upon Chris Brown (and rightly so) when he beat the face off his girlfriend Rihanna?  

Are there signs of dysfunction in the actress’s family life.  Oh, yes.  Her mother appeared in a lengthy interview with Dr. Phil a few months ago.  She was clearly under the influence of some mind-altering substance.  Her father, Michael Lohan, told ETOnline today that he has been trying to convince Dina to stage an intervention with him because “She is in a dark place, it's in God's hands and I hope he deals with her appropriately."

It is time for Lindsay Lohan to be held accountable for her actions.  She could face a probation violation in relation to her theft case if she is formally charged for Thursday's alleged altercation, in addition to a possible charge of allegedly lying to police about a June car crash.

She should do the time.  Her defenders should stop defending her, no matter how much they argue that “she is a sweet girl.”  None of these people are doing Lindsay Lohan any favors.  Unless she is held fully accountable
soon, I, along with a lot of other people, will be writing about her “untimely” death.

Jack Johnson vs. Barack Obama–It’s a Draw

 

There are two aspects of my life that I can say, with unequivocal certainty, are right up there with eating the livers of animals and hearing the sound of fingernails dragged along a chalkboard.

One: The study of history—of the World, of The U.S., of Modern Europe or of my block on 13th Avenue -- during all levels of my 16-year schooling was a colossal waste of too much time, something I endured through the grace of a well-developed rote memory and the fear of taking “unacceptable” grades home to my mother.

And,

Two: Pugilism as a sport is the most barbaric, testosterone-soaked remnant of mankind’s membership in the animal kingdom still allowed under the law.  Michael Vick, speaking of testosterone, did time in the pokey for allowing dogs to do what Muhammad Ali is idolized for.

Well, I still hate boxing and refused to watch it, even when my son decided he needed to take it up for reasons known only to him.  If I want to see burly, muscular men in their underwear—and, of course, I do -- I sure as hell don’t want to watch them punch the crap out of each other.

But history?  I have developed an almost insatiable appetite for learning the details of what went on before we were plunged into the mess we find ourselves today.  This long, Thanksgiving weekend I combined this new passion with my love of catching up on multi-episodic documentaries, all within two or three consecutive days.

And who better than the prolific Ken Burns to feed the beast?

Friday’s popcorn-fueled marathon consisted of “Unbelievable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson.”  Yep, the first African-American Heavyweight Champion of the World.  A boxer.

For those of you readers who share my distaste for fisticuffs and, like me, never even heard of the guy, Johnson (March 31, 1878-June 10, 1046) was the son of former slaves, born in Galveston, Texas, and had only five or six years of schooling before getting a job as a dock worker in Galveston.

Johnson took up boxing.  He was a machine.  He defeated all the storied black fighters enough times to become the World Colored Heavyweight Champion, a title he held for 2,151 days.

The thing about Jack Johnson was that he refused to allow Mr. Jim Crow to tell him how to live his life.  He lived large on his boxing purses, drove fast cars (for the time, of course) and made a habit of cohabitating with white women.  Some were prostitutes.  He married three times; they, too, were white. One of them was a Brooklyn socialite.

Jack Johnson pissed off every white establishment racist in the nation, which included the majority of the press. His ostentatious lifestyle rankled.  His custom suits and shoes, his phallic cigars, his ever-present and oft-flashed roll of hundred dollar bills – it was like waving a porterhouse steak in front of an awakening grizzly bear. 

Jack Johnson had a hard time getting any of the white heavyweight contenders to join him in the ring.  They said it was because they wouldn’t fight a nigger.  Or that nobody would pay to watch them fight a colored fighter.  I say it was because they were scared shitless of him.

Finally, on July 4, 1910, 20,000 people in Reno, Nevada watched the “Fight of the Century”  when reigning white World Heavyweight Champ James J. Jeffries came out of retirement to challenge Johnson.  Jeffries, who ultimately lost to Johnson, was paid $120,000.  Johnson got $65,000 and HE won!

What followed?  Race riots on the Fourth of July all across America.  White dreams of a Great White Hope to beat Johnson were dashed. Many white citizens felt humiliated.  That championship was a white man’s domain.

Hmmmmm.  Something about this story was sounding not-too-vaguely familiar.  Uppity Negro who refused to stay in his place.  Johnson overcame his lack of formal education and became a kind of Renaissance Man.  He was eloquent, highly intelligent and charming.  He beat The Man at The Man’s own game.

When President Barack Obama and his supporters refused to send his uppity, intellectual, charming ass into exile on November 6, 2012, some of the descendants of those Jim Crow era white haters seemed to have had a very similar, if not identical, sense of humiliation. 

Sure, the very fact that Mr. Obama managed to attain the White House is more than just remarkable.  It felt like a miracle.  That he made it through the first term alive is a relief.  But my history lesson this past, 21st century Saturday in Atlanta, GA rang through loudly and clearly.  Jack Johnson did his thing a century ago, but a century later, the reaction of many served as proof of George Santayana’s famous statement:

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Are Washington Republicans Starting to Look a Little Desperate?

 

Instead of slinking off into a clandestine retreat with their party’s leadership to regroup after their November 6, 2012 thumping at the polls, John McCain and Lindsey Graham are looking foolish by continuing the right’s obsession with bringing down the Obama administration.

There have been several OS bloggers who have gone on record believing the President would meet his waterloo with Benghazi-gate.  The above-mentioned Senators have even called for a Watergate-like investigation of what caused the beleaguered U.N. Ambassador Susan Rice to refrain from calling the incident a terrorist attack the Sunday after the U.S. consulate in Libya was attacked and four Americans were murdered.

Not that it will stop the Republican sour grapes any time soon, but this morning CNN reported that Ms. Rice’s talking points used on Meet the Press and several other Sunday morning talk shows had, in fact, been altered by the intelligence community before they were passed on to Ambassador Rice.  The version she was approved to use had been edited to delete any direct reference to al-Qaeda’s involvement in the tragedy.

In its report Monday night CNN stated:

The intelligence community - not the White House, State Department or Justice Department - was responsible for the substantive changes made to the talking points distributed for government officials who spoke publicly about the attack on the U.S. mission in Benghazi, the spokesman for the director of national intelligence said Monday.

The unclassified talking points on Libya, developed several days after the the deadly attack on the U.S. mission in Benghazi, were not substantively changed by any agency outside of the intelligence community, according to the spokesman, Shawn Turner.

Susan Rice, who recently celebrated her 48th birthday, was asked to make the Benghazi presentations that Sunday because U.S. Secretary of State Hillary R. Clinton was exhausted from a week of consoling families of the Americans who perished in the attack, according to the New York Times. 

Both John McCain and Lindsey Graham have gone before media microphones and declared Susan Rice unqualified to be considered for Mrs. Clinton’s replacement as Secretary of State.  Do they make that claim solely on the basis of what they have apparently misperceived as a cover up of the al-Qaeda involvement in the attack?  It seems so.  Otherwise, they are simply insane.

Susan Rice is a Rhodes Scholar who earned her undergraduate degree from Stanford University and did her graduate work at Oxford.  Despite her reputation for being somewhat blunt and maybe even officious --

“Susan had a reputation, fairly or not, as someone who could run a little hot and shoot from the hip,” said John Norris, a foreign-policy expert at the Center for American Progress. “If someone had told me that the biggest knock on her was going to be that she too slavishly followed the talking points on Benghazi, I would have been shocked.”

-- The New York Times has written that at the United Nations, and in posts in President Bill Clinton’s administration, Ms. Rice has earned a reputation as a blunt advocate, relentless on issues like pressing the government in Sudan or intervening in Libya to prevent a slaughter by Col. Muammar el-Qaddafi.

Is she “diplomatic” enough in her demeanor to handle the tricky details of communicating among leaders from all parts of the world?  That’s a question the President has undoubtedly entertained.  Whether he chooses Susan Rice or not, it appears the Republicans are going to have to get used to the idea that they lost the White House and find some of “the people’s work” to get busy on.  Fiscal cliff, anyone?

Being the Obamas on Election Night

He nods goodnight to the guys with the dark glasses, leaving them to serve as sentries on his front porch.

While stepping across that familiar and long-missed threshold he inhales deeply and slowly sighs it out while he quietly shuts the door.  It is 7:30 p.m.

She is already there.  Her campaign duties ended with a women’s luncheon somewhere in Ohio at around 1:30 p.m. EST.  She and the girls are half-heartedly watching MSNBC while they awaited his arrival.

“Daddy’s home!”  He tries to sound upbeat.  He is mentally and physically exhausted.

Sasha, at 11, still hasn’t developed the cool reserve of her older sister.  She springs from her seat on the floor and throws herself at her father, arms and legs encircling his slender body.

“Oh, hi Dad.”  That from Malia, the tall, elegant teenager who will not reveal her delight at seeing the man the rest of us call POTUS.

The large old Chicago Mansion in Chicago’s upscale Hyde Park neighborhood wraps him in a soothing hug.  The light, the smell, the feel of the place whispers to his tired ears “you’re home.  You are safe here.”

Michelle rises from her seat on the sofa and sends an air kiss in the direction of his left cheek.  She know this man better, sometimes, than he knows himself.  He needs to de-compress. 

“Do you want to take a hot shower first, or are you ready for supper?”

He glances at her while he hangs his cashmere overcoat in the front hall closet. 

“What’re we havin’?”

She grins.

“Italian Fiesta Pizzeria in Hyde Park has sent over three jumbo pies, of course.  It IS a special occasion.”

In one smooth motion he rips off his tie and tosses his suit coat on the back of the club chair near the window.

“Let’s eat.”

Once seated around the table, Malia asks if she should call the Secret Service detail in to eat. 

He smiles at her and shakes his head.

“Not tonight,Sweetie.  Let’s just be a family tonight.  We’ll send one of the pies out to them in a few minutes.”

For several minutes there are no more words.  Only the sounds of chewing and savoring the special concoctions the local pizzeria created for Mr. President pierce the silence.

Sasha looks at her Daddy.  He looks different, a lot different.  His hair looks like it had snowed on his head.  The areas below his eyes are darkened and puffy.  He doesn’t laugh as loudly as he did before they moved to Washington.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Are you going to win tonight?”

“I don’t know Sasha.  We’ll have to wait and see, just like everybody else. Tonight is one night I won’t get an initial briefing from those clowns in the other room.”  The staff is having its own meal in a back room of the mansion.

“May I say something?”  her voice is tiny and a little frightened.

“Of course you can, baby.”  He dabs the pizza grease from his chin with a paper napkin.

“I…kinda hope…well, I wish…I hope you don’t.”  She looks down at her hands in her lap.  A large, hot tear falls from her round face onto the back of one hand.

Malia, who is seated on the same side of the dining table, slams her fist against the youngster’s thigh, her eyes riveted on her mother’s face.

Michelle rose from her chair and circled the table, putting an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

POTUS stares long and hard at his pizza.  Then he lifts his head and speaks to his family.

“ I know how hard this has been on all three of you.  Mommy has been gone almost as much as I have, trying to win this election by talking to the people on my behalf.  I have missed some of your important events.  I haven’t always been “here” even when I’m at home, whether in the White House, Camp David or this old house.  I know.”

“If I win – and I hope to God I do – the next four years will be just as tough, but they will be different.  Our country is in trouble.  Daddy has done a lot of things to try to make that trouble better.  Some has worked.  Some hasn’t.  But, Sasha,sweetie, we can’t afford to turn this country over to people who want to undo all the great things that have been accomplished on behalf of the common man, woman and child in America.  We need to hang on and push forward, no matter how difficult it is.  And, yes, I’ll be asking an awful lot of you, your sister and your Mom – AGAIN.  I must.”

He pauses, again staring at the uneaten slice of pizza on his plate.

“We are behind you, Daddy,” says Malia, with conviction.  We understand. It’s just that sometimes…

“Yes, no matter how hard Mommy and I try, you two hear some nasty words spoken about your father.  And you want to stand up for me, but you don’t know how.  I know.  But as long as you know the truth – as long as you know your Daddy, the guy who comes to your basketball games and hollers like an idiot; the guy who used to read to you, even after he became President; the guy who loves your mother more than life itself – as long as YOU know what’s true, you will be strong in the face of criticisms and, yes, even lies.”

Michelle winks at the girls across the table.  “They know, don’t you Malia?  Don’t you Sasha? “

Rising from the chair, Michelle motions to her family to gather in the living room to watch the election returns.   POTUS calls in the staff.  The waiting is almost over.

Ignore the Big Picture at Our Peril

 

As we stagger toward the final day of the quadrennial slugfest for the White House, we continue to see talking heads regaling us with stories of undecided voters.

How anyone who has a pulse and is not in a coma could have gotten to this Halloween day without knowing which of the two candidates has the best chance of delivering the leadership most likely to take the country where he or she thinks it should go is far beyond my ability to understand.  For better or worse, most of the people we encounter on these pages have had their minds made up for what seems like decades.  And therein lies the quagmire.

This election cycle is no place for one-trick ponies.  Recently on Open Salon there have been a barrage of political posts.  Many, if not most, are supportive, in varying degrees, of the re-election of President Barack Obama.  But there are also those that are passionately against the President.  Some don’t like either candidate and call for votes for third parties.  Others seem to support voting for Mitt Romney, but that support seems a bit tepid and comes across as more of a “not-Obama” stance.

It’s the economy, stupid!

This is the resurrected motto of those people who care primarily about the state of the union’s economy.  The President had four years to make it better.  He hasn’t (or so they insist.)  He has to go.  Next!

He’s a war criminal, dammit! 

This is the verbal bomb launched by those who cannot forgive the President for deciding not to prosecute Bush administration officials believed to have violated the boundaries in the treatment of foreign prisoners of war, as well as the use of drones in current engagements in the Middle East.

He’s weak in foreign policy!

This is usually when the hackneyed expression “Apology Tour” comes up. The recent handling or mishandling of the terrorist attack on our consulate in Benghazi, Libya, resulting in the deaths of four Americans, is usually thrown in to the mix for this argument.

He’s a socialist.  He’s a Wall Street puppet.  He is a Muslim.  He is cold.  He is a big spender.  He is a liar.  He is leading a government takeover of healthcare.

I am not here to defend or refute any of these familiar arguments.  They are either valid or invalid, depending on your point of view.

My point here is that there are a hell of a lot more things for American voters to be equally concerned about when choosing the man who will lead for the next four years.

I sense in America a strong tendency to let one or two special interest issues sway their votes.  There doesn’t appear to be enough thinking about the totality of issues that are affected by the election of a President. 

My friend Amy Abbott recently posted an excellent explanation of how important the single issue of abortion is in her native state of Indiana. Sure, many of the people of Indiana who are pro-life depend upon Medicare and Social Security.  Clearly there are many poor Hoosiers who at one time or another have benefited from food stamps and other forms of aide from the government.  But, without giving much consideration to the futures of those programs, Amy says, those pro-lifers in Indiana will vote for Mitt Romney.

For the far left voters who have written off President Obama as a George W. Bush clone and are supporting Dr. Jill Stein or Rocky Anderson, little has been said by them of the likely outcome of expending their votes in those directions.  Although none of those voters who support third-party candidates would be content with Mitt Romney in the White House, they have chosen to make a statement with their votes, and by doing so, will likely strengthen Romney’s chances to win.  What of the long-term effects of such a statement of principle?  What about the two Supreme Court Justices Mr. Romney will likely appoint?  They are seated for life, now matter who wins the White House in future elections.

Possibly more than ever before, a vote in this election needs to be well-thought out.  The bigger picture needs to come into focus for each of us.  What are ALL the ramifications of your vote?  How sure can you be of the performance of the challenger once in office?  If Barack Obama is a mini-Bush, what do you think a Romney Presidency will look like?  Is your political statement against the two-party system and its efficacy going to send the country in the direction you seek, or will it drive it in the opposite direction?

If you are reading this and you haven’t yet voted; if you still have not decided which candidate will get your vote; and if you really care about all the people in the country and not just a privileged few, please THINK before you cast your vote.

Dear God:

 

You already know I don’t think you exist.  I really wanted to believe.  It would make all the hell we are experiencing on this Earth at least worth it if we knew we would eventually land in a sky-based paradise of eternal bliss.

However, there seems to be a horde of people living today that do believe, so just in case I’m wrong – Lord knows… I mean everybody knows I have been wrong a lot – I’m asking for your help.  If you don’t exist, as I suspect, then no harm done.  If you do, you will forgive me for even doubting your existence, because that is what a Loving God would do, in my humble opinion.

One of your true believers, Indiana’s Republican Senate candidate Richard Mourdock, has made what I consider a ridiculous statement about the crime of rape.  He told a group of voters yesterday he believes if a women should get pregnant as a result of a rape, that is what you intended, so the fetus must be allowed to live.  He said this in order to support his desire to outlaw abortions in the case of rape.

Now, God, you are supposed to be all-knowing, all-loving and all-powerful.  With all the people we have crowding this planet, while adding more at warp speeds, what kind of purpose would be served for you to intentionally create a new life by subjecting a woman to a brutal invasion of her person and mind? 

Yes, I’ve heard that you work in mysterious ways, but such an approach makes no earthly sense.  If it does make sense in heaven or wherever it is you reside, then mankind’s visions of the afterlife have been decidedly off the mark.

Because men like Mourdock tend you blame you for all their cockamamie notions that defy science, a lot of your boosters are refusing to consider the possibility that you hate man’s inhumanity to man even more than I do.  These would-be disciples of yours are bullying the American populace, especially the women, into losing their personal rights to determine what is best for their own bodies, and they are doing it all in your name.

Call me crazy, but in my mind, no Loving God would want to subject any woman to rape, let alone to delivering a child as a result of that rape.  No Loving God in my admittedly limited imagination would force that child to be carried to term to face all the hardships that will undoubtedly face him or her as a result of his or her conception.  I have heard of women who were raped, became pregnant, delivered the child and found it impossible to love that child because of the circumstances surrounding the conception. Would you, a Loving God, really intend such a burden for an innocent child?

Religious fanatics who want to use the word of God as a hammer to beat into submission all Americans in the name of Jesus Christ have got to be mistaken.  If you are God, which they say they believe, then why would you need their help in keeping the great unwashed among us in line?  Why isn’t it enough for them to follow their beliefs as they see fit and leave me and others like me to deal with you individually?  You are God, so you can handle the workload, right?

So here’s how you can help me out.  Would you mind sending an archangel or somebody down here to inform your flock that they will have to find another, more honest, way to achieve their political aspirations?  These fire and brimstone poseurs are starting to give you and your son a bad name.

The Current Political Discourse is Messing with My Head

It has been said about me that I may be black, but I’m not “black enough.”  I might be presumed black, because I don’t look white, but I don’t “think black” and I don’t “act black.”
News flash:  I AM black, just as the President of the United States IS black.  The fact that we have equal amounts of white genes was declared irrelevant centuries ago in America, with the One Drop Rule.  That hasn’t changed, especially and profoundly for those of us who cannot pass for white – not that we would want to.
I  had a telling dream last night.  I was back at my college for a reunion.  This college in Wisconsin is in a town that prides itself as being The Birthplace of the Republican Party.  I had a great four years there – better than most, it could be argued.  Many of the white students from staunchly conservative families in that state found themselves in a battle with the Powers That Be in Mississippi to override their sorority’s “race clause,” which was preventing them from inviting me to join them.  At the time, I was the only black girl on campus.
When I returned there in 2010 for our 44th class reunion, it was as if no time had passed at all.  These were my friends, my sisters in the bond of sorority.
In my dream last night, I was treated as if those same “sisters” and friends had never seen me before.  Wherever I went, conversations stopped.  Plans for special activities were kept from me.  No one wanted to share a meal with me.
In real life, nothing even remotely similar to this dream had ever happened to me.  Due to the luck of the draw or an accident of birth, I grew up in an environment  where what we called prejudice was tastefully hidden behind lowered voices and Midwestern decorum. 
Yes, I had my feelings hurt, more than once, by the parents of school friends who wouldn’t go along with their own child’s choice of me as a friend; meaning, I wasn’t welcome in their homes.  But it took me a few years to figure that out, because the truth was always sugar-coated by “polite lies.”
My intense interest in politics here in my later years has caused an apparent sea change in my psyche. Because I believe it is important to keep up with what the opposition is saying and doing, I have been exposed to some of the most explicit racist language I have ever heard in my life.  I have no doubt whatsoever that there is a sizeable group of white Americans who despise Barack Obama just for being alive and not just for his so-called failed policies.
My world is being rocked by this process.  When challenger Mitt Romney told the President of the United States, in effect, to sit down and shut up on national television, I was shocked.  I have never seen a man holding that office be so blatantly disrespected to his face and in front of the world. 
When writers such as Open Salon blogger Chauncey de Vega, in his signature no-nonsense style, makes the case for the racism that is driving a good portion of the opposition, conservative readers attack him for being a race baiter, whatever that is supposed to be.  Is he?  I don’t think he is.  I think he is unusually gifted in his ability to articulate what the rest of us are seeing, hearing, and feeling.
Earlier this week I received a link, from a person I once loved, to a far-right-wing website.  He directed me to a writer who had collected Tweets from black people that in various ways stated if Obama loses the election, they are going to riot.  With the link was one word from the sender: “scary.”
Why did I get that message?  What am I supposed to make of it?  Does this ignorant rhetoric from reckless young people indict the entire black community?  I have no idea.  I’m sure there are people out there who will want to use such a loss as an opportunity to behave like morons.  I am not one of them.  Nor am I sure that there aren’t comparable Tweets out in the ether from white supremacists who will want to tear up some real estate if President Obama wins a second term.
I have prided myself as being a person who exhausts all other reasonable possibilities before I decide a situation is racially driven.  I give everyone the benefit of the doubt – or at least I used to.  Today, I am suspicious of anyone and everyone who supports the election of Mitt Romney, especially those who are doing so only to get rid of Obama. 
That’s not how I usually roll.  I don’t like the feeling, but there it is.  This election cycle has been toxic to me, personally. 

Backlash from Black Americans

 

It used to be a kind of “family” secret.  Before Twitter and Facebook, we were able to keep the intra-community ugliness under wraps, more or less, while we shot each other with poison arrows via the grapevine.

Stacey Dash, star of the 90s hit movie, Clueless, announced her support of Republican Presidential candidate Mitt Romney last Sunday.  The beautiful actress of African American and Mexican descent appears to have been dumbstruck by the negative reaction to her choice by some African Americans on Twitter.

Superstar actor Samuel L. Jackson tweeted:

"Wait, did Stacey Dash Really endorse Romney today?! REALLY????! Is she CRA...........??!"

Non-celebrities weighed in with similar thoughts:

"You're an unemployed black woman endorsing @MittRomney. You're voting against yourself thrice. You poor beautiful idiot," tweeted one critic.

"Wait stacey dash is voting for romney? you get a lil money and you forget that you're black and a woman. two things romney hates," tweeted another.

"Still clueless," quipped another.

You see, there is a large segment of the black community that believes all black people should think, act and believe alike.  Obviously, that belief is held by many African Americans from all social and economic strata.  They don’t care how important you get, how much money you amass or what belief system appeals to you more; if you are black, you support blacks, period.

Stacey Dash has a net worth of $8 million, according to a Forbes list.  She has spent about half of her 46 years living and playing among the Hollywood glitterati.  It is not hard to imagine why fixing the economy would be at the top of her criteria when it comes to choosing the recipient of her presidential vote.

For me, it is hard to imagine that she wouldn’t be equally concerned about social issues.  Stacey wasn’t born with a silver spoon (or foot) in her mouth, hailing as she does from the Bronx.  But, hey, this is America and in America ALL Americans have the right to think and choose whichever way makes them comfortable.  For Stacey, it seems, she’d be more comfortable with Romney for the next four years because she believes he knows how to fix the economy.  It’s not like she didn’t vote for President Obama four years ago.

In a lot of ways, an independent thinker has a rough row to hoe in the black community.  When I decided to marry my WASP, Reagan Republican second husband, I was not oblivious to the snickers, sneers and whispers behind the brown hands of some of my black friends.  I just chose to ignore them, something I learned to do early on in order to survive in a sometimes hostile community.

Just as Kermit the Frog of Muppet fame croons about it “Ain’t Easy Being Green,” it takes a strong set of gonads to go your own way among some African Americans.

Before I started working full-time for a living, I was free to focus my political energies entirely on social justice issues.  After spending a few years working my way up the career and salary ladders, economic issues began to rise on my list of priorities.  Much like everyone else around me, I was eager to retain the things I worked so hard to get. I listened far more carefully to arguments for financial stability and I bristled at the thought of yet another percentage point of tax.

Enter the disparaging term “sell-out.”  The same people who marched and ranted against the Establishment in the name of equal access to opportunity for minorities, now turned on me for getting that access and wanting to keep it.

Yes, I will admit to being suspicious of black conservatives.  I don’t quite understand their priorities.  I wonder if they understand fully their dubious welcome among the conservative base.  Are they delusional?  Or is it that they are hopeful?  Perhaps just selfish.  All such thoughts do cross my mind.

But, doggone it, men and women of all colors and creeds have given their lives and continue to do so in order for Americans to have the right to think for themselves and speak their own personal truths.  Stacey Dash should be able to publicly support anyone she chooses without being attacked. 

Then again, that too is part of what it means to be free.  America, the beautiful.

Euphemisms: who needs them?

 

The other day I got involved in a Facebook exchange about the Presidential campaign in general, which was triggered by a discussion of the October 3, 2012 debate between the President and Republican nominee Mitt Romney.

I asserted that one of the explanations I’ve heard for President Obama’s unimpressive performance that night was that he was frustrated – possibly even angry – by Mitt Romney’s exuberant and repetitive lies.  In fact, I said he was spewing lies.

The person I was “talking” with told me she thought the words “spewing” and “lies” are loaded and designed to “fan the flames” of negative, unproductive rhetoric when used in this way.

It didn’t take much thought on my part to agree that the word “spewing” has definite negative power that evokes an image of someone doing something rather disgusting.  I could have said “telling lies” instead and gotten my point across.  So, I gave her that one.

I remember as a child being taught never to accuse my sister (or anyone else) of “lying.”  I could say she was “fibbing.”  I could say “she is not telling the truth.” I could say she “isn’t telling you the whole story.”  But I could not call her a liar. 

Euphemistically speaking, What the Heck?

So, culturally, there has long been a tendency in America to soften the accusation of misrepresenting the truth with intent to deceive or mislead. Did palliating the accusation change the facts of the matter at hand?  Not one bit. I could have called it roller skating and she still would have been lying.

My Facebook friend went on to explain that calling a high-ranking Mormon such as Romney a liar is as grievous as calling him a drunk.  To which I thought, uh-huh…and?

Mormons do not have a corner on the preference among religions to observe all Ten of the Commandments.  If Barack Obama makes an assertion of something known or believed by him to be untrue with the intent to deceive or mislead the public, he is just as busted in the eyes of God as Romney would be. 

In my own simple set of priorities when it comes to human interaction, the very worse thing a loved one can do is lie to me.  I taught my son as a child that nothing he could do that was wrong could be worse than lying to me about it. 

So, no, I don’t apply the words “lie,” “lies,” “lying,” “lied,” or “liar” lightly at all.

There is no way Mitt Romney could have been mistaken, misinformed or misspeaking when he asserted during that October 3 debate that “he did not plan to cut taxes for the wealthy.”  If he had only said it once, perhaps even I might take into consideration a brief cranial short-circuit and give him the benefit of the doubt.  But he said it more than once – with escalating gusto.

MR. ROMNEY: Let me — let me repeat — let me repeat what I said — (inaudible). I'm not in favor of a $5 trillion tax cut. That's not my plan. My plan is not to put in place any tax cut that will add to the deficit. That's point one. So you may keep referring to it as a $5 trillion tax cut, but that's not my plan.

I don’t care how high in what church Mr. Romney has ascended, that assertion is a lie. 

His supporters want to argue that it is “just a difference in interpretation of numbers” – that Mr. Romney was simply splitting hairs because the $5 trillion figure doesn’t take into account the expected growth in the economy that the cut on tax rates for businesses would ignite. (We are back to trickling down) However, that is NOT what Romney said. 

Let’s say he was being creative with his choice of words.  “My plan is not to put in place any tax cut that will add to the deficit.”  You and I are supposed to parse that statement  ourselves to reach the conclusion that while he IS planning to cut taxes by $5 trillion, he is also planning to close tax loopholes and tax deductions to balance the cuts. When the projected growth in the economy is taken into account, there will be a net zero change to the deficit.  Oh, yeah, and you are also supposed to know of his plan to increase the defense budget by some $2 trillion, so those loopholes and canceled deductions had better be pretty much wiped out.

For a compelling argument as to why the Romney plan is not even almost possible, read this.

The politicians and pundits who find it necessary to substitute nonsense such as “less than truthful," “somewhat untrue,” “fast and loose with the facts” for the word “lie” are simply playing the political game.  Their euphemisms change nothing and buy nothing except favor with the party prevaricators. 

A lie is a lie.

A Photograph for the Ages: American Black history in the flash of a bulb

If you have never been the parent of an African American child, you may not fully understand the impact of this image of President Barack Obama bowing to allow Jacob Philadelphia, then 5, to touch his hair so Jacob could determine if the President's hair felt like his.

First Lady Michelle Obama was a guest on the newly minted Steve Harvey Show, another afternoon talk show hosted by the comedy star and best-selling author.  During their light-hearted conversation about life with the President, Harvey put his image up on the monitors and asked why it is the only photograph that isn't allowed to be moved, while all the others are rotated routinely by White House staff.

I can answer that without even listening to Mrs. Obama's response. 

It is because this image is worth even more than those proverbial 1000 words.  It is a study in history, sociology, psychology, irony and innocence.

The history is the most obvious.  I know of no other time in the history of America when the only person who was NOT black in a photo taken in the Oval Office was the photographer.

No other man of any known measure of African descent has ever called 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C. home. 

Now, the house that was partially built by black slaves who served as skilled carpenters and masons in the stone quarries that supplied the stone for the White House and other government buildings; the house where Thomas Jefferson and his successor James Madison, who held slaves all their lives, didn't stop when they took up residence in Washington.  To have a half-African American now calling the shots in that residence brings the shameful history of slavery in America full circle.

Or does it?

According to a May 2012 article in the New York Times little Jacob and his older brother are the sons of a Carlton Philadelphia of Columbia, MD.  The former U.S. Marine was leaving his tw0-year post on the National Security Council in 2009.  As is customary for departing staffers, Philadelphia requested a family photo with the President. 

Each Philadelphia son was told they could ask the President one question, but they didn't have to tell their parents what their questions would be.

I look at this picture through misty eyes.  Little Jacob is the spitting image of my son Stephen when he was that age.  Even at such a young age -- even with all that assumed innocence -- Jacob seemed to be having trouble believing that someone who had hair just like his closely-cropped curls could actually be the most powerful person in the whole country.   Jacob needed a reality check.  And thus, the bow.

We have not yet come full circle.  Full circle would mean that a child would not be concerned about things such as hair texture and skin color.   He would have had no conversations in his kindergarten class about why his kinky curly hair was somehow less desirable than his classmate’s silky blond locks.  He would not have been "advised" by another child of his differences.  Full circle would mean children would look at skin color and hair texture as simple variations on the plumage of the human species. 

No, we aren't there yet, but we're getting there.  Jacob, now 8, is probably not the only little black child truly believing he has a shot at being the President of the United States or anything else he sets his mind to accomplish.

Why Online Friendships are Real

 

How often have you been tempted to mention one of your online friends to a family member, then thought twice about it for fear of being ridiculed?

Over the three years I have been a frequent blogger, I have had numerous snarky remarks from online readers who insist that the internet is not reality;  that only face-to-face interaction has any validity; that the people with whom we connect online via blogging are only one or two steps away from being imaginary.

And yet, there they are, reading what I write.

Maybe for those who write statements like that, it is true.  For me, it is not and I’m here to tell you why.

The same anonymity that provides an environment which allows mentally unbalanced trolls to lurk in the shadows of a blog site and pounce on just about every writer they read with rude and judgmental zingers, usually ending with an exhortation to “get a life!” – that same sense of privacy gives an outlet for individuals who are suffering all categories of life’s challenges to vent and share and obtain feedback from like-minded people with whom they have established some level of rapport. 

But that’s not reality! say the skeptics and contrarians. 

I say it is.  It is just a different kind of reality and no one can prove to me there is only one kind.  Reality has at its core the matter of perception.  Take a hypochondriac.  Just because there is no medical basis (as far as our still-limited medical sciences are concerned) for a symptom or set of symptoms in a patient, it doesn’t mean that the symptoms are not real to the patient.  Whether they are spawned from physiological or psychological origins, the symptoms are as real to the patient as real can get.

So when a person who has just experienced the death of a child or is muddling through the impending death of a spouse for whom all feelings of love took a hike 15 years ago reaches out to his or her online community for support, the only real difference between that support and what the person could get in, say, group therapy, is the distraction of seeing the faces, bodies, and mannerisms of each other. 

I call those things distractions because they interfere with the receivers ability to concentrate on the messages.  Instead of reading the words offered – without the benefit/disadvantage of nonverbal add-ons like tone of voice, facial expression, possession of physical traits that trigger biases (e.g., some people don’t believe they can get real advice about weight control from an overweight person), – the person needing support gets side-tracked and begins to evaluate the input on the basis of something other than the written word.

I have friends on my blogging spaces about whom I know more than I do my best friend.  Real life friends are sometimes reluctant to share their personal demons for fear I might think less of them.  If the woman I’ve known since we were both in elementary school had problems coping with the death of her mother when my friend was a pre-teen, I don’t know about it.  It is not a discussion she would ever have with anyone.

And the regular readers of my posts know a hell of a lot more about me than my own mother does. 

So, no, I do not concur with the notion that virtual reality in the form of online friendships is bogus.  Do some people embellish the truth?  Probably.  Do some people create bogus personae?  It has been proven to be so.  But it has also been proven to be so with what online detractors call “real acquaintances.” 

Many of the people I interact with on my blogs have reached out at helped online friends offline.  Some have made connections to secure jobs for unemployed and desperate writers or readers.  Some have made extensive trips to meet each other in person.  And currently, a seriously ill writer of extraordinary talent is receiving thousands of dollars in donations to allow him to complete his book before his disease robs him of his gift.

Could someone create an elaborate scam similar to this man’s dilemma in order to dupe unsuspecting softies out of their money?  Of course, but not with the support of scores of stand-up people who have stepped in to vouch for this writer. 

Any person who can be tricked on the internet can likely be tricked in person, too.  It’s not about the venue, it’s about instincts and critical thinking and deductive reasoning.  So, for those who are inclined to ridicule those of us who enjoy the camaraderie of blogging in a community of writers, perhaps a personal inventory of your own instincts, critical thinking skills, and powers of deductive reasoning  is in order.  The rest of us are doing just fine.

Problem-Solving: Not the Time for Debating Blame

 

You’ve seen it on these pages many times.  One of our fellow bloggers who writes almost exclusively about current events or politics attempts to lay out for our consideration a solution to one of the world’s diciest problems.  And soon someone swoops in and wants to rehash the whys, wherefores, and especially, whos that lead to the dilemma in the first place.

I learned early in my career as a manager of people that the one thing that prevents reaching solutions to almost any problem is the human desire to establish blame.  I noticed that no matter how many times we circled the table and allowed team members to speculate about the cause of the problem, we never got any closer to a solution until we focused on “from this day forward.”

Some believe it is not possible to solve a problem without knowing how we got to that point.  I certainly agree, if for no other reason than to avoid making the same mistakes going forward.  But there is a vast difference between a timeline that delineates a chain of events that led to the crisis and circles on an organization chart that point out who on the chart took a misstep.  There is nothing about that activity that does anything more than make the people who aren’t circled feel safe and smug.

The screw-ups, if there are any, can be dealt with at another time, in another place.

In our current Presidential campaigns, instead of telling us what they intend to do starting on January 2, 2013, our candidates insist on talking about what did or didn’t happen during the past three and a half years.  Well, that’s fun for those of us who get off on verbal one-upmanship and blistering TV ads, but it gives voters nothing upon which to base an intelligent vote.

Even if one believes the incumbent President caused every problem the U.S. faces today –which is, of course, ludicrous – shouldn’t our next big decision be based on well-defined and specific action items aimed at economic recovery, improved foreign affairs, public education, the future of the military and the like?  Does it really make sense for those who are supporting Mitt Romney only because he is not Barack Obama to do so without first finding out what Romney plans to do?

Obama has not lived up to the hype, but he has certainly amassed a hell of a lot more experience in the Oval Office than Romney has.  If the train has skipped off the rails, the administration most capable of righting any mistakes made is the one currently in office.  While the challenger, if he should be elected, is undergoing on-the-job training, the enormous pile of problems sitting on POTUS’s desk will be no closer to solution – in fact, they will sit there and proliferate.

If ever there were a time to think about not throwing the baby out with the bathwater, it is now.  The blame for the mountain of problems will be sorted out by the historians of the future.  No doubt their assessments will be an amalgam of multiple administrations over multiple decades.  But in the meantime, it is imperative that our government leaders deal with the elephants on the conference room tables before they become an out-of-control, nation-ending stampede.

No amount of finger-pointing, fabrication of factoids, or vitriol is going to change the predicament of this nation.  What we need from both candidates is real leadership – right now.

50th High School Reunion A Blast

Proviso East High School Pirates, Maywood, Illinois

It felt much like one of the school dances we loved to have.  These were the times when the squares (nerds,) the hoods (hoodlums,) the social climbers, the brains and the jocks mingled relatively unmolested.  What happened outside, after the dance was over, was another story.

When I finally sashayed into the ballroom, they were are seated, eating their salads.  I had completely missed the cocktail hour.  I was informed at the reception table that my friends were frantic with worry, fearing I had broken my word and was a no-show. 

I have always been a known compulsive punctual.  I used to have nightmares about being late for school decades after leaving high school.  I would much rather arrive too early and kill time than be late for anything.

This trip had a two-pronged purpose.  It had been much too long since I had visited my mother, so the expense to travel to Chicago was easier to justify.   I flew into Midway Airport, rented a car for the weekend, and drove south for 45 minutes to Matteson, Illinois, where my mother lives.  My plan was to spend the nights there and drive the 44 miles to the reunion on Saturday evening.  Twenty-eight of those miles would be on the Tri-State Toll Road (I-294,) a roadway I used daily for many years before I left Chicago for California.

I had forgotten about Illinois’ penchant for tearing up their roadways every weekend, blocking two lanes and confusing the already über-confusing toll collection plazas and the exit ramps with orange traffic cones.  To add insult to injury, the far-too-closely spaced toll plazas represented $1.50 each.  Between exiting too soon and having to re-enter the toll road and paying yet another toll –TWICE-- I arrived an hour late and $6 poorer.

When I finally found the hotel there was no valet parking.  Instead I had to park myself in a vast open lot -- in the farthest row from the entrance of the hotel – and walk an unspeakable number of steps in my high heels to find the ballroom.  So, in addition to being embarrassed for being so conspicuous in my tardiness, my feet were killing me and I hadn’t even danced yet.

Then the class clown, damn him, yells out “Ladies and Gentlemen, the late Lezlie H.!”

My friends from majorettes had saved me a seat at their table.  I have kept in touch with them ever since we found each other on Facebook a few years ago.  We seemed to pick up where we left off fifty years ago.  Sure we all looked older and our bodies had changed, but our chatter was easy and endless.  Two of them introduced me to their second husbands.  Their first husbands had also been in our graduating class, but they were not present. One had died. 

The third former baton twirler was still married to her high school sweetheart, John.  The two of them seem to have thrived over the years. They were youthful, glamorous, fit and happy.  It was charming and highly unusual.

My first boyfriend in life was there with his wife.  Teddy and I had been an item in pre-school at age 4.  He had given me a Captain Midnight decoder ring that he had gotten out of a cereal box to seal our union.  All through childhood, we remained close.  In high school we danced the bop every morning in the gym, before the bell to start the day.  And we danced it again to “The Jailhouse Rock,” fifty years later on Saturday night.  It was as familiar as riding a bicycle.

Also at the table were two woman with whom I have tangled politically on Facebook.  They are both ultra-conservative, but one has been restrained in her trolling on my cross-posted blog pieces on politics.  The other has not been restrained and ultimately caused me to un-friend her.  Her insults were beyond the pale. It’s so funny, though. She had nothing much to say to me at all Saturday night.  It could have been because of the fact that, after I greeted her warmly, I kept my back to her the entire time.  I don’t know. Bravado in person just isn’t the same as on Facebook, is it.?

I suspect there were far more right-leaning people at the reunion than we lefties, but no one wanted to get into verbal sparring at such a festive occasion.

Out of the 700 or so graduates in our class of 1962, 92 were deceased.  In attendance were about 150.  Out the Plus 30, the group of students I belonged to who had been selected out of the feeder schools on the basis of IQ and aptitude for an educational experiment, 17 showed up.  Two of them had gotten married to each other ten years ago.  One of them got enough drinks in him to tell me he had had a crush on me the whole time we were in the Plus 30.  I kind of got that idea without his announcement because of the way his arm kept finding its way around what used to be my waist.  I never did meet his wife, who was “around here somewhere.”

One man I didn’t recognize who was still visibly socially awkward walked up to me and said “Weren’t you a class officer?”  I nodded.  “I voted for you.”  So I thanked him profusely and moved on.  Bless his heart.

It was really big fun.  I stayed until after 11 p.m., found my way back to my mother’s house with no problems and spent the rest of the weekend learning things about my mom I never knew before.  It was a kind of oral history.  It is worthy of a book.  I hope I have the chops, because I think I’ll take it on.

Cheers to the Proviso East High School (Maywood, IL) Class of 1962.  Thanks for the memories.

Fifty Years Ago Today…

 

Proviso High School Freshman Class Officers 1958

…I had just arrived on campus, parents in tow, to begin an adventure that no one in my known lineage had experienced.  College.

I have written about some of my escapades during those idyllic four years in the prairies of Wisconsin.  I matriculated at the small liberal arts Ripon College in the small town of the same name that prides itself at being the official Birthplace of the Republican Party.  Go figure.

But this post isn’t about that.  This post is about the four years prior to that beautiful autumn day when I first heard the lovely strains of the bell tower carillon that would keep me on schedule, more or less, for the next few years.

Tomorrow morning I will catch a flight to Chicago to visit my soon-to-be-88-year-old mother…and to attend the 50th high school reunion of the Proviso East H.S. Class of 1962.

High school.  Mine was not the angst-filled horror so many woman of my generation report.  There was angst, though.  Plenty of it, now that I think about it.  But more memorable were the good times, the personal achievements, the great friendships…and the freedom from those gawdawful navy blue gabardine uniform jumpers with the white Peter Pan collars.  Oh how I hated that getup.

High school was the time I really had to come to terms with my mixed heritage. Until then, I had been sheltered and coddled by family and Catholic elementary school nuns who were absolutely fascinated by this social science experiment named Lezlie. None of them had been exposed to “colored” children for very long.  The half-dozen or so of black families who made the sacrifice to afford the tuition had only been allowed to enroll their kids for a few years before my arrival.

But I didn’t fit their model of a black child in almost any way.  We were all well-behaved, at least most of the time.  But not all of us were prepared for the rigors of the brand of education those nuns put down.  I was.  Little goodie two shoes, was I, with impeccable manners and an IQ that literally shocked them.  All of that fun stuff resulted in me being selected for a special high school experiment.

So I walked into that gigantic high school building with a target on my back, although I didn’t know it yet. 

Proviso East is a township high school, with feeder elementary children coming from at least six different towns.  There were 4,000 of us!  And out of that number, thirty (30) new freshman were selected based on IQ and achievement in the lower grades to join an accelerated program that became known as the Plus 30.  Now do you see the target?

Now in this horde of hormones were children from family backgrounds very typical of the Midwest at the time.  I never knew how many “colored kids” there were – people didn’t talk about things like that back then.  But I figure we wouldn’t have filled an entire study hall that seated roughly 40-50 students.

There was a large contingency of Italian Americans who grew up in Melrose Park, Illinois.  There were numerous children with unpronounceable names like Kwiatowski and Ciechanowski.   There were Jewish kids from north Maywood, the white part of the segregated town I was born and raised in.  And there were WASPS like my English/German second husband, who hailed from Forest Park.

I loved being a leader, which seemed to come quite naturally, so within the first month I decided I would run for class secretary.  I really wanted to be president, but this was 1958. Women were either vice-president or secretary, period.  I knew my “place.”  For the time being, that is.

Then it hit.  The heartbreaking, totally unexpected and utterly baffling racial backlash against me.  From the black kids in the class!

Who the hell did I think I was, they asked among themselves?  They didn’t know me because I didn’t attend the public school with them.  What they did know – Maywood was a very small town for a Chicago suburb – was that I was from “that Hurst family.” She’s light, bright and almost white… and we hate her.

Week after week, month after month, year after year, I was “the bitch” the black girls loved to hate.  At least once a week a rumor would make its way to my ears that The Girls would be waiting for me to pass the park on the walk home.  They were going to kick my yella ass.

Thank God the black boys in the class didn’t feel that way.  In fact, they would gather me up at dismissal and escort me home, past the hissing, spewing crowd of girls and home to my Mama.

So I had some decisions to make – after I cried about three rivers of tears after school in the safety of our basement recreation room.  Would I try to endear myself with these mean girls who wasted no time learning how to smoke and drink liquor in the girls rest rooms, or would I make my own way, on my own terms?

Thankfully, I had the ovaries to choose the latter.  I endured the mean-girl wrath as I won that election; became a permanent fixture on the honor roll, in spite of all those “uppity advanced classes” I had to take; became the first black girl to become a drum majorette; and was the first black student to make the National Honor Society (that I know of).

Oh how those girls hated my beige ass.

So, it has been with keen curiosity that I have approached this reunion. I’ve only attended one other – the 10th – and the Mean Black Girls maintained their snarling distance. By then, I found them both funny and just a little bit worthy of pity.  We were close to thirty years old.  I had left high school behind me.  They hadn’t, apparently.

As it turns out, it looks like I will be in a most familiar position this Saturday night.  I might be the only African American woman returning to celebrate our half-century after high school, according to the list of paid participants.  Some of my antagonists are already dead.  Others have moved to other parts of the country, like I did.  The others probably think it is beneath them…or is it above them?

I am looking forward to seeing my real high school friends.  I hope I’ll be able to recognize them!