Black America: Damned if We Do, Damned if We Don’t

 

Nine-year-old Tyshawn Lee loved basketball.  He took that ball with him everywhere he went.  He took it into that Chicago alley on Monday, November 2, 2015 when Chicago police say gang members lured him there in order to murder him.

Nine years old.

Tyshawn’s “crime?”  He had the bad sense to choose as his father a man who police say is probably involved with a lethal gang called the Gangster Disciples.  Apparently, Pierre Stokes, Tyshawn’s “chosen” father, has done something so terrible to this rival gang, they felt it only appropriate to execute his child.  Take THAT, Pierre!

http://abcnews.go.com/US/murder-year-chicago-boy-killed-alleged-gang-related/story?id=35020452

As I have come to expect, and so should you, the gentle people of America who despise the Black Lives Matter movement have crawled out of their self-righteous hidey-holes to decry the black community’s failure to curb this insane slaughter that holds hostage Chicagoans and Baltimoreans and Fergusonians and the people of every other urban city where poverty has been studiously concentrated, by design.  The people who are first in line to scream “black on black” crime as a reason to NOT support efforts to stop police departments to prey upon unarmed black people are the same people who fled their once lily-white, lower-middle-class neighborhoods as soon as one dark-skinned family moved in. 

Let me be perfectly clear.  There is no reason whatsoever for a grown-ass man or woman to plan the execution of a 9-year-old.  I hope the assholes who planned this murder will be snuffed out as quickly and as easily as little Tyshawn was.  I don’t even care who does it.  The police would be preferable, because that would be somewhat more lawful.  However, in all likelihood, it will be the result of Gangster Disciple retaliation, because that’s what criminals do. Besides, the police don’t seem to be able to do much of anything in the ‘hood about real crime.

Yes, I said criminals.  People who belong to gangs are willful breakers of the law. They are outlaws who don’t even believe in laws unless they are the laws of the streets, which they determine.  But just like in the communities of other skin colors, these criminals do not represent the black community.  They are the scourge of the black community.

So why don’t we put a stop to it?

We tried.  We’ve been trying.  In fact, we tried so hard in the late 1960s we actually precipitated the draconian drug laws that now have a large percentage of our black men and women sitting in penal institutions for terms far longer than those for some far more heinous crimes. 

When the concentrated poverty of inner cities across the nation began to cause serious social problems, especially the introduction of drugs as both a profession and a palliative to the grinding poverty, law-abiding residents in those locations started screaming to high heaven for protection.  They went to the place where we have always thought protection was supposed to be provided – the police and the government.  Black leaders pushed hard to bring “law and order” back to their communities.  And the conservatives in power at the time took that political football and ran with it.  They pulled an end-zone-to-end-zone touchdown. 

And thus began the new Jim Crow. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/28/opinion/the-real-roots-of-70s-drug-laws.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&version=Moth-Visible&module=inside-nyt-region&region=inside-nyt-region&WT.nav=inside-nyt-region&_r=1

Have you ever wondered why we hear hardly more than crickets from today’s  black leadership about this terrifying coup d'état taking place in Chicago? For your answer, look no further than the All Lives Matter contingent.  As soon as the black community publicly denounces what The Others like to call black-on-black crime in any meaningful way, the heat is immediately lifted from the excessive force and brutality that is plaguing our people.  In fact, the knee-jerk government reaction to any hue and cry from law-abiding black people could easily result in another fully-sanctioned open season on blacks.

The black community, most of which is concentrated in overcrowded, underfunded and crumbling environments, is between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

White people are truly sick of hearing about how slavery started all this.  That’s really unfortunate, because until such time as the majority of white people accept that as truth, these manifestations of oppression will only get worse.  It took hundreds of years to get there, but once the creation of sprawling black ghettos was completed, the rest was absolutely predictable.  But Americans don’t have time to think ahead.  We don’t know how to analyze a problem to include the consequences of the chosen solution.  We are so busy placing blame, quieting consciences and running for lucrative government offices, we don’t seem to care much about consequences.  Everything is about right now.  And this is the now we have created.

When I began to write this piece, I was really angry with a woman named Karla Lee. She was the one who made the ill-advised choice to allow a gangster to father her child.  She should have been smarter than that.  She should have seen the danger her son was in and protected him.  She is just as worthless…

And then I came to my senses.  She is as much a product of this social malfunction as Pierre Stokes and his fellow Gangster Disciples are. The rules of conduct those of us who are so quick to pass judgment live by have little or nothing to do with the social order in Islands of Poor Black Concentration.  Our rules don’t and never have worked for those residents.  They can’t even escape their hell on Earth through education, as we once believed.  Their schools are nothing more than holding tanks for mass incarceration.  Their secondary education is not college, it is the penitentiary.  If and when they ever leave, they graduate as fully-socialized predators and survivors. 

It is going to take more minds than black minds to stop the civil wars in our cities.  It is going to take more than the prayers black churches send up every Sunday.  It is going to take an awakening of the magnitude we only read about in stories of miracles. 

Do I believe in miracles?  Do you?

Papa Francisco and Me

 

“Go, the Mass has ended.”

The last time I heard those words from the altar of a Catholic Church was at a funeral in the late 1990s.  Although I can almost recite an entire Catholic Mass in Latin, I really thought I had lost whatever it was I had in the way of warm-fuzzies about Catholicism.

I didn’t even know the Pope was coming to the United States until he actually got here. After he arrived in Washington, it occurred to me that I actually had heard rumblings as I did my usual multi-tasking with the news broadcasting mutedly in the background.

My status of “recovering Catholic” began in college, when I started learning about life outside the Thou-Shalt-Nots of my parochial schooling,.  One definite no-no was attending non-Catholic church services, so it never occurred to me to learn about other religions. I thought that was probably a sin, too.

The media’s real or feigned excitement about the comings and goings of the popular (even to me) Pope Francis must have been contagious because I found myself glued to the television as if we were back during the time when President Kennedy was taken from us so suddenly. I found myself responding positively to the man who is Pope. I couldn’t take my eyes off him or take my attention away from his words.  His quiet, leisurely speech delivery, instead of being boring, was soothing, almost relaxing.  His pure joy when interacting with the people in the streets, far more so than the dignitaries he was forced to greet and indulge, was transfixing.  This man embodied everything I had imagined as a small child sitting in a hard, highly-polished pew listening to the Pope’s message at Sunday Mass. 

As I sat and whiled the day away on Friday, the second day of Pope Francis’s visit to the United States, I did what the nuns always demanded when any of their pupils misbehaved: I examined my conscience.  What was going on with me, the self-described atheist who believes organized religion to be a sinister influencer of world conflict?  Me, the person who spent three weeks in Europe exploring dozens of grandiose cathedrals that dripped with gold, silver, rubies, emeralds and pearls.  All this excess seemed so far removed from the teachings of Jesus Christ, from the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience taken by the Dominican nuns who shaped my understanding of Catholicism. I kept thinking, while being mesmerized by stained glass windows of overwhelming detail and beauty, how the lives of many suffering people of the world could have been made comfortable if this wealth had been distributed among them.

Popes were individuals of unmatched status to the child I was in the 1950s, when I attended St. James Catholic School in my home town of Maywood, Illinois.  They ruled over more people than the President of the United States.  Their word, according to church doctrine, was infallible, and at the time I thought that meant on all subjects.  My attention may have wandered to the Stations of the Cross which encircled the sacristy during the Homily and the Sunday Sermon, but I never dreamed through a reading of a papal encyclical. My young mind believed my attention to his words was imperative to my salvation.

As I grew older, however, I read of Popes who were nothing like what I expected them to be.  Pope Alexander VI – Rodrigo Borgia of Spain – was elected Pope in 1492, a significant year in American history.  His conduct during his reign that ended with his death in 1503 was about as far removed from my expectations as one could get and still bear the title.  He observed the rules against papal marriages, but that didn’t stop him from siring several children among a number of mistresses, the most famous of whom may be his daughter Lucrezia Borgia.  Talk about a rude awakening!  My imagery of papal deportment was shattered into shards of broken vows and self-centered humanity.  Thus began my journey toward atheism.  It took decades to evolve to its current level of certainty, but those early exposures to real history, and not the highly romanticized history I learned in parochial school, put me on the path.

When the Papal Mass at Madison Square Garden neared the point at which the Pope would utter the words that opened this essay, I found myself saddened a little that it was over.  I realized at that point that my psyche associated the sights and sounds of Catholic ritual with the profound sense of peace I felt whenever I attended such a ceremony.  Even the scent of incense, which actually nauseated me when I was a smaller child, would have been an olfactory trigger of the feeling of being centered and safe, had I been there in person.

My faith, such as it was, hasn’t been reawakened by this string of papal events.  I am firm in my belief that heaven and hell are achieved in life, not in death.  I continue to abhor the pain and suffering religious zealotry has caused humanity since the beginning of time.  What I do have is a new understanding of the role religions can and do play for individuals trying to find their ways through a chaotic and unpredictable life.  When one believes there is a power that overrides one’s own, there can be comfort in throwing the fear of the unknown into the hands of the superior being. 

I often tell people that I was never really given the gift of faith.  I seem to have been in line when the other two virtues, hope and charity, were bestowed, but I obviously missed the day faith was offered.  Sometimes I feel regretful about that because I must rely solely upon myself to make it through this crazy life.  But I haven’t lost the ability to feel the wonderment, the temporary peace and the serenity offered by Catholic ritual.  I was surprised by this, although I probably shouldn’t have been.  The teachings of Catholicism shaped my way of being in this life.  When I hear a siren out in the distance, to this day, I have the urge to make the sign of the cross, which was something we were taught to do in school.  I still care about that person who is being whisked to the hospital or who is a victim of crime.  I even care about the person who might be in trouble with the police. 

And, when I pay attention to the ear worms that invade my distracted thoughts, I find myself humming and, often, singing liturgical hymns, most of which are associated with happiness and joy. 

I guess the old saw applies here, too.  You can take the woman out of Catholicism but you can’t take Catholicism completely out of the woman.

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

“Great, Thanks! Yours?”

 

A Facebook friend of mine posted that sign yesterday.  This morning, a neighbor who was driving past me and my dog Coqui stopped, lowered the window and shouted “How was your Christmas?”

“Great,” I lied.  “Yours?”

“Very nice,” she yelled.

So, I am a liar.  I am a terrible person who lies in order to 1) save my breath as well as my face; and 2) Avoid the glazed over stare of the person who mindlessly asked me a question concerning my well-being or lack thereof.

Here is what I would have said, had I not elected to flat-out lie:

“Well, I wasn’t really feeling the Christmas thing to begin with, so I was dragging my ass a bit as I rang my sister’s doorbell at exactly 1:30 p.m. Christmas Day. I arrived as planned, a half hour earlier than the time she said my nephew and his kids were asked to appear.  I knew my retail-employed sister was scheduled to be at her large chain store location at 4 a.m.the day after Christmas, which meant she’d have to arise at 2:30 a.m. (Yikes, that’s pretty unreal!)  So I brought my assigned items (dinner rolls and egg nog, because she thinks she is the only one who knows how to cook, but I do make homemade rolls; but I didn’t because it is a waste of time because the two kids are the only ones besides me who even bother with them at dinner.

Anyway, my nephew, who is notorious for his lack of consideration when it comes to keeping schedules, didn’t arrived at the prescribed time.  He didn’t bother answering his phone when his mother called at 2:30 p.m. to see if he was on his way.  He didn’t answer at 3..or 3:30…or 3:45 either. 

Noting the smoke starting to drift from her ears, I tried to fill the silence by asking what time she would get off from work the next day.  She said 11 a.m., to which I said, “Oh, that’s not so bad…I guess.”

Said she:  “No, it’s not so bad because YOU don’t have to do it.”

I must have looked exactly the way someone should look after having her head bitten off and I did let out a rather long and loud sigh. I slnked off to the farthest away from my fuming hostess and vowed not to open my mouth the rest of the day.  But no, that wouldn’t do either.

Sister Dearest realized what she had done, but instead of apologizing, she acted as if she never took a bite out of my ass and started making small talk about my exercise regimen, my son, etc. I answered as if I weren’t still stung.

But then her 21-year-old grandson, who had driven himself from his home and was on time, decided to try to fill the next pregnant pause by saying something akin to “so how’s it going, Nana?” 

“STOP TRYING TO MAKE SMALL TALK!  YOU KNOW I’M PISSED!”  She didn’t whisper.

At 4 p.m. – a full two hours late – the doorbell rang and my nephew and crew entered. 

And all hell broke loose.   I withdrew to a neutral corner of my mind, but by this time I, too, was rather irritated by my nephew’s lack of respect for his mother.  She yelled something about being disrespected.  He tried to say he thought she told him dinner was at 3, but, of course, that was not working, mainly because it was FOUR O’CLOCK! 

Meanwhile, my sister’s longtime companion arrived, walking into the middle of what must have looked like an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  He wisely decided to stay out of it and instead walked over to me, saying:

“How are you?”

“Fine,” I replied with a weak smile. “How are you?”

Later, after I hadn’t uttered a word for nearly two hours, my sister asked me if I was okay… why was I so quiet?

“I’m fine,” I said, feigning surprise.  I really wanted to bolt out the door and drive to the safety of my empty home.

Looks like I really am a liar. If I had told the truth, it would have been necessary to explain why I had responded “It sucked.”  As we all know, the passing driver really didn’t want to know how my Christmas was unless it was “Great.”  And who the hell wants to reveal the truth: that her family is just as screwed up as everybody else’s?

Happy New Year to you, too!

Christmas is a Feeling…and I’ve lost it

Little L would lie in bed and wait for it:  that magical feeling that started right after Santa Claus finally brought up the rear of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. 

The anticipation of things to come was like a drug to Little L.  She loved the rehearsals for the Christmas play at school and the familiarity of Christmas carols sung at Sunday Mass amid gigantic potted poinsettias and aromatic pine boughs festooning the altars.  Her eyes would grow wide in front of the automated window scenes at Marshall Field in Chicago’s bustling Loop.  She pretended to believe in the poor man in the red velvet suit who endured children peeing on his lap and pulling his fake beard, just so she could get the gift he would pull out of his huge pack, lying beside his throne.

Little L’s family didn’t do any decorating at all until the Big Night.  My sister, our cousins and I believed the floor-to-ceiling silver-painted pine tree was somehow put there by Santa, before he went about the task of arranging the unwrapped toys in a way that told a story, while at the same time putting each child’s presents in easy-to-find groups. 

Little L loved to wake up on Christmas morning – make that the wee, wee hours of the morning, while it was still night dark – and see the blue glow that silver tree emitted from its monochromatic lighting scheme.  The silver tinsels, meticulously placed one-strand-by-one, reflected the blue lights and enhanced the glow. Knowing she was not allowed to get up until the sun was about to rise, Little L would lie there and let the “feeling” of that glow wash over her while she fought the urge to wake her sleeping little sister in the twin bed beside her.

Christmas was a three to four week feast for all her senses.  The sights of blinking lights and precious nativity scenes; the smells of Christmas cookies mixed with the nauseous stench of diesel fuel that lessened to joy of the trip to the Loop; and the sounds of music from the radio or from the sound tracks of televised Christmas specials and classic movies converged to create a very excited little girl.

Even after I became Teen L, long eschewing the magical components of the season, that glow of tree lights worked on me every time.  Somehow that glow, which only worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, had the power to elevate even my adolescent moods, although I did have to be awakened by this time, having been out the night before.

Parenthood changed everything.  Mommy L had to create the magic for her tiny, excitable boy.  Year after year, through tight budgets and single parenthood, through work schedules and relentless sinus infections, Mommy L’s job was not to enjoy the run-up to Christmas, but to “make” Christmas. The joy she experienced at the sight of her little son jumping up and down in his footie pajamas with glee was her sensory reward.

Today I am Senior L.  Without grandchildren yet to spoil and help create the magic for, I find myself disinterested in the Miracle on 34th Street, weary of the sound of Jimmy Stewart’s voice and numb, even, to my favorite Christmas songs.  It all feels so artificial, so borderline dishonest.  While I do believe The Reason for the Season actually lived and walked among us more than 2000 years ago, I no longer believe he was anything more than a charismatic leader with superior staying power.  Celebrating his birth, for me, is similar to celebrating the birth of any other person of historical significance. 

When I watch as my sister and her son create the magic for his 9 and 11 year olds, I notice the changes from one year to the next.  I doubt they believe some portly dude flies in at night, parks his inexplicably airborne reindeer on their roof, and somehow squishes his ample girth and a jam-packed sack of presents into modern-day chimney flues.  I doubt they understand that without their generous and doting grandmother, their Christmas hauls would be vastly diminished. 

And yet, when they have children, they will repeat the same seemingly meaningless (to me, not to all of you, I’m sure) cycle.  And their grandparents will sit quietly, nibbling on pfeffernüsse, waiting for it all to be over, once again.

I understand the concept of Bah, Humbug better each year that passes by.

Affluenza* – A Rich Boy’s Plea

Ethan Couch

Now I’ve heard everything!  He did it because his family is too wealthy to teach him any better.

Sixteen-year-old Texan Ethan Couch killed four people last June when he crashed into them at 70 miles per hour, having a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. 

The other car?  There was no other car.  These victims were merely standing beside the road along with the nine others who were injured in the tragedy.

Rather than vehicular homicide, the teen was charged with four counts of manslaughter, because the court decided Ethan Couch was “too wealthy to understand the difference between good and bad.” Although the prosecutors in the case were seeking a 20-year prison sentence, the maximum for the manslaughter charges, Couch was given only 10 years of probation.

Dr. G. Dick Miller, the psychologist hired by the defense, told the court that Ethan Couch’s life could be salvaged if he spent a year or two in treatment with no contact with his parents.  There have been reports that they plan to send the teen to a $500,000/year facility in California somewhere – probably in some God-awful place like Malibu Beach or Santa Barbara.  Poor thing.

Dr. Miller testified that Ethan’s parents gave him “freedoms no young person should have.”  He said the boy is a victim of “affluenza” because his family believed wealth bought privilege.  He said the parents did not believe there was any link between behavior and consequences.

All this time many of us have understood how poverty contributes to the illegal, irrational and violent behavior of some young people raised in America’s pockets of poverty.  Many a defense attorney has used that excuse in their pleas for leniency for kids even younger than Ethan who commit heinous crimes.  We’ve all known it is possible to be too poor to keep children fed, clothed, educated and supervised properly.

But to be too rich?  Too rich to teach a child not to drink and drive?  Too rich to at least PAY somebody to teach the kid about consequences of breaking the law? I don’t buy it. 

Juvenile Judge Jean Boyd of Fort Worth did buy it, apparently, because by the time Ethan Couch is 26, he will have satisfied his debt to society and have the opportunity to resume his life of privilege and exceptionalism. 

I knew the almighty dollar had the loudest voice in this country, but this is a new low.  Perhaps Ethan Couch’s parents should go to prison.

_________________

*The book Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic defines it as "a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more".^[1]

When Nothing Seems Good Enough

 

A dear friend’s husband died last Friday.  She and I worked together when I lived in California.  My husband and I bought a home in the same town she and her husband lived in when we met. 

PJ is such a special woman.  She earned her Ph.D. in organizational development when she was well into her 50s.  Age never mattered much to her.  Her boundless energy propelled her in several directions at once, all the time.

When she married H., it never bothered her that he was quite a bit older than she was.  No one has an expiration date stamped on their buttocks, she’d say.  What mattered to her was his heart – the kind that determines one’s character.

The last time I saw PJ, we treated ourselves to a lost weekend in New York City.  She flew from California and I flew from Atlanta.  When we met at the hotel, it was as if no time at all had passed since our prior face-to-face encounter.

We have a lot in common.  She is of Mexican descent, so she has suffered as much discrimination in life as I have as a black woman.  H. was of Portuguese extraction, and while not nearly as pronounced as for PJ and me, he took his share of ethnic slurs.  But none of the three of us allowed any of that to prevent us from setting goals and reaching them. 

Both PJ and H. were soft-spoken and calming.  Whereas I am a true Type A personality, they hovered in the Type B serenity that often served to rein me in.  In short, they are, or were, one of those rare couples that remained madly in love until H.’s very last breath.

I just called PJ.  She answered, “Hi, L.”  Her voice was quivery.  Mine was nowhere to be found.  I finally squeaked out a shaky “how are you doing, Sweetheart?” 

“Funny you should call at this very moment,” she said in that calm, melodious voice of hers.  “I am standing in front of H.’s cremains.  I’m in the process of picking up the urn.”

My heart slammed into the bottom of my gut.  Great, I thought.  Timing is everything, and yours, L, sucks!

“No, it’s perfect timing,” she said, ever the lady, ever the fixer.  “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

No matter how many times I encounter this inevitability – death – I have yet to find a collection of words that come even close to suiting the occasion. 

“I am so sorry, PJ.  I have so many wonderful memories of you and H together.”

That’s it.  That’s all I could muster, except for croaking through the onset of my tearfulness, “I love you, PJ.”

Her tears started then.  I knew she wouldn’t hold me responsible for them, but I felt like crap anyway. 

I guess this is always going to be one of those times when nothing – no words or gestures – will seem good enough to reach the level of gravitas a death commands.

The Murder of Hope

 

So many of my fellow writers here are much younger than I.  Some terrific essays have been posted in the past few days, but most of the true memories of the day John F. Kennedy was slain have been from those of you who were in elementary school or even younger.

I was two weeks past my 19th birthday.  It was the second year of my college education in a place that, in retrospect, was probably as unlikely as it could have been at the time.  Politics were important to me then, but not important enough to have it influence my choice of schools. 

I learned in my first year that I had signed up to attend a small, liberal arts college in the prairies of Wisconsin in a town that distinguished itself as being the birthplace of the Republican Party.

Not only was I the only “Negro” woman enrolled there; I was also a part of a very small coterie of young Democrats.

At 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time on Friday, November 22, 1963, I was walking alone toward the Commons, hoping I hadn’t missed out completely on lunch.  My head was swirling with chemical formulas, exhausted from a brutal mid-term exam in chemistry.

Two guys I knew – the school was only 800 students strong, so I knew just about everybody by then – were walking toward me laughing.

“Did you hear, L?”

“Hear what?” I responded, smiling.

“Somebody killed Kennedy.”

Again, they smirked and chuckled.

“Yeah, right.  You two are such lunch buckets.”  That’s one of the many stupid things we called each other back then.  It meant they were “out to lunch” or idiots. I thought it applied particularly well for classmates who claimed to be Republicans.

They passed and I kept walking. 

But they were not joking.  It was true. I heard it from a fellow liberal who approached on that same stretch of sidewalk.  I heard it, but couldn’t process it.  It couldn’t happen in this country.  Not here.  Not now.

I changed my direction and headed for the dorm.  My appetite vanished as quickly as the President’s future.  I needed to talk to my mother.  Now.  I was confused, angry,  and scared. 

The election of President Kennedy had meant to my young mind that things were getting much, much better.  He won, despite being a Catholic.  That was huge for me because I shared that “stigma” with him, although I didn’t  understand why it was such a big issue in the scheme of things.  He talked about what a nation should be and what he was saying sounded very much like he agreed that people like me should have a fair shake.  Maybe I wouldn’t have to be so mindful of my race anymore.  Maybe I could just be another college coed.  Maybe the turmoil that was going on the the Deep South at the time would come to a halt and things would change.

By the time I reached my mother on the hall telephone in the dorm, my hope was DOA.

Urban Decay and Feral Teens

 

It appears the simulated violence in video games is no longer exhilarating enough for some urban teenagers.  There’s a new game in town that is all the rage among seemingly asocial posses of thrill seekers.  They call it Knockout.

The object of the game?  To see if the teen has enough skill and strength to knock unconscious some random pedestrian in one well-placed blow.  When successful, the unsuspecting pedestrian falls like a tree and the posse celebrates. 

Sometimes the prey doesn’t recover.  One man, Ralph Santiago,46, was found dead in Hoboken, N.J., his head and broken neck wedged between two iron fence posts. Video surveillance recorded his assailant delivering the knockout blow.

Apparently, this phenomenon is moving across America’s vast landscape, coming soon to a city near you. There have been deaths as a result of such attacks in Syracuse, St. Louis and New Jersey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=u_PEBsEyYHQ

America, what have we done!? How have we allowed our society to decline into a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies?

The proverbial elephant on the table, based on the reports of such incidents to date, is the race of the young people shown in the videos mindlessly attacking innocent people who happen by at the exact moment these feral human beings decided to get their “fun on.”

These are the first two comments I saw when I scrolled down on yesterday’s CBS DC report on Knockout:

jimjenky• 3 minutes ago

• Yep, call me a racist, but soon as I saw the article title I knew the race of those playing this game. Oh, but we need to understand that this is the result of slavery, the break-up of the black family, the on-going racism of America and its effects on the lives of black youth, etc, etc, etc. The biggest problem with black America, especially with black youths, is the continued excuses that are given for their poor conduct, thus encouraging further poor conduct. Face facts, America, the greatest enemy of black America are black Americans. Time to look at whether this is cultural of genetic.

Roxy• 3 minutes ago

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Yes, the guilty parties were black.  And no matter how hateful we find the comments I’ve pasted above, the truth is that I also knew without seeing the video that the kids involved would be black.  That is particularly problematic for me because I am also black and I spend a good deal of my time writing about and fighting against the stereotypes that plague me and other mothers of sons who are black and innocent of such ignorant,feral behavior.

To answer the commenter jimjenky, let me say this:  It is not genetic, it is cultural.  It HAS been looked at to see if this kind of amoral behavior is genetically inherent to descendants of black Africans.  It is not.  So no, it is not about race.

It is about decade after decade of poverty among black families who cannot join the White Flight that renders inner cities dark-skinned and even poorer. 

It is about children in those dark-skinned cities being raised by child mothers, who were raised by child mothers, who were raised by child mothers.

It is about the propensity for residents of these dark-skinned cities to turn to drugs and drug trafficking to both escape the relentless grind of poverty that they can’t hope to escape and to earn the kind of living they think they deserve. 

jimjenky stated: “Face facts, America, the greatest enemy of black America are black Americans.”

This is where it gets difficult for me.  This is a statement I cannot refute.  I, too, am afraid of groups of black teenagers.  As a senior citizen, I am feeling more and more vulnerable to the dangers of simply leaving my house. 

Last week I was afraid to carry my cell phone while walking my dog because young black men and woman are making a sport out of jumping out of cars and snatching the devices right out of the hands of pedestrians.  Now I have to be concerned about being the random target of a so-called game to see if one of those thugs can knock me out in one punch.  The chances that these crimes will be committed by black youths are well into 90th percentiles. 

What’s interesting about my concerns is that I do not live in a blighted neighborhood.  On the contrary, this is considered an upscale in-town neighborhood with a fair amount of cultural diversity, but still predominately white.  In-town Atlanta has undergone an impressive gentrification over the past three or four decades.  In fact, many of those white flyers have reclaimed large sections of the inner-city, pushing the dark-skinned city dwellers outward into the exurban areas and creating new pockets of urban-like blight.

The problem is the feral thugs are mobile.  If they have no car to use to cruise the areas where the stuff they want is likely to be, they steal it.  Their thought process seems to be simply “I don’t have one; I need one; I’ll take yours.”  There is no conscience involved.  It is pragmatic. Morality and conscience have vanished among this group. 

It has vanished to the point that knocking innocent passersby unconscious is a leisurely pastime.  

You and I may disagree about how we got to this place, but this is where we are.  Blaming it on black people will not protect non-black people from the Knockout Game.  Blaming it on white people will not protect non-white from becoming prey. 

America, we have a problem.  There is nowhere to hide.

Better than Sex

 

At first glance, I’m pretty sure I look like a real girly-girl.  I admit to paying meticulous attention to my public presentation – clothes must fit, hair must be neat and the melasma spots on my cheeks concealed.  And I never leave the house without earrings! 

When it comes to what we women commonly refer to as “pampering”, however, I’m not big on it.  Waiting around in a hair salon while people rearrange and transform their follicles is my idea of torture.  I do it once in a while just to remind myself how much I hate it. I usually go straight home and rewash and restyle my hair after dropping anywhere between $65 and $100, plus tip.  Who needs that?

I can think of at least three times in my life when I have been generously gifted with a certificate for a Spa Day at one of Atlanta’s most chi-chi establishments.  They all expired and went unused.  Did I feel guilty about the big bucks I wasted?  Yes…but not enough to pick up the phone and make the appointments.

A couple of weeks ago my son called and asked how I was feeling.  On that particular day I was literally aching in every joint and muscle in my body.  It didn’t feel like the flu or a cold coming on.  I was just achy – like a person in her very latest 60s will be from time to time.

I must digress from the real purpose of this post to explain that my son, as wonderful as he is, sometimes allows gift-giving events like birthdays and Christmas to sneak up on him.  He never fails to produce something, but it is usually something like flowers and candy and teddy bears; things that can be called in and delivered immediately, if not sooner.

I almost threw the thing in the trash, something I do without opening most of the mail I receive these days.  As I stood over the trash can sorting through the campaign materials someone spent too much money to print and send; the ubiquitous flyers about new gutters and carpet cleaners; the countless catalogs that I am constantly asking retailers not so send; and the birthday card from my mother, something told me to open the substantial high-quality ivory envelope.

My son, in his thoughtful kindness, had sent me a gift certificate for something called a Hot Stone Massage –60 minutes.  The certificate was signed “Happy Birthday” from Stephen.   I was so touched by his attention to my needs.  I was also terrified I would do what I had done so many times before and allow the gift to expire, so I called and made the appointment.   I have just come back from the most blissful hour of my life.

The spa is located on the ground floor of a hugely expensive high-rise condominium in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.  For those who don’t know, Buckhead is like the Beverly Hills of the south.  It is full of people like the Real Housewives of Atlanta.  They have money and time to burn and they spend both freely in hair salons, nail salons, and spas.

From the moment I went through the etched glass doors it was Zen, Zen, Zen.  Music sounding very much like it was being played by Andreas Vollenweider seemed to gently invade my pores.  I could practically feel my blood pressure head downward.

Natalie, my Russian masseuse, spoke in a soft, pleasingly accented voice, suggesting I strip down to my own personal level of comfort, which for me meant buck naked.  She gave me plenty of time to slide into a deliciously clean bed of opulent linens.  I almost fell asleep just waiting for Natalie to return.

I was a bit apprehensive about this hot stone situation.  What was she going to do, place them on my tortured muscles and let them sit there?  Would they be too hot?  Could the heat aggravate my constant companion, Eminess*? We discussed all that and decided to proceed.

Never has an hour gone by so fast.  I had only had deep tissue massages before in my life, so those memories don’t bring nirvana to mind.  They hurt, at times.  This was so totally different, I was transported to a place I have only visited for the brief amount of time spent in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy.  No thoughts about sickness.  No thoughts about politics.  No thoughts about anything except how good I felt, body and soul.  And for an entire hour!

When Natalie stopped rubbing me with massage oil and the heated river stones held in the palm of her hand, she covered my body with a damp heated blanket.  I could have slept there for the rest of the day and night.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of the gift, so I had to find the strength to arise from the table and re-dress my painless and seemingly boneless body.

I have no idea how much that transcendent sixty minutes cost my son, but I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to do that regularly.  I’ll have to remember to complain about my aches and pains a little before Christmas.  Who knows?  Maybe Santa Stephen will read my mind again.

 

* Eminess is my “pet name” for Multiple Sclerosis

Do You Believe Social Security Will Go Bankrupt?

 

In a recent comment in a thread on Open Salon, one of familiar right-wingers described Medicare as a “fiscal disaster.”  My first inclination was to ask him to back up that statement.  That, after all, is what he would have said to me had I made a similar assertion with an opposite slant.

My second was to recognize it as another one of those well-worn buzzwords used ad nauseum to describe anything President Obama tries to do.

I thought how often I have heard “entitlement” denigrators insist that our Social Security system is headed for bankruptcy.  I’ve seen predictions of such bankruptcy ranging anywhere from next week to 2032.

So I did a little research and found what I consider some pretty strong information that debunks two common beliefs about Social Security:

1) That the Social Security Trust Fund (a fund containing tax revenues collected that were not used immediately to pay eligible retirees) was set up to be raided by the federal government by something done during the Lyndon Johnson administration, and

2)That the Social Security Trust Fund will go bankrupt and add to the budget deficit.

For those interested in learning information with a little more heft to it than knee-jerk buzzwords, I have posted both in their entirety.

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FROM FORBES.COM, JANUARY 7, 2013

John T. Harvey Contributor

Leadership 1/07/2013 @ 1:13PM 14,037 views

Why Social Security Can't go Bankrupt: Rerun

My very first Forbes.com post almost two years ago explained how Social Security could not fail simply because it ran out of money. As Social Security funding is once again in the news and there appears to be concern that it could, indeed, go bankrupt or in some way contribute to the budget deficit and debt, I’d thought I’d do a rerun!

It is a logical impossibility for Social Security to go bankrupt. We can voluntarily choose to suspend or eliminate the program, but it could never fail because it “ran out of money.” This belief is the result of a common error: conceptualizing Social Security from the micro (individual) rather than the macro (economy-wide) perspective. It’s not a pension fund into which you put your money when you are young and from which you draw when you are old. It’s an immediate transfer from workers today to retirees today. That’s what it has always been and that’s what it has to be–there is no other possible way for it to work.

To explain this, let’s create a simple world. Say there has been some sort of terrible global calamity and we only have ten people left. Further say that these ten decide to make the best of it and set up a society, including an economy. Of course, much of humanity’s technology is now lost to us, so our level of productivity is very low. As a starting point, assume that each of us is only able to produce enough output for herself or himself to survive.

How many people can retire under these circumstances? Obviously, none. Anyone who stops working, starves. It is irrelevant how many people over 65, disabled, or otherwise deserving there are, no one can quit because our level of productivity is too low. Nor is it helpful to have a pile of cash somewhere. No amount of money can change the fact that one person can only make enough goods and services for one person. If there are ten people to feed, clothe, and shelter, then ten people must work. This reality is inescapable and is the reason why the real determinant of the feasibility of Social Security (or any other type of retirement system, private or public) is productivity. If it falls short, then supporting a class of retirees is impossible, regardless of how much cash we have on hand; if it does not, however, financing it is trivial. This will be shown below.

Now let’s say it’s been several years and we have been able to increase our productivity. To make the math simple, double it. This gives us some options:

We could all keep working and just double our standard of living.
Five people could keep working and share half of their stuff with the other five, giving us each the same standard of living as at the start.
We could adopt an intermediate position with more than zero but fewer than five retirees, allowing us both a chance to retire and a higher standard of living.

The third would probably be the most attractive, and it is what we have actually experienced. Productivity growth has been such that, not only have people been able to retire, but we are each better off, too. Assuming we follow this path, what is the next step?

First, we would need to agree on how many people get to retire, what the criteria are, and what their share will be. As that’s more politics than economics, however, I won’t say too much about it other than to say that there is no reason to assume that the retirees should get exactly the same cut as the workers. We could decide they get more, less, or the same. The possibilities are determined by productivity, while the specifics are a function of our sense of justice and our national philosophy (and, if we are realistic about it, the distribution of power).

To make the example concrete, say we decided that three of our survivors qualify for retirement (leaving seven workers) and that we will all get equal shares. This would mean that each worker would get to keep 70% of what they produced, passing the remaining 30% to the retirees (if you grab a calculator, you’ll see that gives everyone the same share–however, understanding this is not important to the rest of the story). And that’s it–we are done. With only ten people, it doesn’t need to get any more complicated. We have a retirement system and we don’t need to talk about money at all. We just say stuff like, “Hey, Bob! I caught ten fish today–which three do you want?”

In the real world, however, there are more than ten people and thus the coordination of this effort becomes much more complex. And this is where money comes in. Its function is to enable the transfer of output from current workers to current retirees in a world where we are not all neighbors. Money does not, to reiterate, have anything whatsoever to do with whether or not we can support retirees, how many they can be, or how much they can have. That is 100% a result of productivity. Money is only the mechanism we use to make sure Bob gets his three fish.

To give it a more realistic feel, change the numbers from 7 workers and 3 retirees to 70 million and 30 million. Now what to do? Even if we have unanimous agreement on our plan, how can we make sure that retirees get their cut if it is no longer as easy as picking three fish from a basket full of ten? The most obvious and straightforward means is this: set a tax of 30% on the salaries of existing workers and give it directly to the retirees–right now, today, immediately. Have the money come straight out of your paycheck and right into your grandmother’s bank account. This accomplishes the goal neatly and directly–and it’s exactly what we do in real life. This is how Social Security actually operates. As you can see, this needs no prior financing or savings, nor would that appear to be particularly helpful. At the national level, maintaining a class of retirees (whether via Social Security or private pensions) means redistributing existing output, not putting money under your mattress. Although you can run out of money for retirement, we, as a nation, cannot.

What, then, you may ask, is the Social Security Trust Fund, the pool of money that people say will dry up and make it impossible for anyone to receive their Social Security payments? It is the surplus that resulted from having collected more in taxes than was necessary to pay out to retirees. Let me say that again: it is how much existing workers were overtaxed relative to the need to pay retirees in the past. It was never the source of the money we’ve been paying to Social Security recipients all these years. Strictly speaking, it’s completely unnecessary if we are able to precisely and continuously match tax revenues and pay outs.

We cannot do that, of course, partly because we are dealing with millions of people in a complex economy. In addition, while the payments to retirees are fairly formulaic and change in a predictable way (we can figure how many people are about to reach eligibility and how much they will draw), the revenues fluctuate with the state of the economy. They rise during expansions and fall during recessions. The trust fund can therefore serve as a place to park excess revenues when taxes exceed expenditures and from which additional funds can be drawn when the reverse occurs. It’s a buffer, sort of like that give-a-penny-take-a-penny tray at the local convenience store. As always, however, productivity and productivity alone determines our ability to support a class of retirees. This is only about how we coordinate that system.

There is another trust fund issue and it is the one related to the expected increase in the ratio of retirees to workers over the next couple of decades. This would presumably cause a net drain on the fund since payments to retirees might increase relative to tax revenues. This is actually the specific phenomenon to which many people are referring when they say that Social Security is going to go bankrupt. However, a) there is no guarantee this will occur since rising productivity could drive up wages sufficiently to compensate (although our trend of stagnating wages relative to profits is frustrating this) and b) even if that did occur, this hardly means that Social Security is kaput. Any shortfall can always be addressed in a very straightforward and supremely logical fashion: raise taxes or lower benefits (and it is exceedingly like that even if this occurs, we aren’t talking about anything drastic). It bears emphasizing, however, that such changes would still be a function of productivity and have absolutely, positively nothing to do with how much money we have or haven’t saved up. Funding, finances, money, taxes, etc. are part of the coordination mechanism, not the feasibility.

The lesson from this is that if we want Social Security to “be there” when we retire, our efforts must be focused on increasing productivity and making sure in particular that these increases get passed on to workers in the form of higher wages. But raising the value of the trust fund is, in this respect, pointless. Even if we had an infinite amount of money in it such that we could reduce all workers’ taxes to zero and still pay retirees, the exact same thing is still happening: Bob is getting three fish from the basket of ten, leaving seven for the original fisherman. Whether we accomplish this via direct taxation or from a pool of funds is absolutely, totally irrelevant in terms of the underlying economic impact (except for the fact that paying retirees from a fund is likely to cause inflation–explaining why is a little complicated so I don’t pursue it here). We are fooling ourselves if we think that taking money from the trust fund is giving us a free lunch. If there are only ten fish, there are only ten fish. Nothing other than changing productivity can affect that. The trust fund is worth having as a buffer, but it has zero to do with the feasibility of the system. If it runs out tomorrow, we can still have Social Security because we still have ten fish.

Incidentally, there appears to be every indication that productivity increases should be sufficient for the Baby Boomers to retire AND allow the rest of us enjoy even higher standards of living (assuming the compression of wages ends). That’s good news. In fact, it’s the only news that’s important.

In closing, I’m not telling you whether you should be for or against Social Security, but the argument that it is going bankrupt is a non-starter.  It is much ado about nothing.

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FROM SOCIALSECURITY.GOV

Debunking Some Internet Myths- Part 2

(See also, MYTHS AND MISINFORMATION ABOUT SOCIAL SECURITY- Part 1)

MYTHS AND MISINFORMATION ABOUT SOCIAL SECURITY- Part 2

Myths and misstatements of fact frequently circulate on the Internet, in email and on websites, and are repeated in endless loops of misinformation. One common set of such misinformation involves a series of questions about the history of the Social Security system.

One Common Form of the Questions:

Q1: Which political party took Social Security from the independent trust fund and put it into the general fund so that Congress could spend it?
Q2: Which political party eliminated the income tax deduction for Social Security (FICA) withholding?
Q3: Which political party started taxing Social Security annuities?

Q4: Which political party increased the taxes on Social Security annuities?
Q5: Which political party decided to start giving annuity payments to immigrants?

THE CORRECT ANSWERS TO THE FIVE QUESTIONS
Q1. Which political party took Social Security from the independent trust fund and put it into the general fund so that Congress could spend it?
A1: There has never been any change in the way the Social Security program is financed or the way that Social Security payroll taxes are used by the federal government. The Social Security Trust Fund was created in 1939 as part of the Amendments enacted in that year. From its inception, the Trust Fund has always worked the same way. The Social Security Trust Fund has never been "put into the general fund of the government."

Most likely this question comes from a confusion between the financing of the Social Security program and the way the Social Security Trust Fund is treated in federal budget accounting. Starting in 1969 (due to action by the Johnson Administration in 1968) the transactions to the Trust Fund were included in what is known as the "unified budget." This means that every function of the federal government is included in a single budget. This is sometimes described by saying that the Social Security Trust Funds are "on-budget." This budget treatment of the Social Security Trust Fund continued until 1990 when the Trust Funds were again taken "off-budget." This means only that they are shown as a separate account in the federal budget. But whether the Trust Funds are "on-budget" or "off-budget" is primarily a question of accounting practices--it has no effect on the actual operations of the Trust Fund itself.

Q2: Which political party eliminated the income tax deduction for Social Security (FICA) withholding?

A2: There was never any provision of law making the Social Security taxes paid by employees deductible for income tax purposes. In fact, the 1935 law expressly forbid this idea, in Section 803 of Title VIII.

(The text of Title VIII. can be found elsewhere on our website.)

Q3. Which political party started taxing Social Security annuities?
A3. The taxation of Social Security began in 1984 following passage of a set of Amendments in 1983, which were signed into law by President Reagan in April 1983. These amendments passed the Congress in 1983 on an overwhelmingly bi-partisan vote.

The basic rule put in place was that up to 50% of Social Security benefits could be added to taxable income, if the taxpayer's total income exceeded certain thresholds.
The taxation of benefits was a proposal which came from the Greenspan Commission appointed by President Reagan and chaired by Alan Greenspan (who went on to later become the Chairman of the Federal Reserve).

The full text of the Greenspan Commission report is available on our website.

President's Reagan's signing statement for the 1983 Amendments can also be found on our website.

A detailed explanation of the provisions of the 1983 law is also available on the website.

Q4. Which political party increased the taxes on Social Security annuities?

A4. In 1993, legislation was enacted which had the effect of increasing the tax put in place under the 1983 law. It raised from 50% to 85% the portion of Social Security benefits subject to taxation; but the increased percentage only applied to "higher income" beneficiaries. Beneficiaries of modest incomes might still be subject to the 50% rate, or to no taxation at all, depending on their overall taxable income.

This change in the tax rate was one provision in a massive Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act (OBRA) passed that year. The OBRA 1993 legislation was deadlocked in the Senate on a tie vote of 50-50 and Vice President Al Gore cast the deciding vote in favor of passage. President Clinton signed the bill into law on August 10, 1993.
(You can find a brief historical summary of the development of taxation of Social Security benefits on the Social Security website.)

Q5. Which political party decided to start giving annuity payments to immigrants?
A5. Neither immigrants nor anyone else is able to collect Social Security benefits without someone paying Social Security payroll taxes into the system. The conditions under which Social Security benefits are payable, and to whom, can be found in the pamphlets available on our website.

The question confuses the Supplemental Security Income (SSI) program with Social Security. SSI is a federal welfare program and no contributions, from immigrants or citizens or anyone else, is required for eligibility. Under certain conditions, immigrants can qualify for SSI benefits. The SSI program was an initiative of the Nixon Administration and was signed into law by President Nixon on October 30, 1972.

An explanation of the basics of Social Security, and the distinction between Social Security and SSI, can be found on the Social Security website.