Twelve daze of Trumpmess

On the first day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

a federal inquiry!

On the second day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

two hushed honeys and a federal inquiry!

On the third day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

three years for fixin’, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the fourth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

4 a.m. tweeting, three years for fixin’, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the fifth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the sixth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the seventh day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

seven Russian theories, six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the eighth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

eight victory rallies, seven Russian theories, six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the ninth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

nine DNC hackers, eight victory rallies, seven Russian theories,

six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the tenth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

ten legal experts, nine DNC hackers, eight victory rallies,

seven Russian theories, six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the eleventh day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

11 a.m. work days, ten legal experts, nine DNC hackers,

eight victory rallies,seven Russian theories, six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys

and a federal inquiry!

On the twelfth day of Trumpmess, our country came to see

twelve meddlin’ Russians, 11 a.m. work days, ten legal experts,

nine DNC hackers, eight victory rallies, seven Russian theories,

six sneaky staffers,

five plea deals!

4 a.m. tweets, three prison years, two hushed honeys …

and a federal inquiry!! 

Leave it to Communist China to eradicate Muslim terrorism

Have you heard what China is doing to a minority Muslim population?  From the sound of it, they’re ‘nipping in the bud’ religious terrorist attacks, schemes, plans and thoughts.  The Communist government is attacking this murderous global problem by special indoctrination camps for certain undesirables, like Orwell’s 1984 and Hitler’s Nazi Germany.  The goal is to destroy the Muslim’s belief in not only Islam but any religion.  Of this goal, Communist China will no doubt be 100 percent effective.  What’s the other option for Muslims practicing their faith in China: death?

According to several recent news reports, a million members of a Muslim minority called the Uyghurs (pronounced ‘wee-gers’), who have traditionally lived near the Mongolian border, have been rounded up and forced to reside in camps.  There they will undergo forced assimilation which no doubt will include learning to appreciate the social equality and efficiency of communism while also destroying one’s intellectual, emotional and spiritual bond to religion such as belief in God or Allah.  Remaining Uyghurs not yet forced into camps must welcome Communist Party workers into their homes for inspections.  The Uyghur community maintains every family now has at least one member in the indoctrination camps.

The Uyghur minority is objecting to this mass humiliation as a violation of their human rights.  They claim they are not ethnically Chinese, and their land was not part of China until invasion and annexation in the mid 20th century.  Uyghurs have been discriminated against as workers unless they prove to be devout followers of Chinese communism and enthusiastic members of the Party.

Center of the world

Renowned for audaciously ruthless global business ventures, from mining Africa to building islands in the international waters of the South China Sea, China has patiently watched as the U.S. and other nations ineffectively deal with terrorism in their own countries.  Along with sporadic violence instigated by Al-Qaeda and ISIS, China diligently observed two decades of perpetual war in the Middle East which has left hundreds of millions dead and wounded.  For its role in leading the Middle East war on terrorism, the United States owes China more than $1 trillion.

China has had its share of Muslim terrorist attacks within its borders.  But when it comes to China, communism is going to defeat any other way of life.  Their brand of communism includes torture, mind control and death.  China’s Cultural War of the 1940s began by rounding up all teachers and the educated who were summarily slaughtered and culminated in forcing Buddhist monks and nuns to copulate in public.  China is not like the United States and Western Europe, both unwilling to violate human rights even in war.  China does not adhere to or believe in a human being’s inalienable rights of freedom, free speech, free press, or individual pursuits of happiness.  That is the way communism remains in China; it dominates any citizen’s thought to the contrary.  As for religion, God, spiritual beliefs: that will be crushed if detected in the human brain of a fellow countryman.

In the 1980s, China permitted Western influence and culture, even Christianity, but college students began protesting, wanting total freedom not just a taste.  Then in 1989 China’s military massacred an estimated 10,000 protesters in Tiananmen Square.  Life soon was restored to normalcy and faithful communism with a sustaining vengeance.  China’s communism is like a plague that destroys all mankind or like an alien invasion of humanity as quietly as “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”  Creepy, how Communist China has yet to fall like Eastern Europe and the USSR.  Makes you wonder what they are holding onto.  The answer is supreme, glorious, indestructible power.

With a population of one billion, modern China is bustling with a generation far wealthier than Chairman Mao would have preferred.  After all, communism is supposed to be ‘all for one and one for all,’ meaning everyone receives the same earnings from a government stipend regardless of occupation.  Money, or the love of it, ultimately will change the hearts and minds of the Chinese.  Communism pretends to hate capitalism and free enterprise, but no one earns money better than China, mostly on the backs of a slave workforce.

So now China joins the rest of the world in dealing with global terrorism stemming from radicalized Muslim communities and individuals.  Throughout the 21st century, China has watched war-weary Americans and other international soldiers return to their homelands—presumably demoralized; with some blind, deaf, amputated, emasculated.  The beauty of Communist China is it will once and for all defeat the global enemy of terrorism in as much as it relates to religion.  A quick online look at the extremely fit and insurmountable Chinese soldiers, marching goose step in precision along their nation’s latest artillery and killing machines, one foresees extreme victory and rather soon.  Communist China is more than willing to pay the price to eradicate Muslim terrorism within a vast expansive territory.  Similar to the terrorists themselves, the Chinese method is simple: obliterate all human rights, especially religious beliefs and practices.  China has shown the world what it takes to install and maintain Godless communism: consummate brutality physically, psychologically and spiritually.

Hail to Susie: a dog’s life lived well, no need to clone

First thing I did after moving into my first house in 2004 was to get a dog.  I searched the SPCA, intent on getting the smallest dog, which turned out to be a 19-pound black-and-tan dachshund mix already named Susie.  As all the big horse dogs barked and jumped excitedly begging me to spring ’em from the joint, Susie was the only one who was solemn, laying belly down on the cement ground, her head on the floor and brown brow patches moving curiously  like she thought she’d gotten herself into a pickle.  An attendant took her out of the cage to greet me.  Surprised to be chosen, Susie wagged her tail and appeared ready to go, as if she’d been waiting just for me.  I paid the fee and drove her home in my car.  Soon as we arrived, Susie shot out and ran into the backyard, bouncing in the grass, smiling with glee, happy to finally be free.

I’ve never had a dog like Susie.  I cannot walk her on a leash because she pulls hard, like she’s on a mission, sniffing out critters alive and dead or thrown away foodstuffs.  She is the only dog I ever had to enroll in obedience school which both of us, dog and master, had to attend.  She only learned one lesson, to sit at my loud and stern command.  And she never got the position quite right, but we compromised with her laying belly down with head up and alert to my command, awaiting a treat.  I read about dachshunds and found two things: Dachshunds are indomitable, and they won’t stay in a backyard.  To their minds, the whole world is their backyard.  In other words, Susie’s nature was to get out of the fence and explore.  During most of her life, she did this many times, exhausting my husband and me while the neighbors got to know her name well and be on the lookout, too.  We learned to always check the yard for her newly dug holes to crawl underneath a wood fence.  We’d plug them with large rocks, bricks and heavy cement blocks.  Still, Susie was strong enough to move them or dig other holes to plan an escape.

She remains a nuisance whenever we come home or anyone else enters our house.  She enthusiastically jumps on people, demanding a greeting and attention (one of the reasons I took her to obedience school).  We figured she was lonely and eventually brought home another SPCA dog, only to find Susie if not restrained jumps on anyone coming in the house.  It’s friendly of her but bad dog.  We’ve taken her to the city’s small dog park where Susie designates herself the official gate greeter to other dogs.  All the weenie dogs gather around Susie, encircling her in either familiarity or admiration for her impressively large size.  We call Susie ‘Queen of the Dachshunds.’

Whenever we’d find that Susie had escaped the backyard again, my husband and I walked the neighborhood yelling for her.  I’d have her leash in hand in case of capturing her once again while my poor husband drove all around, windows down while calling her name.  There is a nearby creek that probably attracted her.  Many nights, after I’d let her out back before bedtime, we’d find she’d escaped.  One foggy evening, I walked all around the neighborhood streets, calling for her, very angry spending my time this way and having to hold an umbrella so my glasses wouldn’t get wet.  By the time I had given up and was returning to the house, Susie was walking right beside me.  I didn’t realize it till we were close to home.  Damn dog.

Don’t get me started on her annual trips to the vet where more than one assistant has to be called in to hold Susie while her nails are clipped.  The vet took to muzzling her because she tries to bite anyone restraining her, wagging her tail merrily all the while.  Having gone through this ordeal for years, the vet scolded me, “Haven’t you taught her ‘NO’ yet!?”  Hell yes I tell her NO several times a day, but this dog don’t mind.  She minds her father better than me probably because of his size and deeper voice.

During those first months of house training, I got Susie to use pads in a specific area of the house.  But some evenings when we were watching a movie or working on the computer, Susie would pee intentionally near us, I suspect as a domineering act because she was looking straight at us while doing it.  We’ve learned to listen to her growls and beware of her jumping dominance as a sign she needs or wants to go outside.

And wouldn’t you know it?  Susie was determined to sleep on the bed with us, like any other person.  For the first two weeks with Susie, I tried training her to sleep in a kennel outside the bedroom.  Nothing doing.  She wouldn’t stop whining, barking, growling all night long.  I moved the kennel into the bedroom; then tried to train her to sleep on a pallet beside the bed; consented to allowing her to sleep on top of the bedspread but stay at the foot of the bed.  She wore me down from lack of rest and insisted on sleeping between us with her head close to our pillows.  Sometimes I’d awake in the morning to her snout facing me, brown eyes staring at me.  Wonder what she’s thinking?

Killer dog

Unlike my previous dogs—cocker spaniels that enjoyed playing with squeaky toys and could fetch balls—Susie always would gnaw the squeak out of any toy and commence to destroying each and every one.  She’d start by ripping off the tail, legs, arms, ears and any pointed appendages for some reason.  Susie’s a natural born killer.  That first year we had her, in the wee hours of the morning she constantly ran off the bed into the kitchen chasing what turned out to be a rat.  She was alert but not quick enough and would return to bed.  It took several months of interrupting our sleep, but Susie won: finally trapping the rat in the mud room between the kitchen and our bedroom.  The rat was terrified hiding behind the dryer.  Susie hovered and waited.  When the rat bolted, Susie snapped it up horizontally in her jaws, shaking it dead, leaving tiny blood splatters all over the place.  She grinned with pride and the taste of blood.

We called Susie our wolf hero and presented her a framed certificate for killing the house rat.  Susie would go on to kill again and again: squirrels, mice, roaches, grub worms, a black feral cat, a raccoon her own size … and unfortunately one of our own dogs.  Susie always thought tiny dogs were playthings; we realized this at the small dog park when she wanted to play too rough with tiny dogs that people held in their arms.  But one time at the creek, we took in an abandoned mini chiweenie with long red hair and green eyes, still with puppy breath.  We realized we’d have to keep the 5-pound pup separate from Susie for awhile.  Naming her Chelsea, we let her outside with our other dog Tommy to play and grow strong.  Susie would watch intently through the backdoor window, whimpering wanting to play with them.  After a couple of weeks, I allowed the three dogs to play together, carefully monitoring Susie to stop any roughness.

Eventually the little pup wanted to get stronger and play-fight with Susie.  The two ran wild in the backyard and played very rough and tough, toppling over each other, forcing the other down to submission while growling and play choking the victim which would quickly return onto legs and ready for another go.  Susie lost some weight with all the exercise.  They were inseparable for a few years until Susie grew old.  Chelsea was 5 and becoming more dominant, always attacking Susie by jumping off the bed to knock her down.  Susie didn’t want to play rough anymore.  Besides, Chelsea had sharp teeth and was prone to biting.  One night Chelsea got into a big knock-down drag-out fight with Susie.  The two would not stop fighting each other.  It was horrible and hard to stop.  Things changed between them.  A year later, the fight between them erupted unexpectedly late night in the backyard.  Susie won.  We were mortified, heartbroken, and very angry, not knowing what to think about Susie anymore.  A few days went by as she moped around like she’d lost her best friend, her Daddy.  I asked her softly, “Why, Susie?  Why’d you kill Chelsea?”  She opened her mouth like she was going to tell me then realized she can’t talk.  The vet said dogs are not like humans; the bloodlust is always there.

Stop cloning around

Susie celebrated her 15th birthday this month.  As always we sang “Happy Birthday,” presented her with a good meal of salmon and potatoes, gave her a pink frosted dog cookie, some duck meat chews, and ice cream for dogs.  She grabbed the container by her teeth and pranced into the backyard away from the other dogs with the same treat and holding the cup between her paws proceeded to spend the next five minutes licking the cold peanut butter contents under the Texas sun.

Despite her zeal during preparation of each and every meal, Susie has slowed down considerably.  I think her bones ache, so I started adding a supplement to her morning meal.  She’s only had one surgery, years ago to clean wounds and sew her up after a dog fight with a much larger and stronger German shepherd.  I doubt Susie sees or hears well though her sniffing sense seems intact.  She can be heard snoring throughout the house as she sleeps very soundly.  Her naps can last most of the day except for interruptions by our other two dogs.  Sometimes she has a mild stomach sickness I suspect from eating grass and other things in the backyard.  Often she looks at me confused.  She enjoys going in the backyard, lying on the grass right under the sun, which probably is healing and soothing to her.  She can’t walk on a leash as fast and as forcefully as she used to.  Halfway through a walk, she just stops and lies down.  Still her heart is good, and she’s been given a clean bill of health at her annual checkups.

We know Susie’s years with us are numbered.  As a longtime dog owner, I’ve made the heart-wrenching decision to put a beloved pet to sleep when they’re in ill health, in pain, and very old and frail.  However, in this brave new world in which we live, dogs are being cloned, at $100,000 a pooch, mostly for billionaires and major stars like Barbra Streisand.  For someone who has played strong female characters, one would think the superstar could handle life after the death of a beloved pet.

Would I clone Susie?  Nope.  One dachshund has been enough for me.  She is either a breed or a dog who wore me out with her stubborn streak and bullying ways.  Yet I love her dearly.  We’ve been through so much together.  She’s a much better dog now that she no longer needs or even tries to roam around the world.  On her 9th birthday, I created a card with graphics from her presumed past lives such as a bull, a walrus, a hog, a snake, a donkey, an ape, a bucking bronco.  I wrote “The many incarnations of Susie.  You go dog!”  And she has for six more years.

Pet parents must come to grips with the fact that we outlive our pets and must be able to deal with it.  It is their nature and our grief.  And doesn’t nature already reproduce more than enough dogs and cats to fill the grieving hearts of humanity?  So why is cloning dogs necessary?  The breeds are practically identical.  The most humane action pet lovers can take after the death of a beloved furry friend is to go get another one or even two.  Maybe this is the reason God made sure dogs and cats would be reproduced naturally in abundance.  They’re everywhere to be found.  Just waiting for love.

Requiem mass for the spiritually broken

Kyrie, eleison

Lord, have mercy

I’m not Catholic, and I don’t know a lot of Catholics.  But through the years, most of the ones I’ve gotten to know are actually former Catholics.  So bitter are their childhood memories of Catholic schooling; obligated mass attendance; memorized Hail Marys and many formal prayers; built-in guilt; confession; communion; signs of the cross; and catechism of memorized saints, rituals, holy days, feasts, mass settings, and biblical passages.  By the time my ‘former-Catholic’ friends were young adults, they were more than cynical about The Church.  But other young people who were raised in Protestant denominations get burned out on religion, too, and strike out on their own, simply choosing not to attend church all the time.  Early adulthood is a time of breaking away from required childhood routines, teachings and most importantly spiritual beliefs.

The Catholic Church being a big mystery to me, not unlike the Jewish faith, I never realized what all the silent anger was about among the few Catholics I knew and wanted to get to know better—why a deliberate non-mention that they had been raised Catholic.  When the subject came up, they would roll their eyes and grit their teeth.  Seemed like they didn’t want to talk about that part of their lives especially to me, a non Catholic.

All I’ve known about The Holy Roman Catholic Church is from high school World History.  It was the original Christian church; forming after the fall of the Roman Empire around 450 A.D.; and for 1,500 years dominated Western Europe in culture, dress, law, music, art, architecture, deeds, expectations, behavior and thought.  Teachers in the public schools made sure we understood how foolish The Church had been way back when in leading The Crusades, specifically mentioning the Children’s Crusade, and that in Europe the longstanding Catholic Church had become corrupt which ushered in the Renaissance and Reformation.  For decades hence, there would be many bloody battles and outright wars between Catholics and Protestants especially in determining which would rule England and other Christian countries.  When one Christian sect was in power, the other was severely persecuted.

Sanctus

Holy

I’ve found mature American Catholics to be open minded and liberal thinkers, recalling their fight for civil rights in the 1960s as well as joining protests to end the Vietnam War, serving in the Peace Corps and providing worldwide humanitarian relief through Catholic Charities.  An image that comes to mind is the smiling nun at the Woodstock music festival who flashes the peace sign.

Agnus Dei

Lamb of God

But then again … and again … and yet again … the public is informed of another massive scandal within large communities of the Catholic Church involving sex abuse of children and adolescents by dozens of priests.  Now I understand the … shame … of those who would rather refer to themselves as former Catholics, maybe determining themselves not religious at all.  The revelations are nothing new and to a jaded society may be not only secretly suspected but remain in the forefront of the minds of non Catholics.  What are we to think?  Sure there have been the famous TV evangelists and little-known preachers throughout the U.S. who’ve committed the same sin, the same crime.  But in sheer numbers, there is no comparison, and it’s because of an ancient institution.

The latest scandal involved six dioceses in Pennsylvania; 1,000 victims; 300 priests; and an institutionalized cover up since the 1940s.  These were rapes, sex crimes that should have been reported to police … but weren’t … for whatever reasons.  In 1997 a similar scandal by a “pedophile priest” occurred within the Dallas Catholic Diocese involving almost a dozen altar boys which went on for years.  The priest was sentenced to life in prison, and a $119 million jury award practically bankrupted the Diocese.  To prevent such crimes in the future, the jury mandated the Dallas Diocese report any rumor or suspicion of child sexual abuse by priests to law officials, never to hide the unholy again.

In 2015 the Oscar-winning movie “Spotlight” was about The Boston Globe’s investigation into a sex scandal within the Catholic Archdiocese of Boston.  Five priests were criminally prosecuted, not to mention a plethora of lawsuits.  The Catholic bishop kept the sex crimes secret and reassigned offending priests, as was done in Pennsylvania.  So … The Church knew all along.  The newspaper reported the scandal in 2002 and won the Pulitzer Prize.

In paradisum

Into paradise

Pope Francis is livid over the same scandal involving priests not only in America but Ireland and other countries around the world.  Obviously, to Catholics and non Catholics alike, something has to be done immediately.  One solution is not allowing a priest to ever be alone with a minor.  Some Catholics are calling for The Pope to reconsider permitting women to enter the priesthood and allowing priests to marry.  Why are these two reforms still controversial in the year 2018?

In the 16th century, Martin Luther posted dozens  of disagreements with The Church.  He also had an opinion on allowing priests to marry, writing that celibacy is not required in the Bible and that on the contrary God called humans to be fruitful and multiply.  Once the Protestant Reformation was under way, ministers were allowed to marry, and their wives were part of their ministries.  Luther also believed marriage would prevent temptation.  He also disagreed with priests as a necessary go-between for man and God.  Luther preached that everyone is called to minister to all people, which is biblical, spoken by Jesus Christ Himself.

Today’s Catholics, led by the popular and progressive Pope Francis, are allowed their own discretion on many intimate beliefs such as contraception.  What is surprising to non Catholics like me is why a billion people around the world remain dedicated to The Church.  Protestants, from the root word ‘protest,’ don’t understand and would simply switch to another church.  Given the cover ups, criminal sexual abuse against children, the perversion and hypocrisy—why do so many remain loyal to The Church?  Are they eternally dedicated though sorely ashamed and disgusted with atrocious sins and crimes by some priests involving the innocence of children?

Catholic or Protestant, we are taught to believe before we are taught to think.  The Catholic faith—with its beautiful stained-glass depictions, sky-high cathedrals, priests donning ornate robes and hats, processions, rituals, congregational prayers and songs, unified mass scripture readings and lectures—is essentially what religion should be: a sacred and profound bond of humans in mind and spirit.  There are millions on earth who still believe “To err is human, to forgive divine.”  But at what cost to our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, all God’s children?

American WASPs still stinging immigrants

So the U.S. has the worst immigration laws in the world?  Well, let me respond with a little ol’ American folk song, parodied by yours truly, to go somethin’ like this:

This land was their land.

It wasn’t our land

from California to the New York island.

We took it from them.

Sometimes we paid them.

Now we must share this land for all.

No other nation on earth has our history—and sole purpose to admit people from around the world including our own hemisphere—especially within the past 500 years.  Everyone on the planet knows America’s convoluted, though in premise sparkling, history.  Europeans started migrating over here in the 1600s.  But the land the White man named America was not uninhabited.  There were thousands of native tribes, mostly brown-skinned people (described as red-skinned by the White man).  What would become the United States of America was born in multicultural conflict, not to mention the issue of enslaved Africans dragged in chains all the way over here to work the land for free till death.  What a multi-cultural mess: this vast territory, unstable, shocking and terrifying until forced colonization by the English-speaking Christian British.

Anglo Americans can’t forget our shameful past in ‘settling’ this land, right up to the late 20th century when Americans began to realize through public education the damage done to ancient civilizations and Native people.  And we think we have the right today to squawk about illegal immigrants?  If there weren’t jobs for them, people south of the Rio Grande wouldn’t keep coming up here.  American businessmen had a lot to do with creating the alleged illegal immigration problem rued today.

And who’s doing the ruing?  Mostly businessmen and the rich of WASP ancestry.  This is why Americans who felt our nation was not-so-great returned to electing a forty-fourth white man president.  To put a stop once and for all to illegal immigration, even in cases of asylum, the new president’s policy was to separate Central American parents from their Native speaking children.  Say what?  Some of the Indigenous families do not speak Spanish let alone English.  Despite the new get-tough deterrent, after traveling hundreds of miles and undergoing insurmountable hardships, many families crossed over, assumed the position to surrender in arrest to the United States while watching their own children taken into separate custody hundreds and thousands of miles from South Texas.  Many of the little ones were understandably traumatized by the family separation.  What an unholy mess yet again by White-ruling Americans.

Red and yellow, black and white

Something drastic had to be done to stop illegal immigration.  Not really.  Illegal crossings along the southern border have been reduced substantially: from more than a million annually during the Clinton years to less than a quarter of a million annually with the vast majority of those people seeking asylum.  Decent people cannot and will not live in Central American narco states where drug cartels rule with brutal beat downs, shake downs, gang rule, murder and rape.

Now American history is coming full circle.  It was similar hostilities—called ‘religious persecution’ in our schoolbooks—when English and European families began to leave everything behind for the New World.  Some died during the rough six-week boat ride across the choppy Atlantic Ocean.  Naturally, many arrived sick, feverish, infected, infectious, and yes dirty.  Through the decades, most European immigrants did not speak English.  Yet somehow they kept coming and coming and coming all the way over to this land right here.  The Catholic Irish were discriminated against for employment.  Then Italians were treated similarly.  And on and on with each nationality, although most Whites generally agreed to uphold equal discrimination against people of color from Central and South America, Africa and Asia.

There isn’t a plot of land in the entire country that anyone can claim free of past Native occupation.  But Native Americans did not believe the earth was something man could own or possess—only to care for, love, appreciate and cultivate.  All the earth belonged to God—their Sky God, the Supreme Being.  Whites took advantage of the sincere spiritual philosophy, offering trade for land: horses, pots, rifles, skins, whatever, maybe coins.  Who knows?  God knows.

Many supported Trump’s campaign to Make America Great Again (evidently code for Make America White Again).  Americans of fifth and sixth or more generations have had enough playing around with Spanish and English: seeing grocery signs, billboards, government documents and election ballots in both languages; infuriated with every business phone call a language selection cue to press 1 or 2.  Public schools in states bordering Mexico are becoming majority Hispanic.  Much to worry about … if you’re White and want everything and everyone to stay as it seemingly was in the last century.

Things change.  Times change.  Territories change.  Societies change.  Of this Europeans still residing in countries with bloody histories spanning a thousand-plus years know well.  Human migration is nothing new—in truth, it’s the way of the world.  But to a Baby Nation not yet 300 years old, with a ruling class still carrying on our forefathers’ prejudices and bigotry, immigration is the number one cause of all the world’s problems.

During the 20th century, America was great at assimilation: everyone melting into White privilege and culture.  But by the end of the century, when hyphenated Americans began to have pride in their diverse ancestral heritage, a social push back began.  African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, Cuban-Americans, Asian-Americans, Arab-Americans, Native Americans, etc., will no longer resonate WASP prejudices.  Those days are gone.  So we Americans and all the wanna-be Americans can accept, understand and enjoy our multi-cultural past, present and future.  Or we can go our separate ways—refusing to live together peacefully.

The lines of a Willie Nelson song: etched in his heart & face

Three cheers for Willie Nelson, the national treasure of Texas!  He’s turned 85 this year.  He and his fans probably thought he’d never live past 50.  But as he’s been willing to talk to the media all these decades, we can already guess what’s kept him rolling along.  (And I don’t mean the reefer, even his own mind-blowing brands, although he does say pot made him less prone to anger.  And that’s gotta do the heart good, right docs?)

Why, everyone knows the story of Willie Nelson: abandoned little boy raised by his grandparents in the tiny Hill Country community of Abbott, Texas; a stint in the Air Force; door-to-door salesman; radio dj; playing country bands; move to Nashville; hit songwriter.  His songs are standard in the American songbook: Night Life, Crazy, Whiskey River, Funny How Time Slips Away.  His songs were often first recorded to fame by the unique and memorable country and Western voices like Patsy Cline, Johnny Bush and Ray Price.

But back when Willie tried to emulate the country star image of groomed hair and suit circa 1960, it just wasn’t his style.  And they made fun of his singing, too.  Laughed him all the way back to Texas.  And as the life and times of Willie Nelson go, he just happened to be at the right place at the right time.  He grew his hair long and wore jeans and t-shirts or muscle Ts.  His beloved guitar Trigger always faithful to perform, he met up with other country artists ready to rebel against the polished Nashville sound, more skyscraper than honky tonk.  He released Red Headed Stranger, the album cover depicting him in a wanted poster from the 1800s.  The album featured his vocal style somberly singing Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain with his signature melodic guitar picking.  The album received wide appeal.

Along with country music friend Waylon Jennings, in 1976 Willie co-recorded an album that would top the charts for years.  Wanted! The Outlaws featured Good Hearted Woman and My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.  They say Willie brought together the rockers and the rednecks.  Willie went on to headline his famous Fourth of July picnics, support Farm Aid, and invest in bio fuels as well as marijuana.

And he’s received just about every music award America has to offer, including: Grammy Hall of Fame; Kennedy Center Honors; Academy of Country Music Entertainer of the Year in 1980; and Grammy Awards for Best Male Country Vocals in 1976, 1979 and 1983.  Talk about doing your own thing and believing in yourself!

The Tao of Willie Nelson

Yep, there’s a book melding Eastern philosophy with the life attitude of Willie Nelson.  Given the way he’s chosen to live his life, happiness is evident to the rest of us.  In figuring out what Willie has to offer us about life, assumptions could be:

First, do your own thing.  In retrospect, Willie was of his time: growing up in the Depression and loving country music.  He simply took the style and set his own plain yet poetic words.  Hint for songwriters out there, according to Willie: Melodies are in the air.  Just pick one.

Second, impress yourself.  Willie writes good songs because he knows it.  He didn’t need anyone to tell him a song like Crazy would be a huge hit.  But he was at the right place again: talking to Patsy Cline’s husband at Tootsies in Nashville.  Everyone in the country music business already knew Willie wrote great songs.  The topic was bound to come up.

But what didn’t come up was letting Willie sing his own songs his way.  Yet once again the Tao of Willie is about believing in himself.  He always thought he had a pretty good voice.  It just took a cultural change in America’s music tastes—the preference for denim folk rock with a lot less polished recordings.  Willie was already out there performing.  Audiences were willing to listen to and appreciate his own style and renditions of his songs, already nationally known melodically, lyrically and emotionally.

Third, don’t live to impress others.  Willie chased fame and fortune, but then the famous started chasing Willie.  When he decided to quit the music business, his attitude changed.  He may have been hurt and angry, but when his feelings turned to don’t give a damn, wham!  That’s the key to real happiness.  He split with the Nashville scene, returning home to Texas and found a personal freedom that allowed him to sing his songs his way, making a living doing what he loves.  Among the workforce, this is rare.  Willie would say he was determined more than just lucky that life worked out for him.  The lesson is to be in control of one’s life and pursuit of happiness.

Fourth, keep active.  As long as he’s been able, Willie has been athletic, running races and golfing.  He’s out there, breathing in the fresh air, taking in the sun, enjoying the day.  He found as a famous entertainer, he does not always have to be ‘on’ all the time.  He was able to handle success.

Finally, keep an open mind.  Willie has a sense of humor, can see the funny in time slipping away, allows himself a good laugh not necessarily produced by the wacky weed.  And though the once red-headed scrawny young man never would have imagined his life turning into a national celebration and social influence through the gift of time and age, Willie stayed true to himself: from the braided hair, twinkling smile, love and heartache, versatile endeavors, heart of gold—the face of human life.

Taking a reality tour of our nation’s public schools

Dear U.S. Education Secretary Betsy DeVos:

Given your job title, unawareness of American public education with its tumultuous and racist history, and that you and your entire family including your grandchildren have never had to attend a public school, I strongly suggest you take one year to travel the nation and each day randomly choose a public school to visit starting in our cities.  If you’re afraid to step into our public schools, let me be your guide.

First, students sniff fear, so keep a game face.  No smiling, waving, embracing, hugging, engaging in pleasantries or sorrowful expression at the sight of impoverished neighborhoods.  A polished businesswoman impresses adults not kids.  You might consider wearing a baseball cap, sneakers and slacks and tone down the bling.  A tattoo, nose piercing or strip of pink hair would be a good way to bond with kids, especially teen girls.  They’ll think you’re cool.

Let me guide you through this middle school entrance where everyone forms a single line before passing through metal detectors.  Like I said, ditch the jewelry; it’ll just set off the alarm and rile the adolescent crowd.  Then once inside the building, you should assume the position with hands up and legs spread as another teacher gently pats you down.  They’re checking for permanent markers used for graffiti and any sharp object that can and will be used as a weapon to harm others or themselves.  Yeah, some teens really do cut themselves just to feel something.  It’s so sad but not uncommon.  Don’t stare at the pregnant student either.  It’s nothing shocking.

Try to ignore the throbbing rap music blaring from parked cars with parents and students.  They both like the same music.  And if a parent does stomp through demanding an unscheduled conference or confrontation with the principal or a teacher, just step aside and keep quiet.  Mind your business.  Look straight ahead, and ignore rude cussing and shoving even between students.  Let administrators handle the rough stuff, my dear.

We can wait in the cafeteria where most students are provided a breakfast as well as lunch every school day in our public schools.  You’ll see many kids waste food.  Few really want the breakfast, yet they have to take dietary proportions given by cafeteria staff.  This is because of a federal government partnership with the U.S Department of Agriculture.  See, America produces tons more food than we can consume.  So the schools are a great place to at least get the food delivered, whether or not kids like it, eat it or toss it in the trash.  At least they have the option to eat at school.  But looking across the room, you’ll agree some kids are likely eating breakfast at home and then an extra something at school—which may contribute to our epidemic obesity rate.  Let me commend you, by the way, for keeping your figure slim and trim.  Very admirable.  You go, girl!

No school like an old school

That first bell is mind splitting, isn’t it?  All the kids are herding to their classes while a good ten percent of the student body will arrive tardy 10 to 20 minutes or later every day, the same kids from the same families all year long.  Now morning announcements will start, spoken through the office PA system.  In some schools, announcements will be in English and then repeated in Spanish, so this morning ritual may take quite awhile.  You might notice some classes remain talkative and do not pay attention while others are quiet.  You will undoubtedly notice very few kids actually saying the Pledge of Allegiance or bowing their heads for the traditional moment of silence.  It depends on the teacher, what’s important to him or her.  Maybe the class is behind in assignments, and completion is the priority.  Just letting you know it’s not totally about disrespect but could be.

OK, I’d like you to inspect student restrooms.  We’ll just stand inside the girls since the boys always smells of urine.  Look at this: little or no toilet paper, no soap, no paper towels.  You wanna know why?  Mischievous kids ruin it for everyone else.  Some exasperated custodians will not stock paper towels, leaving kids to air dry their hands or wipe them on their clothes.  Toilet paper can be a play thing to stuff the toilets, stopping them up to overrun—a big mess and common in schools.  The soap, well that was another thing some kids played around with, using way too much and making a mess, never cleaning it up off the floor or wall.  Many schools will not provide soap, bar or liquid, in student restrooms even in the newest buildings.  Too many students playing around in the restrooms, sneaking in for fights and other misadventures, is why restroom doors are removed or remain open at many schools.

Now let’s walk the halls.  Most classroom doors have to remain wide open to avoid potential lawsuits involving inappropriate teacher behavior.  But every kind of sound plus all the teachers’ voices echo down the corridor.  I don’t know how any kid can concentrate.  I wouldn’t have been able to.  What about you?

Oh, sorry you had to see that!  My goodness, look at that graffiti: stick figures in sex positions and words like ‘b—’ and ‘m—-f—-’ and gang tags.  Adolescents think they’re the first to shock us with sex stuff and bad language.  Just expect to see more of it on occasion: inside books; on walls; in restroom stalls; scratched into painted lockers, windows, steel doors, even video monitors.

I wanted to mention to you an outdated feature of our nation’s schools in the 21st century: Some classrooms still use VCRs and video monitors instead of DVD projectors or Smart Boards with internet connection.  You would think every single classroom in America would at least have a Smart Board by now and every student supplied or required to have a laptop for school.  Maybe by 2050, huh?  Of course, who knows how technology will change by then?

So classrooms here along the first floor seem to be running smoothly.  Most classes are very organized, some in apparent disarray.  It depends on the teacher and style.  Some administrators will demand a streamlined approach, however, and those schools will have to follow suit.  A school’s tone, its order or chaos, starts at the top with the principal.

Up the down staircase

Ready to go upstairs?  No, we can’t take the elevator, dear.  They rarely work in some schools.  I’m not sure how this inconvenience and hazard continues after the Americans with Disabilities Act, but it does.  Accommodations are made if a student needs to go upstairs.  For example, a kid in a wheelchair may have an assigned crew—and other kids will volunteer for this—to lift and carry the kid in chair up a flight of stairs.  Other arrangements may be to keep a kid in a wheelchair on the first floor, maybe arranging for a tutor if the math lab is upstairs, for example.

Let’s step into this classroom.  Ooops!  Gosh, were you hit by that tiny bit of eraser?  Feels like shrapnel, doesn’t it?  Dog-gone kids.  Just quietly walk around the room.  Notice how students suddenly are paying attention to the teacher, acting studious, reading.  They want to impress you because they don’t know who you are and why you’re here.  They think you’re monitoring their behavior.  At this moment, they’re truly learning and concentrating.  This is a beautiful sight, what school’s all about.  Sigh.

But look around the room.  See?  No cameras anywhere.  That’s a problem in this day and age.  If a kid is so inclined to misbehave or act out, it’s the teacher’s word against the student or students.  But with you here, there will be no outburst, not until you are gone and things get back to normal.  Unfortunately, school classrooms should have cameras by now, don’t you agree?

Oh no!  That sudden loud order from the vice principal means we’re in lock down.  We have to stay in this classroom for now.  We’ll know it’s over when we hear a special code over the PA.  See how the teacher places a red or green card outside the door then locks it, if it can be locked, while students remain in their seats or in worse scenarios crouch together in a back corner?  I think this lock down is to let drug dogs roam free, an unannounced routine.  Usually the dogs sniff out something in student lockers or backpacks.  Later we’ll probably see police officers escorting arrested adolescents, hands cuffed behind their backs, as they leave school.

Yes, this school is one of many with armed police officers, about one per high school and middle school.  This school district has its own police force.  Years ago schools used security officers without guns.  But in recent years, they’ve been replaced by real law officers who wear handguns.  I guess everyone feels safer.

Now that lock down is over, let’s go into the staff parking lot.  Students are not allowed access, but there’s no fencing or any way to prevent stragglers from passing through.  Today I see four cars have been keyed, all of them red.  That means it’s a gang thing, a retaliation of sorts.  Adolescents who are entrenched in gang culture assume their teachers are gang members, too.  There are cameras monitoring activity around the school’s exterior.  Maybe those who scratched the cars will be caught but not if they wore hoodies and aren’t from this school.

Let’s go back inside to watch lunch time.  Some cafeterias are tightly monitored with students not allowed to talk above a whisper while some schools allow low conversation.  The thing is: kids are known to get out of control quickly, group laugh, ruff house, yell, break into fights or throw food.  So don’t be alarmed if you hear a coach or loud teacher instruct everyone: “QUIET!!  NO TALKING.”  I’m sorry teachers have to come across as mean.  You know they really aren’t.  It’s just hundreds of youngsters and five teachers monitoring lunch, like keeping a lid on a boiling pot sometimes.

Skip to my Lou

Would you like to pop in to another public school for afternoon touring?  Let’s go!  This is an elementary school where most students are from Spanish-speaking homes.  Many of their teachers also speak Spanish as their native language.  This school has a bilingual program whereby every other day, lessons are taught in one language or the other.  For example, Monday may be English, Tuesday Spanish, and back and forth through the week.  The effectiveness of this type of bilingual education is skewed because a confused kid will often have to break into Spanish on those English-only days to figure out what’s going on.  It’s hard on them, and if the teacher only speaks English, the kid must figure out what’s being said and taught sink or swim.  Their mandatory state tests will be in Spanish until they reach middle school.  Some bilingual teachers support full English immersion at school.

Before leaving, let’s go outside to the rows of small metal buildings surrounding the school.  They’re called portables, one-room buildings placed here decades ago as a temporary measure until the school was expanded.  But by now, many portables are fifty years old, and few schools actually were expanded through the centuries.  Heating and air conditioning are problems in some portables but also throughout many school buildings.  There are all kinds of reasons, but mostly the air ventilation systems are not monitored and maintained by an on-site crew.  It can take years for air in one freezing wing to be repaired while another area across the school building remains unbearably hot.  It’s the way it is.  Students learn to bring jackets or wear layers every single school day: summer, autumn, winter and spring.

And that brings me to my final concern about our nation’s school system.  Why aren’t American schools year-round by now?  It’s practically the middle of the 21st century, and the long summer breaks have been unnecessary for decades.  Expanding the school year would be a good place to start in improving our students’ education and retention.  Teachers, families and states may kick and scream about it.  But you know a lot of knowledge has gone to the wayside in order to maintain a nine-month school year decade after decade.

I understand your reluctance to take American public schools seriously.  You support privatizing all services, providing school choice to everyone, and doing away with the U.S. Department of Education altogether.  In countering these proposals or grand plan, in actuality our nation’s schools should be under one command.  The Department of Education should enforce the same curriculum for every school, rural and urban, so communities aren’t set back by poverty and school board politics.  Communities and citizens have failed our schools.  The oversight for correction, modernization or privatization must be at the federal level.  States would disagree on student courses that are important and essential.  But that is a national decision.  And you, Madam DeVos, are the Decider.

It’s been my pleasure showing you just a couple of our urban public schools.  B’bye!  Feel free to call me any time.

From Dead Bird Mall to Red Bird Mall once again

The former Red Bird Mall now resembles historic ruins.  For decades hardly anyone wanted to shop there, preferring to venture across Dallas or in recent years nearby Cedar Hill for its trendy outdoor walking mall.  Many cities across the U.S. are burdened with mid-century malls.  Old and gray and huge as the sea, they remain sprawled across a good hundred acres—taking up way too much space and offering no tax revenue.

The death of a mall is a pitiful sight especially for Baby Boomers like me with memories that keep us forever 16.  The biggest thing to have come to my neck of the Dallas suburbs was this very mall.  Opening in 1975, it seemed destined for eternal business with anchors like Sanger Harris, JC Penney and of course Sears.  The mall shops were crazy eclectic but competed to fulfill our every want and need.  More shoes and dress shops than a busy gal could visit in one day, a couple of record stores (for the latest album rock) and eateries galore made the mall an inexpensive teen date: a place to roam and people watch.  Christmas time was especially crowded.  As a teen I always liked going to the mall.  It made me feel alive.

My first real job was at that mall where I scooped ice cream at Baskin-Robbins.  We wore pink baseball caps and smocks.  I learned to operate a cash register, figure tax, and count correct change back to customers.  After school on the days I went to work, the price of a single scoop had increased a penny or two, sometimes a nickel.  If I recall correctly, a scoop at some point was 20 cents then more and more, corrections noted in pencil near the register.  The owners, a married couple, wanted to train me in management.  Turned out the young assistant manager was stealing from the register and summarily fired.  But I had greater dreams to fulfill and passed on pursuing management.  Besides, the job paid $2 an hour when the minimum wage was more than that.  When I inquired about the discrepancy, the owners explained if a company is small, employees don’t have to be paid the federal minimum wage.  After some months, I quit to finally earn minimum wage at a barbecue joint.

But working at the mall really appealed to me.  Many occasions I’d approach every single store, on both floors, and ask for an employment application.  Through high school and early college, I usually could land a job at the mall.  My sales clerk experience included the children’s clothing department at Sears and a clothing store called Woman’s World that specialized in the latest fashions for larger ladies.  I enjoyed my breaks at Sears because I could go to the candy and nut counter for a bag of warm cashews and an Icee.  At the ice cream shop, employees got a free scoop for coming to work.  I usually passed but when succumbing to temptation chose Daiquiri Ice on a sugar cone.  I was trying to be sophisticated.  Besides, I liked the cool turquoise color.

 All’s fair in mall and war

Because of the mall’s location, in south Dallas, a lot of whites referred to Red Bird Mall as Black Bird Mall.  What an awful thing to say, just because a lot of shoppers were black.  But see, the majority whites at the time were not yet willing to be inclusive or think of the community and our country as multicultural and multiracial—as I had come to realize in college.  The racial epithet of sorts was around 1989.  Yes, there was crime at the mall, perhaps more than other malls in Dallas, still at the time unverified as fact by the general public.  It seems an urban legend started the moment Red Bird Mall opened: a horrible story about a little boy attacked in the mall’s restroom.  Hearing the story as an adolescent, I believed it and was on guard if ever having to use the mall restrooms, eerily placed down long corridors.  After I grew up, going alone to the mall seemed unsafe.  I could tell things had changed.  The young crowds seemed rough, loud—and most importantly to business—weren’t there to shop.  But neither was I most of the time in junior high and high school.  I did shop for and buy a prom dress at the mall my junior year: a lacy baby blue evening gown and a very fond memory.

In an effort to rejuvenate the mall, it was renamed Southwest Center and its interior walls redecorated in a style reminiscent of the Old Southwest, more New Mexico and old Mexico than modern Dallas, Texas.  It just didn’t fit for those of us born and raised in this area.  As the poor economy of the late ’80s and early ’90s continued to threaten businesses from independent shops to national retail chains, my old shopping ground got a new nickname: Dead Bird Mall.  It was a hilarious yet honest depiction given all the mall vacancies.

Eulogy for a dead mall

A year ago the Dallas mayor proclaimed intentions to yet again reincarnate Red Bird Mall, first off to rename it as such because originally it referred to a nice upper middle-class Oak Cliff area of Dallas.  The city is working with businesses like Starbucks to once again populate the vast concrete territory still harboring some semblance of a mall.  But perhaps malls should be a thing of the past.  As wonderfully convenient, though costly, as shopping malls were—everything under one roof—times have changed.  People shop online first to purchase so many things.  Then there’s Wal-Mart and Target.

So what’s gonna bring ’em out to the modernized Red Bird Mall?  Perhaps a lot of small single buildings connected by outdoor walkways, fountains, floral landscaping with shade trees, benches, ponds and nature—a beautiful place for meditation, reading online and waiting while others shop.  Rule one should be in considering a new shopping development to revitalize Red Bird Mall: Why do people want to go there?

In retrospect, maybe we should list all the reasons people stopped going there: safety, loud unruly crowds, loitering, theft, assault, guns, drugs, evening hours, humongous terrain, accessibility, health issues, and impractical shops.  Consumers of the 21st century may have no need for the old mall experience that millions of us hold dear in our memories.  Our generation knows better than most: The past tends to be romanticized … because we don’t want to reminisce about the way things really were.

Wanna run for Congress? Millionaires need not apply

New Rule: From now on, anyone running for U.S. Congress and Senate, cannot have an annual salary more than, oh I don’t know, $100,000.  ?  Sound good?  Still unfair?  No more than $75,000?  Something that would put him or her in the league of regular folks, maybe no more than $40,000?  Come on now, there are a lot of people in this country who earn salaries like $30,000 and $40,000  a year and even raise kids.  But the point I’m trying to make is NO MORE MILLIONAIRE POLITICIANS!!  Yea!!!!!!  Rahhhhhh!!!

With our usual federal government shut downs, it seems it’s not so much a liberal-conservative fight as a disconnection between millionaires and regular folks.  Millionaires have never cared about poor people (and for them that includes the vast middle class), what the Millennials used to refer to as the 99 percent (of us).   Remember when the kids protested on Wall Street just a couple of years ago?  Then we elect a self-promoted billionaire as president?  What’s up with that?  How did our nation change on a dime?  Just wondering what happened to the collective rage against all people rich.

Only millionaires play chicken with people’s lives and livelihoods.  Regular folks would never do such a thing.  We have more empathy toward our fellow man, sort of.  I mean, we are Americans, and since the Reagan ’80s our national motto has been “I got mine. You get yours.”  Works out great for some folks, maybe even most Americans with the wherewithal to earn a college degree or born with business savvy and ambition or tech or high-paid trade acumen.  But not everyone does well in our great land.  There are all kinds of reasons: physical disabilities, chronic illness, mental illness, addiction, low self-esteem, low intellect, anti social personality disorder.  Then there are issues dealing with race, color, sex, religion and ethnicity.  People of color have been saying for decades there are points against them in our great nation when it comes to who gets the jobs and promotions and why.  It doesn’t matter how many bi-racial family ads are on TV now.  The nation as a whole hasn’t let go of discrimination.

Billionaire Boys Club

So now really we have a billionaire club infiltrating politics.  And since politics is about governing people’s lives, I’d say it’s unfair and I’d go so far as to say non-Christian.  Wouldn’t you?  OK, let’s leave the issue of religion out of it.  Let’s not ask “What Would Jesus Do?” when it comes to a government shut down.  After all, the great majority of our nation’s millionaires and billionaires and Congressional representatives proclaim to be Christian.

The first time I was ever aware of our government’s money problems was in 1981.  That was the first time I heard our government was broke.  And we’ve been broke ever since.  Well, there was that shining moment when President Bill Clinton proudly announced our new national debt was $0.  That’s zero dollars.  The politicians, especially the ‘vast right wing conspiracy,’ had convinced us concerned Americans the budget could never be balanced. Shame on them.  Clinton was lucky he rode the perfect wave of the telecom boom … which turned into a tech and dot.com bubble that eventually burst.  Nevertheless, he did prove our national debt could be resolved.

Now I’m just thinking out loud, but does anyone else think our entire federal budget is just a house of cards?  We’re just robbing Peter to pay Paul?  If we are truly unable to keep our government financially operating time and again, then something’s, like, major wrong with our nation.

The one person I would never trust to fix our perpetual federal debacle and international embarrassment is a millionaire.  Wanna know why?  Because I know that millionaires never, ever, ever, never, ever, ever spend their own money.  Trump never did contribute faithfully and willingly and lovingly to his own presidential campaign.  He’s got to be the first in American history to not gamble on his own presidential bid.

And the likes of him, billionaires and millionaires, are in charge of our federal budget?  Something’s out of whack.  And it’s been out of whack for too long.

Roll over Tom Jeff’rson

Our nation’s Founders in their wildest dreams could have never imagined the vast financial mess of our great country, supposedly the greatest and richest on earth.  How could a nation built on democracy, free will, equality, and even everybody’s pursuit of happiness go so profoundly astray financially?  Maybe it is the guaranteed ‘free will.’  Humans don’t do well with free will.  We have a tendency to put off tomorrow what we don’t want to do today, like pay the electric bill.  We get credit cards to take care of our needs then our wants, then we can’t pay them either, blaming high interest rates.  Over a period of five decades—our prime working years—life becomes a series of calamities: illnesses, job losses, home and car repairs, spouse death, divorce, stock market crashes, loans, inflation, recessions, raising kids, college, etc.  We find we aren’t any better off than when we’d first begun to work.  The future looks bleak.

That’s the kind of thinking that got Trump elected.

The bottom line about governing is very simple: THE BILLS HAVE TO BE PAID.  That’s how families do it as well as cities and states.  In government jargon, it’s called a zero budget, where they figure out the money coming in over a year or two and budget it.  We don’t dip into money that does not belong to us like Social Security, Medicare, education and the military.  We don’t borrow from nations to fight our wars, because those nations may turn around and use our debt against us.

The real shame about being an American is how we allow millionaire congressmen (a few of whom, by the way, have nothing better to do than show us their junk on the internet) to play Kick the Can with federal financial obligations.  Why do we allow them to do this?  Too much trouble to get involved?  We don’t want to be thought of as old coots firing off phone calls, letters and emails to our elected officials in hopes they actually will be persuaded by our angry words to change their ways?  Why are we afraid of people we elected into office?  Who’s really in charge of this country?  We’ve forgotten: The people have the power.

For a couple hundred years, our form of government has allowed us to elect others to govern, to run the business of America.  And if the ones we’ve elected can’t govern, then we the people are going to have to start doing it.  A change in qualifications for office—especially banning millionaires—would be a good start.  I think the constitutional framers never intended for a bunch of rich men to run the United States of America forever.  Our 18th century American forefathers, those who lived during the Age of Enlightenment, who were free thinkers and fans of Western philosophy, knew a democratic government could only work and last if it’s tended to by all citizens including farmers and laborers, and not just and only by educated dandies.

Age brings wisdom to accept ourselves

How do we measure a year, asks the song from the musical Rent.  As I approach another birthday this month, I look back at not only this past year but all the many marks of time preceding it.  As we continue to live on, year after year, life is seen in a much bigger picture.  To me, life is marked in phases and stages.  It would be hard to explain how someone raised in a Dallas suburb ended up living in East Texas for many years and then traveled the world for education and pleasure.  But that is the wonderful thing about life: We never know what we’ll end up doing.  So, here’s to our personal adventure called Life!

Mine began humbly enough.  For three and a half years, I was the center of my parents’ undivided attention.  One of my earliest memories is our family of three moving into a new three-bedroom brick home.  I helped by carrying a mop and bucket in the house.  I remember the floor, though carpeted, felt hard as cement, which was its foundation.  My next early childhood memory was the day my brother was born.  In the hospital waiting room, while my dad was not watching, I managed to walk away until I was almost in the very room where my mother was giving birth.  I was stopped and pushed back to the waiting area by a nurse in white stockings and attire as they wore in those days.  Perhaps I heard my mother’s voice in labor and was searching to help her.

Next thing I knew, a party was held at our house with everyone coming to see the new baby.  The tiny creature was on top of my parents’ big bed.  He still had that skinny stem on his belly.  Feeling left out, I remained in the hallway then found myself carving my name on the wall.  What would Freud say?  For a few years, my name remained there until Dad paneled over it.  In those early sibling years, my brother and I shared the same bedroom.  But I saw myself as much, much older and ready for some independence: riding my big trike up and down sidewalks along the neighborhood street.  I asked to move into the guestroom, changing it into my own bedroom.  Some girls around my age moved into the house next door, and that’s where I liked to socialize and grow ever more independent.  We played Barbie’s a lot.

The next memorable milestone for me was my first day of school.  I had wanted to go to kindergarten, which was not required back then, but my parents could not afford it.  Instead because of my birth date in the fall, I had to wait an entire year before starting first grade.  I remember feeling the whole year was a complete waste of my time.  (What kinda kid was I anyway?)  My mother was a teacher at an elementary school where she arranged for me to attend.  On the first day of school, she walked me down a long corridor of lockers, then outside to the new modern wing for first and second grades, bent down and pointed at the glass doors and told me that was where I was to go to first grade.  My teacher came outside the door and the two ladies exchanged pleasantries as I walked inside by myself with enthusiasm and satisfaction and the real taste of freedom.  I had waited my whole life for this day!

But soon I would discover a few things about life and myself.  First, there are kids older than me, and they were tougher, too.  I was intimidated by them and yet could not wait to reach their big impressive ages.  Second, there were kids in my grade who were preordained to be popular.  And I was not one of them.  Looking back it seems somehow kids take one look at each other and just know upon meeting who’s well liked and who’s not.  What were we judging this on: the most stylish clothes and hairstyles, shoes, sophistication, charm school, parents with prestige and money?  How would we even know such things instinctively?  Who knows the psychology of a first-grader?  In time I would gladly accept my place as a product of middle-class blue-collar heritage.  Within a couple of years, I would learn to utilize that work ethic and make a name for myself in accomplishments that mattered to me: creative writing and performing on stage.

I won’t continue to bore with memories of junior high, high school, college and beyond, but suffice it to say, that thing about popularity is universal.  How a class of kids can be mesmerized by another person their own age is fascinating, and accurate.  You’d think the littlest ones among us would be the most sincere, able to discern the value of every peer and adult.  But kids are highly impressionable, more likely to chase after a person who seemingly glows on the inside and out.  Now with decades-old hindsight, I suppose seeing the way the world was made me more sarcastic and cynical toward my classmates, the cliques common in every school.  I never belonged to one.  Independence meant everything to me.  Besides, I liked sitting on the sidelines in observation and making the occasional sardonic quip to entertain the like-minded.

If we live long enough to mature with grace through many decades (crossing two centuries for me), then we come to realize the popular ones were just like the rest of us.  I wasn’t left out as much as I placed myself out of the white hot spotlight of school fame.  But I was critical of them, and I’ve lived to regret the way I was back then.  No doubt for some, popularity was a trap, attention and expectations never pursued.  What’s left behind for all of us are memories and pictures of beautiful kids with sparkling eyes, fabulous smiles, radiant glow and presumed successful life in all endeavors.  But the reality was and is every person has equal sorrow, hardship and loss along with love, accomplishment and success.  We of a certain age come to realize this about each other: Life may be hard but still can be and should be a joy.  If we live long enough, life gives us wisdom to understand ourselves and appreciate each other, then and now.