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Have you heard the one about the humorless U.S. president denying the prestigious national Mark Twain Prize for American Humor to long-time political comedian Bill Maher?

Yes, President dictator Trump has made clear Maher will never receive the American humorist award. Because, just because. Actually, these two men have butted heads for a very long time, particularly in court when Trump sued Maher for repeatedly joking the billionaire celebrity’s father was an orangutan (no doubt because of the animal’s orange hue). But the real reason Maher ‘went there’ over and over again about Trump’s dubious lineage was because of Trump’s insistence that President Barack Obama was not born on American soil and therefore could never ever be U.S. President. Obama was born in Hawaii, a U.S. state since 1959, in 1961. But Trump and tens of millions of his followers vehemently disputed Obama’s birthright to run for the presidency.

On his political comedy show Real Time, Maher has routinely poked fun at Trump for a plethora of oddball and goofball comments and actions along with illogical plans and crazy-ass policies. And the Maher studio audience and Friday night TV fans laugh off the comedic musings—because we’re all, like, thinking the same thing.

As humorless as the floor

This paraphrased comment is how legendary actress Lauren Bacall described her date with the greatest singer Frank Sinatra. Humor in a man was of extreme importance, if not a sexual turn on, to the beautiful and lovely Bacall, by then widow of movie icon Humphrey Bogart. “Have you taken a good look at the floor lately?” Bacall quipped in an interview about how the date with Sinatra went. Now that’s American humor.  

Since 1998 The Kennedy Center Mark Twain Prize committee has selected comedians whose life work represents the best in American humor—a brand unique the world over … because of our right to free speech … and our melting pot history. The first recipient was Richard Pryor. Others include: Jonathan Winters, Carl Reiner, Whoopie Goldberg, Bob Newhart, Lily Tomlin, Lorne Michaels, Steve Martin, Neil Simon, Billy Crystal, George Carlin, Bill Cosby, Carol Burnett, Dave Letterman, Dave Chappelle and Jon Stewart among others.

These comedians of notable esteem were chosen for their influence on our society as a whole, not unlike our National Treasure the writer and quick wit Mark Twain. Twain was the 19^th century American writer whose observations remain relevant, still leaving fellow Americans chuckling to the deadpan delivery of truth, such as:

If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything;

Man is the only animal that blushes or needs to;

A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory;

All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence, then success is sure;

I have never let my schooling interfere with my education;

Never argue with stupid people. They will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience;

Travel is fatal to prejudice;

Be good, or you will become lonesome;

The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read;

Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it;

I did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.

God created war so that Americans would learn geography.

Loyalty to country always. Loyalty to government when it deserves it.

What surefire wit and wordcraft!

The BIG problem today is Trump has made himself the supreme director of the Kennedy Center, even distastefully renaming it in his honor. But Trump cannot relate to American humor. He is a celebrity not because of talent but because of his presumed billions, his arrogance and a publicity team. As Trump bellows “fake news” about Maher receiving the Mark Twain honor, as usual the American people are left wondering what’s going on now. We should be used to living in a banana republic given the bumbling Trump regime.

Leaders of Trump’s ilk share many traits, but perhaps the most important one is lack of humor. Trump wouldn’t know a funny joke if it slapped him on the face. The other trait of a dictator is being a sorehead when made fun of. In the olden days, and no doubt going on today in idiocracies around the world, the leader would shout “Off with his head!” And the ‘court jester’ would be summarily dragged to the gallows.

Well, this is America, buddy, and we can say whatever the hell we want about anyone and anything, anytime, anywhere. Just like our fat-mouthed, crude, crass, cruel, off-putting current president. And humor, satire and parody remain protected speech. Thank God.

Wait a minute. I’ve been very, very busy lately. But during my busy-ness, the president demanded every state submit to him our voter rolls. And the great state of Texas was more than happy to summarily oblige. No questions asked.

Am I the only one who’s suspicious about this request? Why would Donald J. Trump, a convicted felon, need all the nation’s voter rolls? What information is he hoping to find? Besides my name, signature, address, perhaps Social Security number, precinct, and oh yes, my party affiliation when I vote in the primaries?

I knew it! There is nothing more important than for our newly installed banana republic to know every detail about its citizens. A lot can be learned from an American once you know her party affiliation. When it comes to prospective friendships, it is often a deal breaker—come on now, whether republican or democrat.  

I grew up during the Watergate era, and the one thing I got out of that national political scandal was: Republicans will do ANYTHING to win elections including felony crimes and cheating. And the flip side, republicans think democrats are screwing them over, too. And American history does reveal some cheating here and there in communities and major cities through the centuries. But the aftermath of Watergate was new laws to stop tinkering with ballot boxes and voter rolls and the National Democratic Party headquarters.

For one thing, employees of every state’s Department of State pop in on vote day to silently observe and monitor randomly chosen polling sites. Then after voting ends around 7 p.m., both political party chairs in every single community across the vast U.S. stand in the county clerk’s office every election day and for every type of election—right there where the locked ballot boxes from community polls are turned in and then processed through machines and/or hand counted if sometimes necessary. The media is in the room, too—something most Americans don’t know including the president.

Yes, election night at the county clerk’s office is a fun time of pizza and barbecue, sodas and snacks and hour by hour posted results. This American fun can go on into the wee hours of the morning, but modern machines have reduced the time quite a bit. The point is: COUNTING VOTES IS IN PUBLIC AND NOT IN THE DARK BASEMENT OFFICE OF THE “X FILES.”

So why does Trump need our voter rolls?

The word is to stop rampant voter fraud.

Brah hah hah hah hah tee hee hee!

Republicans are so obsessed with alleged widespread voter fraud (they do this every election whether they win or lose) that they think dead people vote as well as people who are not U.S. citizens.

And sure enough, they find like one or two or a few people who voted when legally they shouldn’t have—and when the smoke clears, more often than not, it’s an honest mistake by the voter more than a highly organized plot to overthrow the government (which is by now already overthrown).

So voter fraud is not the real reason Trump wants to check over every single voter roll in the USA. That’s a lotta rolls with tiny-printed info. In reality, the president doesn’t have what it takes to read through tens of thousands of voter rolls. A lotta people on the voter rolls didn’t even vote. They don’t have to.

But it smells. The very idea a U.S. president wants to hand-check voter rolls, gladly offered him by Red states like his biggest buddy Texas, poses a conflict, to say the least. At the county level, voter registration cards are issued but not before verification of the applicant. You cannot vote in an election if you are not a bona fide U.S. citizen. And immigrants, by the way, who become U.S. citizens can join the voting process. As for dead people voting, well, that’s the stuff of science fiction. It has never been proven that dead people vote. I’m sure they have better things to do in the hereafter than to cast ballots for or against Trump.

The current president is hip to manipulating emotions. Not unlike Fox News and other entertainment-more-than-legitimate-news sources. The internet is a good 90-95 percent fake news than real. Doesn’t everyone the world over know this by now? It’s proven to stir humanity into a tizzy—and keep us that a-way.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about the president checking over my voter information. Yes, I’m a U.S. citizen. Yes, I’m an active voter. No, I’m not dead. Yes, my county knows my address and every year sends me an updated voter card sometimes with new precinct numbers so I can check my community’s representatives.

But in the silence between elections, I wonder what kind of people feel the need to thoroughly check out every single American citizen when it comes to their political affiliation—the way they vote. I find it … silly … unnecessary … and purposefully intimidating. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop …

Get ready America for a year of red, white and blue celebration! Our country is 250 years old!! Woo woo! Yeah, baby!! USA! USA! USA!

What? Everybody’s not brimming with excitement and planning elaborate celebrations state by state, city by city, community by community?! Surely there will be artistic contests for the best visual capturing America celebrating its 250^th year of existence. Come on, we survived a civil war and all kinds of social protests that culminated in progressive laws and fairness for everyone, finally—all of it making our country truly great.

I was hoping our big 250^th celebration this year will be reminiscent of our proud year-long celebration in 1976—when America wholeheartedly honored our 200^th birthday. There were brief history segments every day and night on TV proudly told by famous actors and celebrities, called “Bicentennial Minutes.” At the same time, our nation’s more shameful and embarrassing historic tales were made fun of on a new late night comedy show called Saturday Night Live. There were lots of parades with people dressed in red, white and blue. The flag was on everything: jeans, denim jackets, bikinis, beach towels, blouses, halter tops, T-shirts, caps, bedding, purses, wallets, barns, billboards, trashcans, fire hydrants. Some communities were more into the Bicentennial celebration than others. And we had an impressive president whose main purpose was to oversee the country as we pulled away from war mentality to an era of calm and peace—man’s natural state. Jimmy Carter was our Bicentennial President.

From the wacky mind of a teen poet

I was proud to have been a part of America’s Bicentennial celebration in 1976. Our community held a Cultural Arts contest with the theme ‘It’s About Time for a Bicentennial.’ Categories included art, photography, poetry and creative writing. No digital or video categories in those days. Being inclined to write and also seeing myself as a natural rhyming poet, I quickly penned a poem and uncreatively titled my piece the same as the contest theme:  

It’s About Time (for a Bicentennial!)

It’s about time

while we’re all at war.

It’s about time

to help the poor.

It’s about time,

and it’s very essential.

It’s about time for a bicentennial.

It’s about time

now that half the world is starving.

It’s about time

to get SOMETHING started!

It’s about time,

and it’s very essential.

It’s about time for a bicentennial.

It’s about time

for people to start thinking.

It’s about time

to make your brain stop blinking.

It’s about time,

and it’s very essential.

You know, it REALLY is about time for a bicentennial!

Nice to spot my burgeoning sarcastic humor and tendency to exaggerate, not to mention overuse of exclamation points. I don’t know how or why this poem by a 7^th-grader kept winning the 1976 Cultural Arts Contest about the bicentennial. But my youthful impressions won first place by grade, school and then district. I thought my poem wasn’t all that great. Yet adults judged it worth admiring—as if there were some truths though awkwardly written by a kid.

At the time, America was very tired and angry and hurt after the Vietnam War and all the distrust of our government that came with it often about the long war. Wounds were healing, emotional wounds—the kind you pay a shrink to guide you through … to simply survive. As the 1970s continued, America did lose its way. I understood the reason. As a nation, we wanted to be left the hell alone.

Which brings us to America in 2026

Turned out our rejuvenated pride in America during the Bicentennial was soon forgotten, and the big chill of economic recession, energy crises, family splits, discos and cocaine and liberal mores left all of us feeling like we needed a strong leader. Our nation wanted a father figure, and we got him in Ronald Reagan who would turn America or Americans around and give us something of which to be proud. His campaign slogan was: Make America Great Again. He likened our country to a ‘shining city on a hill.’ He showed off to the world our American lifestyle, the one he knew as a Hollywood actor and governor of California: big houses, nice neighborhoods, swimming pools, kids riding bikes carefree, young people attending college for bright futures, families at dinner time eating together, and of course everyone standing with heads bowed in prayer at church on Sundays.

This was the perfect vision of America by Americans themselves. Again, this façade was comically contrasted every week on Saturday Night Live. The mass media and comedians never let those who listened forget that nothing was being done to help the poor, people fleeing narco states and terrorist nations, many Americans working two or more jobs to make ends meet, the deadly AIDS crisis, white flight, public schools that ironically were left segregated by the wealthy who could flee and the poor remaining. The 1980s would be described in an investigative series in The Dallas Times Herald as “The Mean Decade.” Trickle-down economics of which Reagan touted did not work for most Americans. It just made the rich richer and the poor poorer.

In the decades since, our country elected diverse leaders: an oil businessman/CIA director and VP, a pro-business Democrat, the son of a former president, our first Black president, a billionaire Democrat-turned-Independent-turned Republican, a liberal Democrat, and then again the billionaire who’s now leading our 250-year-old nation. The back and forth between conservative Republicans and progressive Democrats is maybe due more to economics than a voter’s personal governing taste.

But we always elect the leaders we deserve. And again, millions of Americans feel our country has lost its way. We cut international programs and funding that helped with good will (extremely necessary in the world today) and saved millions of lives. We took a chainsaw to our own federal government programs and cut tens of thousands of jobs which will lead to many more business and job loss. We slapped tariffs on a lot of goods with the extra cost paid by Americans. We’ve stopped vaccines in our country and elsewhere in the world. We’ve placed the military on our city streets and permitted deadly raids by immigration agents to clear out anyone suspected of living and working in this country illegally. We’ve created prisons overseas where the alleged illegal immigrants are being abused daily with no plans for court dates and judges. We’ve rattled our sabre, talked trash and goaded leaders around the world to the brink of war. We elected a convicted felon to the U.S. Presidency.

Could it be that America in 1976 was more civilized and better off than Americans feel our country is now 50 years later? Americans enjoy high tech but fear AI. We feel safer than we did in 1976, or do we? We enjoy working from home if possible. Fewer young people drive cars. More senior citizens cannot afford to retire. We have mass shootings in our schools that would have been unthinkable in 1976. And we can’t deny how fat our citizens have become compared to Americans in 1976. Just look at the reruns of ’70s shows. Perhaps our compulsive eating is related to mass insecurity about life in the U.S.—coupled with restaurants and junk food increasing portion size.

Yet in 1976 despite national anger about the direction of our country, there was an optimism which no doubt blossomed from the flower children of the 1960s. Hippies and like-minded straights constantly protested, for years, the Vietnam War and the draft; and joined with others for civil rights, workers’ rights, women’s rights and gay rights. And all those rights that eventually came into law made our nation the greatest on Earth. Let us reflect on our nation at 250 years—still young compared with most countries—and the direction we the people want our country to go. Let us remember our new nation was intended in the first place to be free of tyranny and ensure justice for every single person. And bring those ideals to all of us in the USA today.

Michael Stivic—the fictional hippie college student who marries into the Bunker family in the revolutionary blunt 1970s’ TV sitcom “All in the Family”—and the actor who portrayed him, Hollywood royalty and respected filmmaker Rob Reiner, seemed one and the same. Reiner was a lifelong unabashed liberal Democrat, carrying on the presumed future of do-gooder social worker Michael Stivic. In the TV show, Stivic always argued against the ignorant racist and bigot Archie Bunker, his father-in-law. Just a kid back then watching the “Family” every week, I assumed Stivic was right to counter blatant racist and prejudiced opinions as well as offensive rantings by Bunker. And I’m sure all these decades later, the irony was not lost on Reiner that all along, Stivic was living off Bunker’s blue-collar manual labor earnings.

Today watching “All in the Family” is a visual time capsule into the 1970s and a hotly divided America: centered on Vietnam War angst then worries about the economy, pollution, the future, and then breaking away from racial segregation, sexism, and later ageism which impacted Bunker, at 50, who had to take on a second job driving a cab to make ends meet.

Back then young Americans really felt the way Stivic did while the older generation still shared the outdated views of Archie. The nation ended up progressing socially probably because of this single show as we got to see and hear real-life family arguments about how many white people viewed the broiling political and fast-changing times—often with fights ending by Archie’s all-loving wife, Edith, tying the family back together with a bow of common sense. To paraphrase one of her classical gravelly-voiced scoldings to Archie: “God’s God, and you ain’t!”

Homosexuality came up in an earlier episode when Archie assumes Michael’s friend is gay because he doesn’t meet the masculine standard. Then Mike finds out that a former football player buddy of Archie’s is gay. The tall strapping athlete sits tall and manly at a table chatting with Archie at their neighborhood bar. The subject of the athlete’s confirmed bachelor status comes up as Archie pries. But his friend responds: “Tell me, Arch, in all the years you’ve known me, have I ever once mentioned a woman?” Archie shrugs, saying bachelors are private people. “Exactly,” the man replies with a smile.

As Archie softens through the ’70s, so does Mike. He never believes for one minute that Archie’s right to put down minorities while maintaining the white culture is supreme. But he starts to understand Archie and his generation. An episode not featuring Mike explains a lot about Archie when his brother comes to town. His younger brother was the family favorite, the one who was sent to college, the one who didn’t have to quit school and go to work during the Depression to support the family like Archie and so many young teens had to do. And then the same young men served in World War II. The brother talks to Archie about why their parents favored the younger son and not Archie, the hard worker who always provided for his family. The younger brother turns out to be an alcoholic who’s lost his wife, kids and home. He tells Archie it dawned on him why their parents favored him over the hard-working brother: They were just crazy.

Mike’s character is actually an orphan in childhood who is raised by his uncle, a contemporary of Archie. So in a sense, Archie and Mike had something in common: having to make their way best they could without their parents’ guidance … and love.

Boomer-rang

Reiner started as an actor in the 1960s, usually playing big guys who were tough but with a soft heart, guys who were judged by their size instead of what’s inside their hearts. His role on the “Family” was intended to counter—in volume and fury—Archie’s defense of the white man, that white men are getting the short end of the stick in order to give minorities and women a leg up.

And how could all that Archie spouted about during the very liberal 1970s—that a woman’s place is in the home, men are the providers and rulers of their families, white men are smarter than every other ethnic and racial group, couples should marry instead of live together, ‘queers’ are immoral, great comedy has slapstick, the only God is white and Christian and so is the USA, and English is the only language in the U.S.—make sense to tens of millions of Americans who now more than ever believe exactly the same way? Back in the ’70s, we called such beliefs ignorant, racist, prejudiced, misogynist, sexist, closed minded, and against common decency. In “All in the Family” the debate seemed between the educated and the uneducated. But there were many Americans who were changing their views and opening their minds due to just living life itself.

A lot can be said about what is known of Reiner and his son who struggled with addiction and mental illness. No doubt Reiner helped his son in every way possible. That is the generation of Reiner/Stivic: altruistic, understanding of drug use and abuse, compassionate with the mentally ill, maintaining an open mind to various therapies. All you need is love. Love is all you need.

And critics of Liberals like Reiner/Stivic (and me) would quickly point the finger and say, “See?!” The Liberal way of dealing with problems like drug addiction simply does not work. And they would be hypocrites. Everyone knows addiction lands in every home, every family, every race, every religion, every socioeconomic status, rich and poor.

No doubt like every parent of a child with addiction and coupled with mental illness—or maybe stemming from it—Reiner deeply loved his son … but couldn’t save him. Reiner stayed true to himself, a worldview molded long ago by a barrage of conflicting forces political, societal and generational. Like Stivic, Reiner ultimately strived toward love whatever the cost.

Oh my God!! I just learned I’m a Karen! And I have Southpark to thank for this enlightening although socially painful realization.

The bawdy animated comedy show’s clip features a white father in his study, calling in his adolescent daughter, closing the door, and asking her point blank: Why does everyone call me a Karen? Deadpan, the girl blinks and tells him don’t worry about it. But … he really wants to know. So the kid explains the expression came from the internet and refers to white privilege (meaning white people have nothing in life to complain about and get all the breaks) and specifically white women—who are educated, with career, car, McMansion, kids in good schools, coiffed hair, acrylic nails, health club, summer and winter vacations, stocked pantries, able to pay their bills and live a little—get real irate when someone (whose life will never come close to equating their own overly-blessed existence) ‘comes across as’ DISRESPECTING them, well, us.

Ohhhhh.

How many times have I gone on and on about a person or people being so disrespectful toward ME? I sound like my mother who also was put out when feeling disrespected by her children or a clerk or worker (of lower wages and no ability to ever afford college or to work her way up to better pay and better life and who also is a person of color).

OK. IDK.

I guess because a woman is white and the person she thinks is disrespectful toward her is a person of color or ethnic minority, and perhaps also learning English, that deep-seated bigotry is the cause of what just may be only a personality clash (although in appearance seems between the advantaged and the disadvantaged).

And what exactly are men (white, educated, good life) called who rant and rave about being disrespected? Rodney Daingerfield? The comedian went far in show biz with his famous line: I tell ya, I get no respect. And then came wild applause (because everyone knows exactly what he’s talking about). I guess we can keep calling men who bellow about being disrespected bastards. We always have.

Well, thank you “Southpark.” Now my goal in life is to never again go on about being disrespected by someone at the grocery store, gas station, government office, medical facility, other drivers on the road—whomever, wherever. Won’t hear a peep outta me.

Sigh.

Sigh.

(Fingernails galloping on the counter.)

It’s just that …. Nooooo, I said I’d never again talk about people being disrespectful toward me or ponder why I am not respected.

What color is your …

My problem with striving toward never being called a Karen again is that … well if you must know, respect is very important to me. I learned this about myself at age 29 during one of my unemployment stints. Besides applying for jobs all around—whether qualified, over qualified or not qualified at all—I thought career books might provide practical direction. But those kind of books amounted to psychoanalyzing yourself, to get to your core values. After taking a number of surveys (Karen that I am, I used to love taking surveys to find out more about ME), and matching weighted inquiries to precise questions, I discovered that the most important outcome I want from a job (or life) is not so much big salary but … respect: the feeling of ME being respected by my peers and everyone else. Wanna know the second most important value I want from the work I do (according to my young adult self)? It was helping people. See, I’m not all that bad for a Karen. Maybe the name should be Karena for those who sincerely care about and want to help solve the world’s problems.

I haven’t thought about those career guidance books since the ’90s. It just so happens that the career paths I chose have never been respected by the masses and now come with a lot of disdain: newspaper reporter and public school teacher.

So, it’s me, not them. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess. Ooops, sounding too much a Karen again. I just assume Karens are self-pitying whinny white gals. Gosh, I hate myself already.

And being a Karen at my age is pretty pathetic. But I get it, kids. [That’s how to tell if you’re an old woman Karen, calling everybody younger than you ‘kids’ like I do all the time. To others it’s condescending.]  

So white women who are politically Left and Democrats, went to college (on government loans, grants and work-study like I had to), somehow always had a car (thanks Dad and others), never stopped applying for the jobs I wanted, sometimes getting interviews, rarely getting the job, lived in satisfactory housing (most in serious crime zones), managed to keep up appearances while overeating, traveling on occasion, donating to good causes, raising dogs as children—we are the Karens of America, Karena, if you don’t mind, for those whose hearts are in the right place.

Karens, from how I understood the insult pre “Southpark,” were white women who are educated and middle class or socioeconomically higher and Democrats but are overly afraid and anxious when some dubious incident comes along, involving a Black man, for example. The Karen I heard about was frightened over a Black guy while she was walking a dog or something. Some kinda strange encounter. She pressed charges. He turned out to be kind and decent and not criminally interested in her.

But hey, in speaking for all women, let me say our gender has a long history of being brutalized by men in general. It happens every single day. And we are raised to realize we can be attacked just for being women, and to always be on guard. To be suspicious first upon any encounter. The men in our Karen lives tell us to carry a handgun or some kind of protection. Because you never know when it comes to meeting up with a stranger.

I don’t know if every uptight white educated middle-upper class woman should be referred to as a Karen. The deep-seated racism, bigotry and prejudices and knee-jerk over reactions are what make a woman a Karen. Same for white men who overreact due to racism when dealing with a person of color, like the “Southpark” father must have been caught doing.

For my small part, I am just going to forget about other people’s disrespect real or imagined toward little old me. I learned a long time ago, a lot of people will never respect you no matter what you do and how you look. So you gotta respect yourself, be able to live with yourself, and to hell with what other people think about you (even if at first glance, you seem to fit the latest societal put down).

Been a long time since the U.S. dropped atomic bombs on two Japanese cities. Perhaps the macabre aftermath, captured in solemn black and white images, is lost to 21^st century Americans.

But the most devastating 20^th century explosion on Earth during war time—the deafening silence; the obliteration of cities, buildings, houses, schools, hospitals, parks, pets and plants; the instant evaporation of tens of thousands of human beings; the unnatural reconfigured invisible yet present air and water molecules linked to future cancer deaths in and around emasculated terrain on our shared planet; and the emotional annihilation of warmongering by the entire human race immediately after two lightning quick moments—is why, my dears, the U.S. did away with the confrontational title of a Department of War and consolidated all military branches into the U.S. Department of Defense—done so to try to comfort everybody the world over left to comprehend and ever so cautiously carry on in the dawn of the Nuclear Age.

See … we needed God, if at all possible, (if He even listens to us anymore) to forgive us our collective United States of America sin. And at that time, we never ever wanted to use a nuclear bomb again. And therefore we swallowed our sorrow and carried on as the World Leader to ensure no other nation on Earth would dare make the same mistake, repeat the same sin, bear the unbearable reality of living with ourselves for creating and causing the epitome of mass human death and destruction. Because … it was a sin (and is now our karma). Surely there were other ways to end a war.

There always had been … before the bomb.

Peace on earth

Sound too much like a peacenik, do I? President Trump, according to his admirers, claims to be one, too. Hates all war, we’re told by those who know him. Yet our history is as soon as WWII ended, we gallivanted all over the world to stop the spread of communism: Korea, Cuba, Indochina, Central and South America, Eastern Europe. We had to think of ourselves as the Good Guys, the God-fearing righteous people compared to our arch Cold War enemy the communists, thought to be godless subhumans devoid of souls. But it is the U.S. which remains the only nation to have dropped the bomb so far.

A quick online check of what was left after our atomic bombs exploded in Hiroshima and Nagasaki would reveal the grotesque images seen by all who read magazines and newspapers in 1945: melted faces and other body parts, missing fingers, clothing tattooed into human flesh, survivors screaming in agony, the unimaginable yet real horror they alone … felt. And the radiation sickness that lasted months and longer. Perhaps the lucky ones were the 240,000 Japanese who after our bombs exploded their cities to smithereens were ‘evaporated,’ their bodies and lives instantly wiped off the face of the earth.

We alone were (and still are) responsible for launching that living nightmare.  

So ashamed were Americans at that time, a long 80 years ago.

But … all is fair in love and war.

And the World War in the Pacific needed to end. The story goes that a few countries including Germany were secretly working to create the first atomic bomb. The U.S. military had been testing tiny versions out in Nowhere, New Mexico, watched live by a number of GIs who in their later years would die from direct exposure to the aftermath of this precise and peculiar bomb.

Post war, we as Americans lived in our private twilight zones. Some became anti-war pacifists, society drop-outs, artists, Beatniks, teachers, do-gooders, Peace Corps volunteers, reefer smokers, heroin addicts. A few became devout atheists, even famous authors and newsmen. It must have been hard for some adults living in the early Nuclear Age to deal with the hypocrisy of our Christian nation killing so many people not just with the bombs’ explosion but for generations to come with diseases in any new life that tries to enter our planet at Ground Zero. Clearly the death toll by the atomic bombs was overkill.

Yet back home and most impressively, the great majority of Americans carried on: attending college and trade school on the GI Bill, marrying and creating the Baby Boom, owning homes quickly built for suburban life with parks, community swimming pools, backyard cookouts, Christmas gifts, and of course cars. It is a tribute, that era of post-war America, to all who sacrificed to fight in a world gone mad. Those who served our country deserved to live in peace and security for the rest of their lives.

However, with the passing of time, the great healer we are told, the horror inflicted by our atomic bombs in a country on the other side of the world became … incomprehensible. And in learning to not think about it ever again, we have forgotten what we were and still are today: capable of mass death and destruction and equally capable of never mentioning it again.