David Eugene Perry's Blog, page 2
January 21, 2019
Dear Martin
Dear Martin –
Please excuse the informality. I know I should have said “Dr. King.” That is how I was raised – to be formal, respectful, traditional. But, somehow, I feel a connection to you (not the first or last time you’ve heard that I’m sure), so I hope you’ll forgive my presumption.
First off, Happy Birthday. I know today is the “official” celebration of your birth, but on my calendar I noted the actual date last week, January 15. 90 years old – wow: so much living packed into nine decades. Well, of course, packed into 39 years, actually. Do you ever think about that? 39 years in life, and 51 years in death, and still so much work to be done? Do you ever get discouraged? I do. I mean, really: in Mississippi and Alabama, today they also celebrate Robert E. Lee’s birthday (he turned 212 on Saturday, but I imagine you weren’t invited to that party) “simultaneously” with yours. Oh please. I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia – Capital of the Confederacy – so I know what “simultaneous” means: if the Feds say that Martin Luther King, Jr. is a hero, well by gum, we’re gonna’ celebrate the General’s birthday, too (wink wink) – as if that doesn’t have anything to do with making sure that Blacks know the Lost Cause has never truly been “lost.” It’s been found a lot, lately – especially since Donald Trump got elected. I thought, actually, it truly had been lost, dead, buried and forgotten when Barack Obama was elected, but boy – was I wrong about that.
Sorry, I’m rambling. Back to why I’m writing.
Martin – Dr. King – was I wrong to jump all over the MAGA teen this past weekend? You must have seen it (I mean, I guess you don’t need the Internet): white kid, 17, from an all-boys Catholic school in Kentucky, wearing a MAGA hat, standing toe to toe and eye to eye with a peaceful Native American in front of the Lincoln Memorial. What I saw was the definition of “White Privilege” (trust me, I know all what that’s about. I’m about as white as the Queen of England as my friend Anthony would have said. My family were immigrants – you know – they came over on a boat. It just so happened that the boats docked in Jamestown in the early 1600s – both sides! Yep, that makes me what they call an “FFV” – First Family of Virginia” or close enough for government work): understanding that being white and male makes things a WHOLE lot easier in this country. I never used to think about it when I was young – I just WAS. But now, lately – a lot – especially watching MAGA teen this past weekend – I think about “White Privilege” more and more. It’s like discovering that you have a disease, but didn’t realize it was a disease until someone told you that you had it, and oh by the way, there’s no cure.
You understood “White Privilege.” I’m pretty sure it’s what killed you, or at least created the world that made sure some people wanted you dead. But again, back to my question.
Was I wrong?
Since Saturday (two whole days in 2019 is an eternity – in 1968, things seemed to move slower – we actually trusted what we saw on the news), there has been a lot of ‘noise’: two different narratives, two different versions of what went down there at the site of your “I Have a Dream Speech” (boy, I’m sure the irony of THAT wasn’t lost on you). I’ve seen all the videos – again and again. I admit, having become a bit ‘obsessed’ about it all, kinda’ like I did after Charlottesville last summer, but I’ll try and stay on track. Anyway, I’ve seen the videos, and I’ve questioned myself – did I judge too quickly? Did I automatically judge MAGA teen too harshly? Maybe he wasn’t really trying to scare that Native American Marine Veteran with his smirking, not-giving-an-inch attitude or his MAGA hat. Maybe he really was, in his own way, trying to be understood.
What do you think? I really want to know. Since Saturday, I’ve thought of little else. It’s like the ghosts of my youth coming back to haunt me. You see, when I see that MAGA teen, I see my own youth – all the boys and bullies and bigots that made my childhood a nausea-producing rollercoaster (truly, I threw up almost every day going to school, prepared for the taunts and the insults) – oh, sorry – I forgot: I’m gay. So, while I was very much outwardly ‘white privileged’, inside, I was scared to death. Early on I learned, I hope, to have compassion for by Black brothers and sisters. I mean, I could (lowering my voice and butching it up) “pass” as straight (didn’t work – the boys at my all Catholic military school and before that grade school still tortured me), but being “Black” – how do you “pass” as white? You don’t.
I’m rambling again, but here’s my point: I can’t get past that kid’s MAGA hat – no matter the video, no matter his ‘statement’ (well written – good PR job, I’m in PR and my hat’s off to the flack that penned that one – pity he didn’t get to the kids’ mom before she said “Black Muslims” were to blame – “Black Muslims” – you remember that little dog whistle from the sixties, don’t you Martin? I do, “Black Muslims” was what businessmen like my father said in public when what they really wanted to say was “nig – “ – sorry, even now, I hesitate to spell out the “n” word. It’s just about the only word uglier than “faggot.” Well, I can spell out that, since it’s me).
Anyway…here’s the thing: I think I’m guilty of being a self-loathing white guy. When I see that MAGA teen smirking, non-flinching, staring into the eyes of a man beating a peace drum, I see myself, or what I could have become if I had believed the narrative poured into my brain at every pore from 1961 until 1980 when I escaped to college in the North (I know, right – that REALLY was a shocker – Yankee land).
That kid could have been me. I know that kid. I went to school with that kid. I know his parents. I know his school – the “Catholic Private School” (e.g. not public school where poor white trash and black kids go): it’s all part of the South of my youth, the South of our-still-now.
That picture brought it all back.
But, maybe I’m wrong.
A few years ago, I went back to Richmond and visited my brother. He’s a mechanic and opened an auto repair spot in Jackson Ward – the heart of Black Richmond. It was a good deal, I mean please. And, of course, my brother had a gun (still does, LOTS of them – in Texas where he retired, after Virginia got “too liberal.”). Anyway, that day when I visited a few years back, before he fled to Texas, there was a knock on the door after hours. My brother put his hand in his shirt, carefully opened the door, and looked out. An elderly Black man was there looking for an address. Mistakes happen. My brother nodded, gave him directions, and carefully closed the door. Then, he turned to me and pulled his hand out of his shirt: a loaded revolver in his palm.
“I can’t help it,” he said to me simply – about the most honest voice I ever heard from him, a pained honesty that spoke for generations. “I know I’m a horrible racist, but I can’t help it.”
Martin – was he right, my brother, was he right? Am I so afraid of the ghosts of my racist upbringing that everything I see becomes an “us” vs. “them”? And nowadays, am I an “us” or a “them”?
It’s been a stressful weekend. You don’t have to answer now (I mean, you’re probably busy, but then again, you’ve got nothing but time), but if you have any words of wisdom, please feel free to write back (text, Skype, burning bush – whatever is convenient), because I’d really like to know. I’d really like to know how I escape the ghosts of my own past – even when I’m trying to.
I’d like to know if I’m wrong to see instead of a teenager caught up in a tense situation not of his making I see a white supremacist in training. I mean, Native Americans / Indians -- they're pretty dark: no white privilege there. When I see the look in MAGA teen's eyes, that's what I see: a young, white, taught-to-be-in-charge guy looking at a darkie. If I'd been Elder Phillips, I'd have been scared drumless. My hat's really off to him.
And that's the point: hats.
I just can’t get past that MAGA hat. To me, it spoke volumes.
Was I wrong Martin?
Thanks for listening Dr. King. I'll see you in my dreams.
Sincerely,
David Perry
October 5, 2018
The Bully���s Pulpit
The Bully���s Pulpit��� by David Perry
The bully pulpit has never been bullier: nor the Senate, the House and now the Supreme Court.
That���s a lot of bull, ah bullying.
There are bullies in stores: witness this week���s tale of a white lady berating two Spanish speakers for, well, speaking. There are bullies online ��� although I���m sure First Immigrant Melania���s ���Be Best Ignore the Rest��� campaign will put a stop to that any midterm now. There are bullies on the Left and bullies on the Right, but not so much in the middle since breaking up a civil-less war generally requires something approaching balance in the Farce that has become our body blow of political debase, ah debate.
Bullying vs. Debate. That is the choice. Every day in this increasingly rank race to the dumpster that is our surreal reality we must choose: reaching out or raging on; punching down or standing up.
Everyone, it seems, is justifiably, mouth-sputteringly angry.
Admittedly, there is much at which to be teed-off. The pundits pout in constant commercially-framed generalities. The Right feels dismissed by the Left. The Left feels distasteful towards the Right. At some point, the Center must hold or just cry out ���Hold on!���
We can���t go on like this. For a while, one can ignore it. I did: two months of re-reading ���Winnie the Pooh��� (seriously), taking long walks, writing haikus and not signing onto Facebook or Twitter. Call it a social media enema. But, the wash was incomplete. I could only ignore the stink of what is happening in our country for so long. I���m not Rip Van Winkle and I���m hoping that neither are the voters heading to the polls in four weeks.
When Teddy Roosevelt coined the term ���bully pulpit��� for the power of the Presidency to attract attention he didn���t anticipate it digressing into attention deficit disorder. But, so it has become. Trump is a bully. More to the point, he has used his bully pulpit to make such behavior acceptable.
Call it trickle down ugliness. I do not understand DJT���s base (and I���m pretty sure they don���t understand me, either). However, I look forward to a day when 45 (and certainly 46) isn���t so base. That, indeed, would be as 26 might say, just bully.
I live in hope.
The bully pulpit has never been bullier: nor the Senate, the House and now the Supreme Court.
That���s a lot of bull, ah bullying.
There are bullies in stores: witness this week���s tale of a white lady berating two Spanish speakers for, well, speaking. There are bullies online ��� although I���m sure First Immigrant Melania���s ���Be Best Ignore the Rest��� campaign will put a stop to that any midterm now. There are bullies on the Left and bullies on the Right, but not so much in the middle since breaking up a civil-less war generally requires something approaching balance in the Farce that has become our body blow of political debase, ah debate.
Bullying vs. Debate. That is the choice. Every day in this increasingly rank race to the dumpster that is our surreal reality we must choose: reaching out or raging on; punching down or standing up.
Everyone, it seems, is justifiably, mouth-sputteringly angry.
Admittedly, there is much at which to be teed-off. The pundits pout in constant commercially-framed generalities. The Right feels dismissed by the Left. The Left feels distasteful towards the Right. At some point, the Center must hold or just cry out ���Hold on!���
We can���t go on like this. For a while, one can ignore it. I did: two months of re-reading ���Winnie the Pooh��� (seriously), taking long walks, writing haikus and not signing onto Facebook or Twitter. Call it a social media enema. But, the wash was incomplete. I could only ignore the stink of what is happening in our country for so long. I���m not Rip Van Winkle and I���m hoping that neither are the voters heading to the polls in four weeks.
When Teddy Roosevelt coined the term ���bully pulpit��� for the power of the Presidency to attract attention he didn���t anticipate it digressing into attention deficit disorder. But, so it has become. Trump is a bully. More to the point, he has used his bully pulpit to make such behavior acceptable.
Call it trickle down ugliness. I do not understand DJT���s base (and I���m pretty sure they don���t understand me, either). However, I look forward to a day when 45 (and certainly 46) isn���t so base. That, indeed, would be as 26 might say, just bully.
I live in hope.
The Bully’s Pulpit
The Bully’s Pulpit— by David Perry
The bully pulpit has never been bullier: nor the Senate, the House and now the Supreme Court.
That’s a lot of bull, ah bullying.
There are bullies in stores: witness this week’s tale of a white lady berating two Spanish speakers for, well, speaking. There are bullies online — although I’m sure First Immigrant Melania’s “Be Best Ignore the Rest” campaign will put a stop to that any midterm now. There are bullies on the Left and bullies on the Right, but not so much in the middle since breaking up a civil-less war generally requires something approaching balance in the Farce that has become our body blow of political debase, ah debate.
Bullying vs. Debate. That is the choice. Every day in this increasingly rank race to the dumpster that is our surreal reality we must choose: reaching out or raging on; punching down or standing up.
Everyone, it seems, is justifiably, mouth-sputteringly angry.
Admittedly, there is much at which to be teed-off. The pundits pout in constant commercially-framed generalities. The Right feels dismissed by the Left. The Left feels distasteful towards the Right. At some point, the Center must hold or just cry out “Hold on!”
We can’t go on like this. For a while, one can ignore it. I did: two months of re-reading “Winnie the Pooh” (seriously), taking long walks, writing haikus and not signing onto Facebook or Twitter. Call it a social media enema. But, the wash was incomplete. I could only ignore the stink of what is happening in our country for so long. I’m not Rip Van Winkle and I’m hoping that neither are the voters heading to the polls in four weeks.
When Teddy Roosevelt coined the term “bully pulpit” for the power of the Presidency to attract attention he didn’t anticipate it digressing into attention deficit disorder. But, so it has become. Trump is a bully. More to the point, he has used his bully pulpit to make such behavior acceptable.
Call it trickle down ugliness. I do not understand DJT’s base (and I’m pretty sure they don’t understand me, either). However, I look forward to a day when 45 (and certainly 46) isn’t so base. That, indeed, would be as 26 might say, just bully.
I live in hope.
The bully pulpit has never been bullier: nor the Senate, the House and now the Supreme Court.
That’s a lot of bull, ah bullying.
There are bullies in stores: witness this week’s tale of a white lady berating two Spanish speakers for, well, speaking. There are bullies online — although I’m sure First Immigrant Melania’s “Be Best Ignore the Rest” campaign will put a stop to that any midterm now. There are bullies on the Left and bullies on the Right, but not so much in the middle since breaking up a civil-less war generally requires something approaching balance in the Farce that has become our body blow of political debase, ah debate.
Bullying vs. Debate. That is the choice. Every day in this increasingly rank race to the dumpster that is our surreal reality we must choose: reaching out or raging on; punching down or standing up.
Everyone, it seems, is justifiably, mouth-sputteringly angry.
Admittedly, there is much at which to be teed-off. The pundits pout in constant commercially-framed generalities. The Right feels dismissed by the Left. The Left feels distasteful towards the Right. At some point, the Center must hold or just cry out “Hold on!”
We can’t go on like this. For a while, one can ignore it. I did: two months of re-reading “Winnie the Pooh” (seriously), taking long walks, writing haikus and not signing onto Facebook or Twitter. Call it a social media enema. But, the wash was incomplete. I could only ignore the stink of what is happening in our country for so long. I’m not Rip Van Winkle and I’m hoping that neither are the voters heading to the polls in four weeks.
When Teddy Roosevelt coined the term “bully pulpit” for the power of the Presidency to attract attention he didn’t anticipate it digressing into attention deficit disorder. But, so it has become. Trump is a bully. More to the point, he has used his bully pulpit to make such behavior acceptable.
Call it trickle down ugliness. I do not understand DJT’s base (and I’m pretty sure they don’t understand me, either). However, I look forward to a day when 45 (and certainly 46) isn’t so base. That, indeed, would be as 26 might say, just bully.
I live in hope.
July 25, 2018
Passion Fatigue / Digital Detox
I’m exhausted. I admit it. Plus, most everyone I know is exhausted too. The nonstop “hive brain” of social media, the tweets too tart, the Facebooks too far, the TV ad infinitum.
InstagramInstagramInstagram.
It’s all just too, too much.
I remember reading as a child that the average human only uses 10 % of his brain — even geniuses. That said, even if I approached that benchmark, my unused 90-95% is bone tired and the minority in use even more so. Like the android Data in “Star Trek”, if only I had an off switch.
I love life - my life and life in general. I love my husband. I love my family, friends and field of work. I love the power and beauty of words and the passions they express and the wisdoms to which they aspire.
Lately, however, I have fallen into the trap of (as the Emperor says to Mozart in the film “Amadeus”) “too many notes.” Too many words. Too many opinions. Too many outrages about which to be outraged. I’m worded out. Politics. Urban issues. “HIM” (you know...). It’s all just “too many notes.” How I long for just 30 minutes — like that scene in “The Day the Earth Stood Still” — when everything and everyone everywhere just STOPS.
And so, I am stopping for a while. I am tired of opining and opining about opining. I’ve hit my own self-constructed sparkle wall of “too many notes.”
I think I’ll read a few books that don’t need a plug. Maybe listen to some music that doesn’t require downloading. Take in some advice from people I like vs. those I “like!” Putter more and Twitter less. Eschew Facebook for more Face-to-Face. Texts vs. texting. Write not writhe.
I am a man of deep feelings and high ideals. I often make mistakes. That will never change. However, for a few months, you won’t have to hear me talk about it.
Lucky me.
Luckier you.
My digital detox begins.
InstagramInstagramInstagram.
It’s all just too, too much.
I remember reading as a child that the average human only uses 10 % of his brain — even geniuses. That said, even if I approached that benchmark, my unused 90-95% is bone tired and the minority in use even more so. Like the android Data in “Star Trek”, if only I had an off switch.
I love life - my life and life in general. I love my husband. I love my family, friends and field of work. I love the power and beauty of words and the passions they express and the wisdoms to which they aspire.
Lately, however, I have fallen into the trap of (as the Emperor says to Mozart in the film “Amadeus”) “too many notes.” Too many words. Too many opinions. Too many outrages about which to be outraged. I’m worded out. Politics. Urban issues. “HIM” (you know...). It’s all just “too many notes.” How I long for just 30 minutes — like that scene in “The Day the Earth Stood Still” — when everything and everyone everywhere just STOPS.
And so, I am stopping for a while. I am tired of opining and opining about opining. I’ve hit my own self-constructed sparkle wall of “too many notes.”
I think I’ll read a few books that don’t need a plug. Maybe listen to some music that doesn’t require downloading. Take in some advice from people I like vs. those I “like!” Putter more and Twitter less. Eschew Facebook for more Face-to-Face. Texts vs. texting. Write not writhe.
I am a man of deep feelings and high ideals. I often make mistakes. That will never change. However, for a few months, you won’t have to hear me talk about it.
Lucky me.
Luckier you.
My digital detox begins.
June 24, 2018
Pride For All
A
friend of mine — a mentor, really — now sadly deceased -- used to say after Gay Pride Parade # 5434: "I'm so over the rainbow" as in "been there, done that - got the t-shirt, move on."
I admit, I was beginning to feel that way too, but today -- actually, since Trump's election -- I've changed my rainbow tune. We don't need less "Gay Pride" we need more, and by more, I mean more people: gay, non-gay, trans, bi, straight, black, brown, immigrant, poor, frightened and afraid - EVERYONE and ANYONE that feels threatened (which should be pretty much anyone except straight white men who espouse 'Christianity') by the Trump Administration.
Today's "Pride" March was its usual polyglot of colors and creeds and agendas. But, today, I realized, while the catalyst and theme may be LGBT, the reason for the march was very red, white & blue Americana: a burst of laughter and humor and bawdiness and celebration in the midst of the most dire political divide this country has had to confront in a century. America is about diversity - and always has been. Anyone who supports Trump and his ilk to "defend" American values and "preserve" American culture has no idea of our history. What they want to preserve is a diminishing white majority in the United States: a white majority propped up by slavery and underpaid minority workers for most of our history.
I say this as about the whitest person I know: my family were immigrants too, albeit ones who came over at Jamestown in 1620. My great great parents 'owned' slaves. I grew up in Richmond, Virginia where the "right" side of Broad Street was for white folk: the "wrong" side, for "colored." Don't tell me I don't understand systemic racism.
Stop pretending people. Things are NOT alright. When a president uses his bully twitter feed to undermine our Constitutional norms, things are not right. When a president does more than give 'dog whistles' to fearful, under-educated whites inciting racial outrage (as if we need 'incitement' in the current reality) things are not right.
Today, a "friend" on Facebook made what he thought was a funny comment about Pride. It was one-bad-joke too far for me. The "DELETE" button has become an empowering tool. I am not in the giving vein anymore. If you find anything "funny" in my life or my opposition to Donald Trump, not only do I not have time for you - I don't have interest. To quote Dionne Warwick: just walk on by.
I wish I could tell you things would "get better" or "get better soon" if by "get better" I meant, all races and creeds would join hands and sing cumbaya. But, that ain't gonna' happen soon. As long as we have a president seeking to divide us, frighten us and - yes - ATTACK us, I don't see anyway forward but to resist, fight and yes - march in Pride marches: ever expanding Pride marches. From my point of view, "Pride" is no longer about being gay. It is about standing up - proudly - from whatever community you spring -- in protest to this new, frightening era of would-be fascism 2.0.
Be proud. Be focused. Be prepared to fight until Donald Trump AND his entire administration is removed from office. Today, I marched with my husband and celebrated "Pride" as everything I am. Mainly, today, however, that had little to do with my sexual orientation. It had to do with my commitment to fight, oppose and remove-from-power the cancer that is Donald Trump and his ilk.
RESIST!
friend of mine — a mentor, really — now sadly deceased -- used to say after Gay Pride Parade # 5434: "I'm so over the rainbow" as in "been there, done that - got the t-shirt, move on."
I admit, I was beginning to feel that way too, but today -- actually, since Trump's election -- I've changed my rainbow tune. We don't need less "Gay Pride" we need more, and by more, I mean more people: gay, non-gay, trans, bi, straight, black, brown, immigrant, poor, frightened and afraid - EVERYONE and ANYONE that feels threatened (which should be pretty much anyone except straight white men who espouse 'Christianity') by the Trump Administration.
Today's "Pride" March was its usual polyglot of colors and creeds and agendas. But, today, I realized, while the catalyst and theme may be LGBT, the reason for the march was very red, white & blue Americana: a burst of laughter and humor and bawdiness and celebration in the midst of the most dire political divide this country has had to confront in a century. America is about diversity - and always has been. Anyone who supports Trump and his ilk to "defend" American values and "preserve" American culture has no idea of our history. What they want to preserve is a diminishing white majority in the United States: a white majority propped up by slavery and underpaid minority workers for most of our history.
I say this as about the whitest person I know: my family were immigrants too, albeit ones who came over at Jamestown in 1620. My great great parents 'owned' slaves. I grew up in Richmond, Virginia where the "right" side of Broad Street was for white folk: the "wrong" side, for "colored." Don't tell me I don't understand systemic racism.
Stop pretending people. Things are NOT alright. When a president uses his bully twitter feed to undermine our Constitutional norms, things are not right. When a president does more than give 'dog whistles' to fearful, under-educated whites inciting racial outrage (as if we need 'incitement' in the current reality) things are not right.
Today, a "friend" on Facebook made what he thought was a funny comment about Pride. It was one-bad-joke too far for me. The "DELETE" button has become an empowering tool. I am not in the giving vein anymore. If you find anything "funny" in my life or my opposition to Donald Trump, not only do I not have time for you - I don't have interest. To quote Dionne Warwick: just walk on by.
I wish I could tell you things would "get better" or "get better soon" if by "get better" I meant, all races and creeds would join hands and sing cumbaya. But, that ain't gonna' happen soon. As long as we have a president seeking to divide us, frighten us and - yes - ATTACK us, I don't see anyway forward but to resist, fight and yes - march in Pride marches: ever expanding Pride marches. From my point of view, "Pride" is no longer about being gay. It is about standing up - proudly - from whatever community you spring -- in protest to this new, frightening era of would-be fascism 2.0.
Be proud. Be focused. Be prepared to fight until Donald Trump AND his entire administration is removed from office. Today, I marched with my husband and celebrated "Pride" as everything I am. Mainly, today, however, that had little to do with my sexual orientation. It had to do with my commitment to fight, oppose and remove-from-power the cancer that is Donald Trump and his ilk.
RESIST!
May 13, 2018
Blood & Water
Blood and Water
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
After 40 years, the words still sting: big brother reaction to my little brother excitement at university acceptance.
“Who do you think you are?”
I worshipped my brother: at 15 years my senior even more of an imposing idol than most “big brothers.” He taught me to swim, and once when I fell in the pool before that lesson — promptly sinking to the bottom — he dove in and saved my life.
He gave me my first car and then took me to a snow-laden parking lot at Willow Lawn Shopping Center to show me how to survive a skid: “steer into the swerve, not against it. If you jerk the wheel too hard, you’ll flip the car.” Two years later on a rainy New York State Thruway driving to college, my beloved brother-bestowed-car hit a nail and blew a tire.
“Steer into the swerve,” and I did — terrified — but survived.
My bother saved my life — again.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
My brother was a hero — and knew cars. Drafted into service during that most horrible of late ‘60s turmoil, he left for the Army along with his best friend Bobby. Their mothers packed Koolaid in their packs in case the water was bad where they were going: Vietnam. Bobby’s parents and ours waved their boys away that Richmond summer, the drab olive military van driving down our street. When it disappeared around the corner, the waving stopped and the mothers fainted.
One day, I thought, I guess I’ll go to Vietnam too. I was six years old.
Not long after that we found out that my brother got sent to West Germany — a miracle. Bobby did not. He was dead by a Vietcong sniper.
My brother was never the same.
“Who do you think you are?”
In Germany, a general’s car broke down. His chauffeur was flummoxed. My brother offered to help. He fixed the car. The general turned to his driver. “You’re relieved.” To my brother: “you work for me now.”
Around that time, there was a fire. Tents burst into flames and my brother rushed in. He saved people. He was horribly scarred. He stopped wearing short sleeves.
“Are you too good to join the Army?”
My brother came home. He opened a foreign car repair shop - the first in town. He was a big success. I would stop by after school and visit.
“Hey little brother,” he would greet me with a kiss. I loved him very much. I was 16. He was 31. Our mother was 55. They discovered cancer. At 56, she was dead.
“Who do you think you are?”
My brother used to listen to Peter, Paul & Mary. I played his 45 of “Puff the Magic Dragon”, his favorite. After Mama died, he stopped listening to music. Both of us were sad, but even worse, both of us were mad. I was mad at my mother for dying. My brother - well, he just seemed mad.
I went to college, and after that - things were never quite the same between me and my brother. I never knew why. I still don’t.
“I never went to college.”
Over the years we would see each other — occasionally. Marriages. Divorces. Comings out. Two decades passed. I went to Europe. I traveled. We spoke by phone - sometimes. Facebook was invented. We posted. Trump was elected. We stopped speaking. The political divide became an abyss.
“Who do you think you are?”
Over the years — and especially the last year — that conversation has come back to haunt me. Why would my going to college offend my brother? My brother could build a car from chopsticks. I moved to San Francisco where I mastered the art of eating with them. Somehow I became a “Coastal Elite” and my brother moved to Texas when Virginia “got too liberal.”
Did I think I was smarter than my brother? No. But, as the years wore on I have often wondered if he thought that I thought that I was.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
Since Election Day 2016, contact between my brother and me has been scant: a birthday email here. A texted photo of an antique car there. Rockets sent up from the deck of a sinking ship.
“I guess you think I’m a deplorable,” my brother said last year during a brief conversant thaw.
“I never said that you were,” was my reply.
“No, no you didn’t,” my brother drawled, “and I appreciate that.”
He’s not deplorable. He’s my brother.
Today, debarking from a typically urbanite cruise, I whipped out my iPhone and read (yet another) article about the yawning chasm in our familial body politic: Elites vs. Deplorables. Brother vs. Brother. Us vs. Us. “Liberals Aren’t as Smart as They Think They Are” was the headline that got me from shipboard to Uber, and it made me remember that phone call of so, so long ago.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
I didn’t think I was too good to join the Army, I just didn’t want to. Honestly, I don’t think my brother “wanted” to either. No one “wanted” to join the Army in 1967. But -- my brother did, and the scars from those battle-worn years plague him still.
I am married. I work. I am happy. My brother is married. He is retired. I hope he is happy too. He is a member of the NRA, has a collection of guns and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. I am a member of the ACLU, have a collection of maritime history books and a hundred thousand frequent flyer miles. The twains seem unlikely to meet.
But, perhaps this is just the musings of a middle-aged American trying to figure out the divergent siblings of the past 40 years. That mad, sad mystery is truly the only deplorable thing here.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
After 40 years, the words still sting: big brother reaction to my little brother excitement at university acceptance.
“Who do you think you are?”
I worshipped my brother: at 15 years my senior even more of an imposing idol than most “big brothers.” He taught me to swim, and once when I fell in the pool before that lesson — promptly sinking to the bottom — he dove in and saved my life.
He gave me my first car and then took me to a snow-laden parking lot at Willow Lawn Shopping Center to show me how to survive a skid: “steer into the swerve, not against it. If you jerk the wheel too hard, you’ll flip the car.” Two years later on a rainy New York State Thruway driving to college, my beloved brother-bestowed-car hit a nail and blew a tire.
“Steer into the swerve,” and I did — terrified — but survived.
My bother saved my life — again.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
My brother was a hero — and knew cars. Drafted into service during that most horrible of late ‘60s turmoil, he left for the Army along with his best friend Bobby. Their mothers packed Koolaid in their packs in case the water was bad where they were going: Vietnam. Bobby’s parents and ours waved their boys away that Richmond summer, the drab olive military van driving down our street. When it disappeared around the corner, the waving stopped and the mothers fainted.
One day, I thought, I guess I’ll go to Vietnam too. I was six years old.
Not long after that we found out that my brother got sent to West Germany — a miracle. Bobby did not. He was dead by a Vietcong sniper.
My brother was never the same.
“Who do you think you are?”
In Germany, a general’s car broke down. His chauffeur was flummoxed. My brother offered to help. He fixed the car. The general turned to his driver. “You’re relieved.” To my brother: “you work for me now.”
Around that time, there was a fire. Tents burst into flames and my brother rushed in. He saved people. He was horribly scarred. He stopped wearing short sleeves.
“Are you too good to join the Army?”
My brother came home. He opened a foreign car repair shop - the first in town. He was a big success. I would stop by after school and visit.
“Hey little brother,” he would greet me with a kiss. I loved him very much. I was 16. He was 31. Our mother was 55. They discovered cancer. At 56, she was dead.
“Who do you think you are?”
My brother used to listen to Peter, Paul & Mary. I played his 45 of “Puff the Magic Dragon”, his favorite. After Mama died, he stopped listening to music. Both of us were sad, but even worse, both of us were mad. I was mad at my mother for dying. My brother - well, he just seemed mad.
I went to college, and after that - things were never quite the same between me and my brother. I never knew why. I still don’t.
“I never went to college.”
Over the years we would see each other — occasionally. Marriages. Divorces. Comings out. Two decades passed. I went to Europe. I traveled. We spoke by phone - sometimes. Facebook was invented. We posted. Trump was elected. We stopped speaking. The political divide became an abyss.
“Who do you think you are?”
Over the years — and especially the last year — that conversation has come back to haunt me. Why would my going to college offend my brother? My brother could build a car from chopsticks. I moved to San Francisco where I mastered the art of eating with them. Somehow I became a “Coastal Elite” and my brother moved to Texas when Virginia “got too liberal.”
Did I think I was smarter than my brother? No. But, as the years wore on I have often wondered if he thought that I thought that I was.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
Since Election Day 2016, contact between my brother and me has been scant: a birthday email here. A texted photo of an antique car there. Rockets sent up from the deck of a sinking ship.
“I guess you think I’m a deplorable,” my brother said last year during a brief conversant thaw.
“I never said that you were,” was my reply.
“No, no you didn’t,” my brother drawled, “and I appreciate that.”
He’s not deplorable. He’s my brother.
Today, debarking from a typically urbanite cruise, I whipped out my iPhone and read (yet another) article about the yawning chasm in our familial body politic: Elites vs. Deplorables. Brother vs. Brother. Us vs. Us. “Liberals Aren’t as Smart as They Think They Are” was the headline that got me from shipboard to Uber, and it made me remember that phone call of so, so long ago.
“Are you too good to join the Army? Who do you think you are? I never went to college.”
I didn’t think I was too good to join the Army, I just didn’t want to. Honestly, I don’t think my brother “wanted” to either. No one “wanted” to join the Army in 1967. But -- my brother did, and the scars from those battle-worn years plague him still.
I am married. I work. I am happy. My brother is married. He is retired. I hope he is happy too. He is a member of the NRA, has a collection of guns and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. I am a member of the ACLU, have a collection of maritime history books and a hundred thousand frequent flyer miles. The twains seem unlikely to meet.
But, perhaps this is just the musings of a middle-aged American trying to figure out the divergent siblings of the past 40 years. That mad, sad mystery is truly the only deplorable thing here.
