G. Russell Overton's Blog, page 2
September 7, 2018
Camarillas and Coups
Our current president (no. 45) is a blithering idiot. I think most Americans have come to the conclusion that he is incompetent to perform his job. As much as I, and many others want to say, “Your FIRED!!!” to him, we must ponder carefully what is best for the country.
It is apparent that the president is surrounded by a camarilla that shields us from the worst aspects of his derangement. It is also apparent, despite their feigned loyalty pledges, that they are plotting a palace coup. The 25th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution provides a legal means for staging such a palace coup. It is a dangerous and poorly written amendment that would likely create more confusion and dysfunction than we have right now.
Honestly, if congressional leadership had any sense of duty, morality, or honor, they would have already started impeachment proceedings. The man is clearly not fit, and congress should be stepping into its constitutional role as an oversight body. They won’t until the leadership in congress changes – hopefully in January.
But who is this camarilla? It is the very people with whom the president has surrounded himself, the president’s cabinet. The vice-president and a majority of that cabinet are extreme right wing Christian fundamentalists. They are the most dangerous group to our democracy, not the lunatic fascists in rural Mississippi. If this camarilla succeeds, they will move quickly to turn our democratic republic into an Iranian style theocracy.
We would be far better off waiting until January. If the Democrats retake even one chamber of congress, proper balance and oversight can be restored. The village idiot can then be safely extracted, the camarilla dispersed, and a caretaker government installed until the next election. It would be the gravest of mistakes to imagine that those people plotting from within the Whitehouse would be on the side of democracy. We must wait just a little longer for our deliverance from evil.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
It is apparent that the president is surrounded by a camarilla that shields us from the worst aspects of his derangement. It is also apparent, despite their feigned loyalty pledges, that they are plotting a palace coup. The 25th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution provides a legal means for staging such a palace coup. It is a dangerous and poorly written amendment that would likely create more confusion and dysfunction than we have right now.
Honestly, if congressional leadership had any sense of duty, morality, or honor, they would have already started impeachment proceedings. The man is clearly not fit, and congress should be stepping into its constitutional role as an oversight body. They won’t until the leadership in congress changes – hopefully in January.
But who is this camarilla? It is the very people with whom the president has surrounded himself, the president’s cabinet. The vice-president and a majority of that cabinet are extreme right wing Christian fundamentalists. They are the most dangerous group to our democracy, not the lunatic fascists in rural Mississippi. If this camarilla succeeds, they will move quickly to turn our democratic republic into an Iranian style theocracy.
We would be far better off waiting until January. If the Democrats retake even one chamber of congress, proper balance and oversight can be restored. The village idiot can then be safely extracted, the camarilla dispersed, and a caretaker government installed until the next election. It would be the gravest of mistakes to imagine that those people plotting from within the Whitehouse would be on the side of democracy. We must wait just a little longer for our deliverance from evil.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
August 29, 2018
Finally Released! Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 2, Lost at Sea
Today we call it “multi-tasking.” I hate that fabricated word. I have to imagine it was created by one of those persnickety corporate efficiency experts. No doubt that person fanaticized about workers typing on four keyboards at one time (each hand and foot on a keyboard with toes and fingers banging at 240 wpm).
Multi-tasking, which is really just the art of juggling too many tasks at the same time, is out of control in the twenty-first century. I do it. I have two computers, two screens, two mice, and two keyboards on my desk. It enables me to look at one computer screen while typing on the other computer’s keyboard. Sometimes I’ll set my laptop off to the side for a third device, though I haven’t yet learned to type with my toes.
Even on my days off (I’m self-employed, so there really is no such thing) I multi-task. I start a load of laundry while I mow the grass. I wash dishes while I cook. I accomplish a lot that way, but I find myself hitting that brick wall of exhaustion more frequently.
The only time I refuse to multi-task is while driving. I seem to be in the minority. The other drivers that straddle the yellow line, weave onto the shoulder, and cut people off seem to have mastered the art of multi-tasking behind the wheel – so they apparently think. They continually text, reach for that box of chocolates that fell into the floorboard when they swerved, remove articles of clothing, apply beautification products, shave, and anything else they can fumble through while trying to control a 3,000+ pound piece of machinery barreling down the highway at 85mph. It is not amazing that they cause so many accidents; it is amazing that more of them don’t end up in the morgue. We don’t need self driving cars, but we do need responsible drivers. I digress.
By necessity authors bare a little bit of their souls in everything they write. I am no exception. I am constantly, sometimes embarrassingly, aware of how much of my individuality ends up in my prose (and, no, I am not referring to romantic encounters). Aspects of both parts 1 and 2 of Particularly Dangerous Work read to me like an allegory of my soul.
In example, Rodrigo, the protagonist, is the ultimate multi-tasker. He juggles diplomacy, romance, and espionage, never once letting a pin hit the ground. Oh, he falters, but keeps on going because he must. He is driven to see things through no matter what. Sometimes he takes the more difficult approach simply because the easier way somehow seems wrong. The prospect of failure terrifies him, not because he might be shot before a Gestapo firing squad, but because he fears the exposure of his human frailties. I’ll stop the analogy here, because I fear that I have already exposed a few of my own human frailties. Can’t. Let. That. Happen.
In any case, I hope you will buy my books! Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 1, At Waters’ Edge, has received excellent reviews, and I hope Part 2, Lost at Sea, will as well. Part 2 picks up right where Part 1 leaves off, so it should be a seamless transition jumping right into Part 2.
This second part will take readers into the grit of the middle years of World War II in the European theatre. The Nazi stranglehold on France intensifies, and Rodrigo observes a once proud nation subjected to the grossest of indignities. Rodrigo exacts his revenge while the Germans plot and execute their invasion of Russia. The United States enters the war, and Rodrigo struggles to contain his joy at the prospect of American industrial capacity and fighting prowess joining force with the weary but resolute British Allies. Like Part 1, Part 2 should take readers on an emotional roller coaster of romance and despair, daring adventures, and nail biting intrigue.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Multi-tasking, which is really just the art of juggling too many tasks at the same time, is out of control in the twenty-first century. I do it. I have two computers, two screens, two mice, and two keyboards on my desk. It enables me to look at one computer screen while typing on the other computer’s keyboard. Sometimes I’ll set my laptop off to the side for a third device, though I haven’t yet learned to type with my toes.
Even on my days off (I’m self-employed, so there really is no such thing) I multi-task. I start a load of laundry while I mow the grass. I wash dishes while I cook. I accomplish a lot that way, but I find myself hitting that brick wall of exhaustion more frequently.
The only time I refuse to multi-task is while driving. I seem to be in the minority. The other drivers that straddle the yellow line, weave onto the shoulder, and cut people off seem to have mastered the art of multi-tasking behind the wheel – so they apparently think. They continually text, reach for that box of chocolates that fell into the floorboard when they swerved, remove articles of clothing, apply beautification products, shave, and anything else they can fumble through while trying to control a 3,000+ pound piece of machinery barreling down the highway at 85mph. It is not amazing that they cause so many accidents; it is amazing that more of them don’t end up in the morgue. We don’t need self driving cars, but we do need responsible drivers. I digress.
By necessity authors bare a little bit of their souls in everything they write. I am no exception. I am constantly, sometimes embarrassingly, aware of how much of my individuality ends up in my prose (and, no, I am not referring to romantic encounters). Aspects of both parts 1 and 2 of Particularly Dangerous Work read to me like an allegory of my soul.
In example, Rodrigo, the protagonist, is the ultimate multi-tasker. He juggles diplomacy, romance, and espionage, never once letting a pin hit the ground. Oh, he falters, but keeps on going because he must. He is driven to see things through no matter what. Sometimes he takes the more difficult approach simply because the easier way somehow seems wrong. The prospect of failure terrifies him, not because he might be shot before a Gestapo firing squad, but because he fears the exposure of his human frailties. I’ll stop the analogy here, because I fear that I have already exposed a few of my own human frailties. Can’t. Let. That. Happen.
In any case, I hope you will buy my books! Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 1, At Waters’ Edge, has received excellent reviews, and I hope Part 2, Lost at Sea, will as well. Part 2 picks up right where Part 1 leaves off, so it should be a seamless transition jumping right into Part 2.
This second part will take readers into the grit of the middle years of World War II in the European theatre. The Nazi stranglehold on France intensifies, and Rodrigo observes a once proud nation subjected to the grossest of indignities. Rodrigo exacts his revenge while the Germans plot and execute their invasion of Russia. The United States enters the war, and Rodrigo struggles to contain his joy at the prospect of American industrial capacity and fighting prowess joining force with the weary but resolute British Allies. Like Part 1, Part 2 should take readers on an emotional roller coaster of romance and despair, daring adventures, and nail biting intrigue.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
August 9, 2018
A Blue Wave in a Purple State
Tuesday’s Michigan primary offers a lesson in civics, and it opens a window on what may well happen in November. Anyone who thought 2016 was an unusual year for American politics had better hold on tight for November 2018. This year will likely be even more upsetting to any sense of status quo. That reality should scare conservatives, mightily.
Voter Turnout: Voter turnout in the water-winter wonderland state was a record breaking 28%. That of course means that 72% of registered voters sat on their asses and ate bonbons, while the less-than-a-third of us performed our civic duty. Yes, duty. I’m not being sanctimonious here, but I am being judgmental. I work 10-14 hour days in order to meet project deadlines. I write and promote books. I caulk windows on my house, do laundry, cook, and cut grass, but I found time to vote. I did it not because I enjoy standing in long lines, but because I consider it a duty, a responsibility. I do it to honor those men and women who fought and sacrificed so that I could have the freedom to vote for any candidate I choose. On this point, and this point alone, I don’t care whether a person is a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or any other non-violent partisan. It is the duty of every eligible American citizen to vote.
The fact that we consider 28% turnout good is the singular reason our country is in such a mess right now. It is not Paul Ryan’s fault. It is not Mitch McConnell’s fault. It is not even 45’s fault. The blame for this mess falls squarely on the shoulders of those eligible voters that are too fucking lazy to get off their asses and vote. We wouldn’t be saddled with the likes of 45 if all eligible Americans voted. (Hint: If you are one of the 72% that didn’t vote yesterday, I hope you are getting the message that I hold you personally responsible for everything that is wrong right now, and I hope you are feeling motivated to do something for the good of your country in November.) Okay, I vented, and I feel a little better.
The Numbers: The good news is that voter turnout was markedly increased from previous mid-term primaries. The best news is in how those voters voted. Of the 2.1 million votes cast yesterday and as of this writing, 1.127 million votes were cast for a Democratic candidate for governor, while .985 million votes were cast for a Republican candidate for governor. If both parties hold onto all of their voters (never a likely scenario), the Democratic nominee, Gretchen Whitmer, should win easily in November. Then there is the third party effect. Those Republicans, who just can’t stomach Bill Schuette (with good reason) and can’t quite bring themselves to vote for Gretchen Whitmer, have a Libertarian candidate, Bill Gelineau.
The key is in maintaining Democratic Party unity, again, never an easy accomplishment. All those ridiculous arguments about which candidate was “Progressive” enough must come to a screeching halt. That concept of party purity is dangerous. Look at where that same mentality took the Republican Party. We must not repeat their mistakes. The Democratic Party has always been a big tent. We embrace diversity, not just ethnic, sexual, and gender diversity, but political diversity as well. Our core beliefs have always been that the United States should be the land of opportunity for everyone, not just wealthy white people. That is what has always set us apart from Republicans. We must stick to that and we must stick together.
The Conservative Stranglehold: I think the best news from yesterday is that we are finally seeing the end of the modern conservative moment. As a movement it has left us with gutted schools, pot-holed roads, crumbling bridges, record national deficits and debt, an international trade war, and isolation from our closest allies. The conservative movement that used to piously condemn homosexuals and feminists as ungodly has now embraced pedophiles, rapists, thieves, racists, pimps, and all other kinds of sociopaths, all because they aren’t Democrat. That is fine with me. We don’t want those elements anyway!
What yesterday’s primary, along with other elections in recent months, have taught us is that voters are finally wising up to conservative shenanigans. Suburban housewives are finally realizing that their handsome, law and order, church-going, free market conservative politician was the same guy convicted of embezzlement and child molesting. Politicians should never underestimate the wrath of protective mothers when their children are threatened.
It seemed utterly pathetic when Republican nominee Bill Schuette tried to paint Gretchen Whitmer as a “tax and spend liberal.” Really? From the party that just sent the deficit and national debt through the roof? From the guy that is a member of the Michigan Republican Party that raised taxes on retirees and imposed new taxes on homeowners and healthcare? From the Michigan Republican Party that, for years, robbed our transportation taxes to pay for other pet projects, imposed new transportation taxes, and still HAVEN’T FIXED THE DAMNED ROADS?!!!
Here is the difference between a tax and spend Republican and a tax and spend Democrat. Republicans spend their new taxes to pay for tax cuts to billionaires and corporations. Democrats use their new taxes to pay for schools, roads, bridges, and health care. Republicans impose new taxes on the poor and middle class. Democrats impose new taxes on billionaires and wealthy corporations. All politicians in government tax and spend. That is their job. So the issue here is not whether candidates will tax and spend, but whom they tax and how they will spend. I vote for taxing the wealthy and spending for progress.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Voter Turnout: Voter turnout in the water-winter wonderland state was a record breaking 28%. That of course means that 72% of registered voters sat on their asses and ate bonbons, while the less-than-a-third of us performed our civic duty. Yes, duty. I’m not being sanctimonious here, but I am being judgmental. I work 10-14 hour days in order to meet project deadlines. I write and promote books. I caulk windows on my house, do laundry, cook, and cut grass, but I found time to vote. I did it not because I enjoy standing in long lines, but because I consider it a duty, a responsibility. I do it to honor those men and women who fought and sacrificed so that I could have the freedom to vote for any candidate I choose. On this point, and this point alone, I don’t care whether a person is a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or any other non-violent partisan. It is the duty of every eligible American citizen to vote.
The fact that we consider 28% turnout good is the singular reason our country is in such a mess right now. It is not Paul Ryan’s fault. It is not Mitch McConnell’s fault. It is not even 45’s fault. The blame for this mess falls squarely on the shoulders of those eligible voters that are too fucking lazy to get off their asses and vote. We wouldn’t be saddled with the likes of 45 if all eligible Americans voted. (Hint: If you are one of the 72% that didn’t vote yesterday, I hope you are getting the message that I hold you personally responsible for everything that is wrong right now, and I hope you are feeling motivated to do something for the good of your country in November.) Okay, I vented, and I feel a little better.
The Numbers: The good news is that voter turnout was markedly increased from previous mid-term primaries. The best news is in how those voters voted. Of the 2.1 million votes cast yesterday and as of this writing, 1.127 million votes were cast for a Democratic candidate for governor, while .985 million votes were cast for a Republican candidate for governor. If both parties hold onto all of their voters (never a likely scenario), the Democratic nominee, Gretchen Whitmer, should win easily in November. Then there is the third party effect. Those Republicans, who just can’t stomach Bill Schuette (with good reason) and can’t quite bring themselves to vote for Gretchen Whitmer, have a Libertarian candidate, Bill Gelineau.
The key is in maintaining Democratic Party unity, again, never an easy accomplishment. All those ridiculous arguments about which candidate was “Progressive” enough must come to a screeching halt. That concept of party purity is dangerous. Look at where that same mentality took the Republican Party. We must not repeat their mistakes. The Democratic Party has always been a big tent. We embrace diversity, not just ethnic, sexual, and gender diversity, but political diversity as well. Our core beliefs have always been that the United States should be the land of opportunity for everyone, not just wealthy white people. That is what has always set us apart from Republicans. We must stick to that and we must stick together.
The Conservative Stranglehold: I think the best news from yesterday is that we are finally seeing the end of the modern conservative moment. As a movement it has left us with gutted schools, pot-holed roads, crumbling bridges, record national deficits and debt, an international trade war, and isolation from our closest allies. The conservative movement that used to piously condemn homosexuals and feminists as ungodly has now embraced pedophiles, rapists, thieves, racists, pimps, and all other kinds of sociopaths, all because they aren’t Democrat. That is fine with me. We don’t want those elements anyway!
What yesterday’s primary, along with other elections in recent months, have taught us is that voters are finally wising up to conservative shenanigans. Suburban housewives are finally realizing that their handsome, law and order, church-going, free market conservative politician was the same guy convicted of embezzlement and child molesting. Politicians should never underestimate the wrath of protective mothers when their children are threatened.
It seemed utterly pathetic when Republican nominee Bill Schuette tried to paint Gretchen Whitmer as a “tax and spend liberal.” Really? From the party that just sent the deficit and national debt through the roof? From the guy that is a member of the Michigan Republican Party that raised taxes on retirees and imposed new taxes on homeowners and healthcare? From the Michigan Republican Party that, for years, robbed our transportation taxes to pay for other pet projects, imposed new transportation taxes, and still HAVEN’T FIXED THE DAMNED ROADS?!!!
Here is the difference between a tax and spend Republican and a tax and spend Democrat. Republicans spend their new taxes to pay for tax cuts to billionaires and corporations. Democrats use their new taxes to pay for schools, roads, bridges, and health care. Republicans impose new taxes on the poor and middle class. Democrats impose new taxes on billionaires and wealthy corporations. All politicians in government tax and spend. That is their job. So the issue here is not whether candidates will tax and spend, but whom they tax and how they will spend. I vote for taxing the wealthy and spending for progress.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
July 16, 2018
New Release!
I am excited to announce the official release of Particularly Dangerous Work: Part 2, Lost at Sea on 24 August 2018! Part 2 continues the adventures of Rodrigo Mendoza, the gay aristocrat working in the diplomatic corps of Franco’s Spain. Part 1 left off at the beginning of 1941. World War II was well into its second year, with four long years left to go. His life of espionage, intrigue, inopportune romance, and constant danger were just about to get more interesting.
The Kindle edition of Part 2 will be released on 24 August 2018, but you can pre-order your copy now on Amazon.com. You can order your paperback edition 20 August on Amazon.com. Both parts 1 & 2 will soon be available through many other marketplaces and at most local bookstores.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
The Kindle edition of Part 2 will be released on 24 August 2018, but you can pre-order your copy now on Amazon.com. You can order your paperback edition 20 August on Amazon.com. Both parts 1 & 2 will soon be available through many other marketplaces and at most local bookstores.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
July 3, 2018
Independence Day
I ponder the question, “How, in July 2018, does one write a blog, article, essay, or anything about the creation of the United States of America on the 4th of July 1776 without it being perceived as a political message?” My dilemma is that my blog posts are fundamentally commercial in nature. Yes, I want to express my thoughts; yes, I want to entertain and engage with readers; yes, my blog posts are free to anyone that wants to read them. Ultimately, though, by building a community around my posts I am hoping to sell books. That is what authors do. So, before I go any further (shameless plug), please, buy my books.
Certain social media outlets have advised me that, because of their mistakes in 2016, I now cannot promote a blog post that is political in nature. It boils down to this. Two years ago a certain foreign government used certain social media to manipulate a certain political event. Surprise, I know. Because of their mistakes I am now not allowed to write and promote a blog post that expresses a political opinion. If it were not for the necessity of using social media to promote and sell books, I would raise a stiff middle finger to these outlets and move on to something else. One must work within the system, right?
All of this said, I will attempt to express what Independence Day means to me in July 2018. It is difficult even without social media censorship. Somehow this Independence Day seems like something Bill Pullman or Will Smith might understand.
George Washington knew what it was like to have a difficult Independence Day. On 4 July 1776 the independence of the United States of America was not a foregone conclusion. In fact, it seemed likely that the efforts of the Continental Congress might be nothing more than an interesting footnote of history.
Washington and his Continental Army were in New York. The British, under brothers General William Howe and Admiral Richard Howe (yes, nepotism was a British thing, too), had just landed a massive invasion force in New York and were entrenching for the purposes of subjugating their rebellious colonials. They outmanned and outgunned the Continental Army, and Washington’s situation seemed hopeless.
To make matters worse, the Americans had invaded Quebec the previous year with the intent of inciting the French population there to join them in a war of liberation. After nearly a century of war in Canada the French colonials had finally been abandoned by their king in 1763, and they had no stomach for challenging their new British masters. Between French Canadian ambivalence toward the American revolutionaries and British advance preparation led by Sir Guy Careleton, the American invasion had been a disaster. In July 1776 the American invading force was in full retreat and Carleton’s Redcoats were in hot pursuit.
General Washington faced the prospect that he could be attacked on two fronts, one from the brothers Howe and the other from Carleton. To make matters even worse, Americans, especially in the battle zones, were growing weary of the two year old rebellion. Washington wrote to President John Hancock (Hancock was President of the Continental Congress, and, by right, the real first President of the United States of America) on 4 July 1776, “The disaffection of the people about that place [Staten Island and vicinity] and others not far distant is exceedingly great, and unless it is checked and overawed, it may become more general and be very alarming. The arrival of the enemy will encourage it.”
The experiment of the United States appeared to be doomed before it could ever take hold, but appearances can sometimes be flawed. General Washington was fighting for something far greater than personal wealth and glory. He was fighting for that, too, but what had started as his ire at potentially losing his investments in the Ohio country, turned into a fight for something better.
Washington and the other founders of our republic had all the human frailties and flaws we all have. By our own standards today some might even seem to have been monsters. Some were greedy, racist, or misogynistic. Some were slave owners. Some were land speculators, and some were pirates.
Whatever their flaws may have been they shared a common goal. They knew their lives could be something better. To be objectively accurate life for English colonists in North America before the Revolution was not bad by global standards of the time. Some were traders, some farmers or plantation owners, some were carpenters, furniture makers, or coopers. Except for those in a form of bound labor (either outright slavery or indentured servitude) most colonials were free to travel. Most people spoke their minds freely, though disparaging the king or God was not advisable. They were generally prosperous and not oppressed, but they knew they could do better.
They had the audacity to dream of a country where people could freely disparage a king or a deity. They imagined a place where citizens, not subjects, could freely pursue their wildest dreams by the sweat of their brows and succeed or fail according to their own merits. They concocted a notion that, by their example, people around the world, who truly were oppressed, would rise up against their own tyrants.
The American revolutionaries of 1776 knew they were not perfect. They knew that the experiment they had started was only a beginning. They were confident that succeeding generations would improve the experiment. I think that those revolutionaries would look at the 240 years of accomplishment between July 1776 and July 2016 and be mostly pleased with what their descendants had done. So on this 4th of July I celebrate the accomplishments of those first 240 years, the abolition of slavery, the enfranchisement of women, the spread of democracy, and the freedom to love. May God bless the United States of America.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Certain social media outlets have advised me that, because of their mistakes in 2016, I now cannot promote a blog post that is political in nature. It boils down to this. Two years ago a certain foreign government used certain social media to manipulate a certain political event. Surprise, I know. Because of their mistakes I am now not allowed to write and promote a blog post that expresses a political opinion. If it were not for the necessity of using social media to promote and sell books, I would raise a stiff middle finger to these outlets and move on to something else. One must work within the system, right?
All of this said, I will attempt to express what Independence Day means to me in July 2018. It is difficult even without social media censorship. Somehow this Independence Day seems like something Bill Pullman or Will Smith might understand.
George Washington knew what it was like to have a difficult Independence Day. On 4 July 1776 the independence of the United States of America was not a foregone conclusion. In fact, it seemed likely that the efforts of the Continental Congress might be nothing more than an interesting footnote of history.
Washington and his Continental Army were in New York. The British, under brothers General William Howe and Admiral Richard Howe (yes, nepotism was a British thing, too), had just landed a massive invasion force in New York and were entrenching for the purposes of subjugating their rebellious colonials. They outmanned and outgunned the Continental Army, and Washington’s situation seemed hopeless.
To make matters worse, the Americans had invaded Quebec the previous year with the intent of inciting the French population there to join them in a war of liberation. After nearly a century of war in Canada the French colonials had finally been abandoned by their king in 1763, and they had no stomach for challenging their new British masters. Between French Canadian ambivalence toward the American revolutionaries and British advance preparation led by Sir Guy Careleton, the American invasion had been a disaster. In July 1776 the American invading force was in full retreat and Carleton’s Redcoats were in hot pursuit.
General Washington faced the prospect that he could be attacked on two fronts, one from the brothers Howe and the other from Carleton. To make matters even worse, Americans, especially in the battle zones, were growing weary of the two year old rebellion. Washington wrote to President John Hancock (Hancock was President of the Continental Congress, and, by right, the real first President of the United States of America) on 4 July 1776, “The disaffection of the people about that place [Staten Island and vicinity] and others not far distant is exceedingly great, and unless it is checked and overawed, it may become more general and be very alarming. The arrival of the enemy will encourage it.”
The experiment of the United States appeared to be doomed before it could ever take hold, but appearances can sometimes be flawed. General Washington was fighting for something far greater than personal wealth and glory. He was fighting for that, too, but what had started as his ire at potentially losing his investments in the Ohio country, turned into a fight for something better.
Washington and the other founders of our republic had all the human frailties and flaws we all have. By our own standards today some might even seem to have been monsters. Some were greedy, racist, or misogynistic. Some were slave owners. Some were land speculators, and some were pirates.
Whatever their flaws may have been they shared a common goal. They knew their lives could be something better. To be objectively accurate life for English colonists in North America before the Revolution was not bad by global standards of the time. Some were traders, some farmers or plantation owners, some were carpenters, furniture makers, or coopers. Except for those in a form of bound labor (either outright slavery or indentured servitude) most colonials were free to travel. Most people spoke their minds freely, though disparaging the king or God was not advisable. They were generally prosperous and not oppressed, but they knew they could do better.
They had the audacity to dream of a country where people could freely disparage a king or a deity. They imagined a place where citizens, not subjects, could freely pursue their wildest dreams by the sweat of their brows and succeed or fail according to their own merits. They concocted a notion that, by their example, people around the world, who truly were oppressed, would rise up against their own tyrants.
The American revolutionaries of 1776 knew they were not perfect. They knew that the experiment they had started was only a beginning. They were confident that succeeding generations would improve the experiment. I think that those revolutionaries would look at the 240 years of accomplishment between July 1776 and July 2016 and be mostly pleased with what their descendants had done. So on this 4th of July I celebrate the accomplishments of those first 240 years, the abolition of slavery, the enfranchisement of women, the spread of democracy, and the freedom to love. May God bless the United States of America.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
June 10, 2018
Father's Day
Father’s Day approaches once again, and Dad comes fresh to my mind. He’s been gone almost eight years now, but I can still hear his deep voice. When he called he always opened with, “Russ, this is your Dad.” Even if I hadn’t had a form of caller ID, he didn’t need to go any further than my name for me to know who was calling. His voice was distinctive.
We always attributed it to his years in radio. After “the war” (World War II, as if there had only been one war ever) Dad pursued a career as a radio announcer. That is what they were called in those days. The term DJ (disc jockey) hadn’t yet come into use because radio shows were mostly live. The broadcasting industry specifically looked for people like Dad, not so much for his gender, rather for his voice. It was deep, distinct, and clear. It was the kind of voice that could carry over AM (amplitude modulation) frequencies, which tended to be plagued by high pitched crackly static and interference. In those days he broadcasted from KMUS in Muskogee, Oklahoma.
I imagine those KOOL mentholated cigarettes contributed to lowering his voice. Dad was a chain smoker, four packs a day. He often lit the next one off the butt end of the last one just before it went out. I have a photograph of him at his desk at the radio station, smoke wafting up from a cigarette wedged between his fore and middle fingers while another still burned in the ash tray in front of him. I also imagine that it was those cigarettes that spawned the lung cancer that killed him.
By the time I came along Dad had left the radio industry for hotel management. He had taken a job as the general manager at Western Hills Lodge in eastern Oklahoma. For that period at the end of the 1950s and early 1960s my family lived a Camelot existence. Western Hills Lodge (now the Sequoyah Lodge) was located on Lake Fort Gibson. It was a destination resort. It had everything a family could want including, a pool, lakefront views, marina, and riding stables.
Though we lived a privileged and comfortable middle class existence, Dad was determined to teach me to be “man” at the earliest age. I remember him teaching me to swim at about age two. It was in the pool at the lodge. The pool is huge, large enough to accommodate the hundreds of guests at the resort. Dad would take me out into the middle of the shallow end, let me go (no water wings or flotation device) and tell me to swim to him. He would take a few steps back, “just a little further, Russ.” I would frantically swim, all the while he slowly walked backwards. I hated him for making me work so hard, but I learned to swim.
Sometime that same summer, he took me to the riding stables to learn how to handle a horse. He intended to set me upon a horse and lead me around the corral a bit. He sat me in the saddle, and, lovingly, took my tiny hands, cupping them around the horn, and said, “Russ, hang on tight.” I held a death grip on that horn. J. B., the stable manager, distracted Dad and they engaged in some kind of serious discussion. My horse had no patience for adult conversation and took off. I held onto the saddle horn while my horse took me on an adventure through the woods, along a well-worn path that led right back to the corral. By that time Dad and J. B. had realized that I was gone and were frantically rounding up a posse to track me down. I learned how to ride a horse.
A few years later it was time for me to learn how to ride a bicycle. Dad would have no son of his peddling around the neighborhood with training wheels. He took me down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. It was the same story as learning to swim, “Russ, you just peddle, and I’ll hold you up by the seat behind you. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right here behind you the whole time.” We took off slowly. I looked back and Dad was right there, holding the seat so I wouldn’t lose my balance. “Keep your eyes in front of you,” he barked. “Peddle a little faster.”
I moved my legs faster. “Dad, am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing fine, Russ, just keep peddling.” His voice seemed distant. I started to turn around, “Keep your eyes on the road.” His voice sounded further away. I finally turned around to see him walking about five feet behind me, his hands nowhere near the back of my seat. I had learned to ride a bicycle.
Dad taught me a great many things. Whether I was in trouble or needed to learn something new, he always explained things as though he were broadcasting a story on the radio. It was slow, plodding, clear, and deliberate. I never had to ask for clarification. There was never any static to interfere with the delivery of his message. I would give anything to hear Dad’s voice just one more time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
We always attributed it to his years in radio. After “the war” (World War II, as if there had only been one war ever) Dad pursued a career as a radio announcer. That is what they were called in those days. The term DJ (disc jockey) hadn’t yet come into use because radio shows were mostly live. The broadcasting industry specifically looked for people like Dad, not so much for his gender, rather for his voice. It was deep, distinct, and clear. It was the kind of voice that could carry over AM (amplitude modulation) frequencies, which tended to be plagued by high pitched crackly static and interference. In those days he broadcasted from KMUS in Muskogee, Oklahoma.
I imagine those KOOL mentholated cigarettes contributed to lowering his voice. Dad was a chain smoker, four packs a day. He often lit the next one off the butt end of the last one just before it went out. I have a photograph of him at his desk at the radio station, smoke wafting up from a cigarette wedged between his fore and middle fingers while another still burned in the ash tray in front of him. I also imagine that it was those cigarettes that spawned the lung cancer that killed him.
By the time I came along Dad had left the radio industry for hotel management. He had taken a job as the general manager at Western Hills Lodge in eastern Oklahoma. For that period at the end of the 1950s and early 1960s my family lived a Camelot existence. Western Hills Lodge (now the Sequoyah Lodge) was located on Lake Fort Gibson. It was a destination resort. It had everything a family could want including, a pool, lakefront views, marina, and riding stables.
Though we lived a privileged and comfortable middle class existence, Dad was determined to teach me to be “man” at the earliest age. I remember him teaching me to swim at about age two. It was in the pool at the lodge. The pool is huge, large enough to accommodate the hundreds of guests at the resort. Dad would take me out into the middle of the shallow end, let me go (no water wings or flotation device) and tell me to swim to him. He would take a few steps back, “just a little further, Russ.” I would frantically swim, all the while he slowly walked backwards. I hated him for making me work so hard, but I learned to swim.
Sometime that same summer, he took me to the riding stables to learn how to handle a horse. He intended to set me upon a horse and lead me around the corral a bit. He sat me in the saddle, and, lovingly, took my tiny hands, cupping them around the horn, and said, “Russ, hang on tight.” I held a death grip on that horn. J. B., the stable manager, distracted Dad and they engaged in some kind of serious discussion. My horse had no patience for adult conversation and took off. I held onto the saddle horn while my horse took me on an adventure through the woods, along a well-worn path that led right back to the corral. By that time Dad and J. B. had realized that I was gone and were frantically rounding up a posse to track me down. I learned how to ride a horse.
A few years later it was time for me to learn how to ride a bicycle. Dad would have no son of his peddling around the neighborhood with training wheels. He took me down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. It was the same story as learning to swim, “Russ, you just peddle, and I’ll hold you up by the seat behind you. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right here behind you the whole time.” We took off slowly. I looked back and Dad was right there, holding the seat so I wouldn’t lose my balance. “Keep your eyes in front of you,” he barked. “Peddle a little faster.”
I moved my legs faster. “Dad, am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing fine, Russ, just keep peddling.” His voice seemed distant. I started to turn around, “Keep your eyes on the road.” His voice sounded further away. I finally turned around to see him walking about five feet behind me, his hands nowhere near the back of my seat. I had learned to ride a bicycle.
Dad taught me a great many things. Whether I was in trouble or needed to learn something new, he always explained things as though he were broadcasting a story on the radio. It was slow, plodding, clear, and deliberate. I never had to ask for clarification. There was never any static to interfere with the delivery of his message. I would give anything to hear Dad’s voice just one more time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
May 30, 2018
“Ambien Made Me a Racist Pig”
Roseanne’s sudden fall from grace sums up America’s troubles in one comment. Yes, it is problematic that her statement about Valerie Jarrett was among the top ten most racially offensive comments a person can make. Roseanne’s actions since expose a much deeper problem than just a deplorable racist tirade. The problem this incident exposes is a cancer upon our democracy. It is the inability for people to take responsibility for their own human failings.
Sure, she apologized profusely, but not sincerely. Her apologies, which now appear as feeble attempts to save first her job and second some shred of her career, were nothing but curtains on a window. She followed those apologies by attempting to shift blame to her former co-workers, her drugs, and then, predictably, to a liberal conspiracy.
Her co-workers did what any decent human would do in like situations. They made it clear that her statements were reprehensible. They didn’t throw her under the bus. Roseanne threw herself under the bus.
Pills and liquor can motivate people to say and do stupid things, but they can’t make a person think something that isn’t there already. Sanofi, the manufacturer of Ambien, released this statement in response, “While all pharmaceutical treatments have side effects, racism is not a known side effect of any Sanofi medication.” My finger-wagging eighty year old mother once scolded her brother, who had just made an equally racially offensive comment, “If I had such thoughts, I believe I would keep them to myself.” No, Ambien didn’t make Roseanne a racist pig; she was already there.
That term “liberal conspiracy” buzzes around my head like a summertime housefly. It is annoying, and I just want to smack it. Every time a conservative gets caught screwing his neighbor’s wife, molesting children, or embezzling money from the church, he or she blames it on a “liberal conspiracy.” We liberals did not conspire to make a politician screw his neighbor’s wife, and we certainly didn’t conspire to make Roseanne tweet a racially offensive statement.
If demanding accountability from politicians, entertainers, and influential persons is a liberal conspiracy, then I’ll gladly embrace it and admit “guilty as charged.” However, let it not ever be said that we are hypocrites in so doing. Responses to the “Me Too” movement are telling. Liberals were the first to turn against Harvey Weinstein and Al Franken. Where was the conservative outrage when their candidate bragged about grabbing women by their genitals? It was non-existent, and they actually voted for the creep!
Roseanne’s ill-considered blame shifting appears to be the conservative way. Blame the pills, blame liberals, blame Obama and Hillary, but never take personal responsibility. I remember a time when people were taught things like, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” (Luke 6:31), and “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country” (JFK, 20 January 1961). Conservatives, racists, and fascists will have none of that. To them it is “me first” and screw everyone else.
At some point we will have to confront our racism. It’s tough. I think it is impossible to be a natural born American and not have to battle with racism. It permeates every aspect of our society. It affects everyone. I can’t imagine that we will be able to address our problem with racism while we have a racist president, but it must happen. Maybe the embarrassment of his racism and that of people like Roseanne will motivate us to act, to erect a wall, not a physical wall to block immigrants, but a moral wall to end racism once and for all time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Sure, she apologized profusely, but not sincerely. Her apologies, which now appear as feeble attempts to save first her job and second some shred of her career, were nothing but curtains on a window. She followed those apologies by attempting to shift blame to her former co-workers, her drugs, and then, predictably, to a liberal conspiracy.
Her co-workers did what any decent human would do in like situations. They made it clear that her statements were reprehensible. They didn’t throw her under the bus. Roseanne threw herself under the bus.
Pills and liquor can motivate people to say and do stupid things, but they can’t make a person think something that isn’t there already. Sanofi, the manufacturer of Ambien, released this statement in response, “While all pharmaceutical treatments have side effects, racism is not a known side effect of any Sanofi medication.” My finger-wagging eighty year old mother once scolded her brother, who had just made an equally racially offensive comment, “If I had such thoughts, I believe I would keep them to myself.” No, Ambien didn’t make Roseanne a racist pig; she was already there.
That term “liberal conspiracy” buzzes around my head like a summertime housefly. It is annoying, and I just want to smack it. Every time a conservative gets caught screwing his neighbor’s wife, molesting children, or embezzling money from the church, he or she blames it on a “liberal conspiracy.” We liberals did not conspire to make a politician screw his neighbor’s wife, and we certainly didn’t conspire to make Roseanne tweet a racially offensive statement.
If demanding accountability from politicians, entertainers, and influential persons is a liberal conspiracy, then I’ll gladly embrace it and admit “guilty as charged.” However, let it not ever be said that we are hypocrites in so doing. Responses to the “Me Too” movement are telling. Liberals were the first to turn against Harvey Weinstein and Al Franken. Where was the conservative outrage when their candidate bragged about grabbing women by their genitals? It was non-existent, and they actually voted for the creep!
Roseanne’s ill-considered blame shifting appears to be the conservative way. Blame the pills, blame liberals, blame Obama and Hillary, but never take personal responsibility. I remember a time when people were taught things like, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” (Luke 6:31), and “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country” (JFK, 20 January 1961). Conservatives, racists, and fascists will have none of that. To them it is “me first” and screw everyone else.
At some point we will have to confront our racism. It’s tough. I think it is impossible to be a natural born American and not have to battle with racism. It permeates every aspect of our society. It affects everyone. I can’t imagine that we will be able to address our problem with racism while we have a racist president, but it must happen. Maybe the embarrassment of his racism and that of people like Roseanne will motivate us to act, to erect a wall, not a physical wall to block immigrants, but a moral wall to end racism once and for all time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
May 9, 2018
Particularly Dangerous Work Update
We just finished a successful giveaway campaign on Goodreads! Five winners of Part 1 of this series have been chosen, and their autographed copies will ship this week. Part 1, At Waters’ Edge continues to receive top ratings and reviews.
Part 2, Lost at Sea is out for editing right now. The story picks up right where Rodrigo left off in Part 1. His riveting adventures will take readers on an emotional roller coaster as he navigates his way through the grim war years of 1941-1942, juggling romance and intrigue, all the while evading Gestapo surveillance. It still looks good for a summer release this year.
If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, now is the time to obtain a copy and read it! Part 2 will be coming out in a few months, and you won’t want to delay.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Part 2, Lost at Sea is out for editing right now. The story picks up right where Rodrigo left off in Part 1. His riveting adventures will take readers on an emotional roller coaster as he navigates his way through the grim war years of 1941-1942, juggling romance and intrigue, all the while evading Gestapo surveillance. It still looks good for a summer release this year.
If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, now is the time to obtain a copy and read it! Part 2 will be coming out in a few months, and you won’t want to delay.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
April 20, 2018
Jury Duty and the Empowerment of Old White Guys
I had jury duty this week. I’ve been put on the roster for jury duty many times in the past, but have never actually been called in until now. I wasn’t seated on a jury, but I was one of about sixty people called in for jury selection. The entire three hour adventure was a lesson in civics, sociology, and psychology.
It snowed the night before and continued snowing most of the morning. For much of the three hours I sat in a holding area of the nineteenth century courthouse watching fluffy white flakes drift to the ground. I had been under the misguided thought that courtrooms forbade possession of mobile phones. Many courthouses and courtrooms do, but this one didn’t. I am kind of glad that I didn’t take my phone, though. For the first hour and a half, unlike most everyone else in the holding room, I was able to watch and observe everything going on around me. The rest of the crowd sat quietly with their eyes glued to their mobile devices.
I am not sure how courts pick a jury pool, but I cannot imagine that it is random. According the U. S. Census Bureau, about 21% of my county’s population is between the ages of 20 and 29. There should have been about thirteen people in that age bracket – there was one. Census data also suggest that the 50-59 crowd (where I fall) makes up about 12% of my county’s population. I was one of about forty people in the room fitting comfortably in that age group. There should have only been about four of us.
The county in which I live has an overwhelmingly white population, about 70% and an African-American population of about 7%. The white population was certainly well represented, but where there should have been at least seven African-Americans, there were no more than four. For a county-wide canvass the racial demographic representation might have been a little off, but when considering city statistics, where the alleged crime was committed, things are a little different. The white population in the city ranks about 60%, and the African-American population ranks about 21%. There really should have been about thirty-two white people and about 13 African-Americans if the goal was to have a random pool. The defendant was African-American.
The male-female ratio in my county is about 48% male and 52% female. Not surprising, but what was surprising was that the room was filled with about forty men and about twenty women. It was hardly the demographic gender pool that should have been present.
After the first hour and one half of studying my peers, we were finally called into the courtroom for voir dire. I like that term “voir dire.” Usually I find legal terminology a little irritating, but voir dire (pronounced vwah deer or vwahr deer) has a nice ring to it. Maybe the fact that it is a French word and not Latin, like most legal mumbo jumbo, is what I find fascinating. I digress. Once seated in the courtroom the judge entered, and like a jovial grandfather, greeted us, the prosecuting attorney, the defense attorney, and the defendant. He swore us in as the jury pool and voir dire (love that phrase) began.
First the clerk called the “random” jury to the jury box. It was a group of fourteen people from our group of sixty for a jury of twelve with two alternates. In that group were five women and three African-Americans. The judge conducted the first round of questioning, which seemed to consist of asking the jury if they could be fair and impartial, all the while nodding his head. Next the prosecuting attorney, who obviously has a knack for long-winded discourse, asked his questions. He was not as prompting as the judge. The defense attorney was on-point. He was obviously prepared and interested in giving his client a spirited defense.
After the first round of voir dire, three jurors were thanked and dismissed. Three more from our pool were called to replace them. Two more rounds of questions and dismissals occurred before the court had a jury. Incredibly, two of the old white guys admitted that they could not give the defendant a fair trial and were among those dismissed. At least they were honest about their racism.
The jury that was finally seated hardly represented the demographic patterns of my city or my county. Surprisingly, the one 20-29 year old male was one of the jurors seated. Four of the jurors were women, and one of the jurors was African-American. The remaining nine jurors were white guys over the age of forty-five, hardly a jury of the defendant’s peers.
I have no idea whether the defendant was likely guilty or innocent, and I will make no effort to suggest one way or the other. The crimes for which he was charged were serious, and, if convicted, would likely incarcerate him for a very long time. In Michigan we have a white population of about 80% and an African-American population of about 14%, but our prison population is about 60% African-American and 15% white. Something is terribly wrong.
Courtroom trials in the United States are supposed to be fair and impartial. Defendants have a constitutional right to be tried by a jury of their peers. In the one instance I witnessed this week, I cannot say that this particular defendant’s constitutional rights were respected, and I cannot say that this man has been given an opportunity for a fair trial. If he is convicted, I will always have a lingering doubt about whether the jury was legitimate.
I always thought I would want to serve on a jury, but after what I saw this week, I am glad I was not seated. Whatever the outcome of the trial, whatever evidence presented to demonstrate guilt or innocence, I would not have wanted to be one of the “old white guys” passing judgment. I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
It snowed the night before and continued snowing most of the morning. For much of the three hours I sat in a holding area of the nineteenth century courthouse watching fluffy white flakes drift to the ground. I had been under the misguided thought that courtrooms forbade possession of mobile phones. Many courthouses and courtrooms do, but this one didn’t. I am kind of glad that I didn’t take my phone, though. For the first hour and a half, unlike most everyone else in the holding room, I was able to watch and observe everything going on around me. The rest of the crowd sat quietly with their eyes glued to their mobile devices.
I am not sure how courts pick a jury pool, but I cannot imagine that it is random. According the U. S. Census Bureau, about 21% of my county’s population is between the ages of 20 and 29. There should have been about thirteen people in that age bracket – there was one. Census data also suggest that the 50-59 crowd (where I fall) makes up about 12% of my county’s population. I was one of about forty people in the room fitting comfortably in that age group. There should have only been about four of us.
The county in which I live has an overwhelmingly white population, about 70% and an African-American population of about 7%. The white population was certainly well represented, but where there should have been at least seven African-Americans, there were no more than four. For a county-wide canvass the racial demographic representation might have been a little off, but when considering city statistics, where the alleged crime was committed, things are a little different. The white population in the city ranks about 60%, and the African-American population ranks about 21%. There really should have been about thirty-two white people and about 13 African-Americans if the goal was to have a random pool. The defendant was African-American.
The male-female ratio in my county is about 48% male and 52% female. Not surprising, but what was surprising was that the room was filled with about forty men and about twenty women. It was hardly the demographic gender pool that should have been present.
After the first hour and one half of studying my peers, we were finally called into the courtroom for voir dire. I like that term “voir dire.” Usually I find legal terminology a little irritating, but voir dire (pronounced vwah deer or vwahr deer) has a nice ring to it. Maybe the fact that it is a French word and not Latin, like most legal mumbo jumbo, is what I find fascinating. I digress. Once seated in the courtroom the judge entered, and like a jovial grandfather, greeted us, the prosecuting attorney, the defense attorney, and the defendant. He swore us in as the jury pool and voir dire (love that phrase) began.
First the clerk called the “random” jury to the jury box. It was a group of fourteen people from our group of sixty for a jury of twelve with two alternates. In that group were five women and three African-Americans. The judge conducted the first round of questioning, which seemed to consist of asking the jury if they could be fair and impartial, all the while nodding his head. Next the prosecuting attorney, who obviously has a knack for long-winded discourse, asked his questions. He was not as prompting as the judge. The defense attorney was on-point. He was obviously prepared and interested in giving his client a spirited defense.
After the first round of voir dire, three jurors were thanked and dismissed. Three more from our pool were called to replace them. Two more rounds of questions and dismissals occurred before the court had a jury. Incredibly, two of the old white guys admitted that they could not give the defendant a fair trial and were among those dismissed. At least they were honest about their racism.
The jury that was finally seated hardly represented the demographic patterns of my city or my county. Surprisingly, the one 20-29 year old male was one of the jurors seated. Four of the jurors were women, and one of the jurors was African-American. The remaining nine jurors were white guys over the age of forty-five, hardly a jury of the defendant’s peers.
I have no idea whether the defendant was likely guilty or innocent, and I will make no effort to suggest one way or the other. The crimes for which he was charged were serious, and, if convicted, would likely incarcerate him for a very long time. In Michigan we have a white population of about 80% and an African-American population of about 14%, but our prison population is about 60% African-American and 15% white. Something is terribly wrong.
Courtroom trials in the United States are supposed to be fair and impartial. Defendants have a constitutional right to be tried by a jury of their peers. In the one instance I witnessed this week, I cannot say that this particular defendant’s constitutional rights were respected, and I cannot say that this man has been given an opportunity for a fair trial. If he is convicted, I will always have a lingering doubt about whether the jury was legitimate.
I always thought I would want to serve on a jury, but after what I saw this week, I am glad I was not seated. Whatever the outcome of the trial, whatever evidence presented to demonstrate guilt or innocence, I would not have wanted to be one of the “old white guys” passing judgment. I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
April 4, 2018
Fifty Years
Scarcely two weeks have passed since a twenty-two year old father of two small children was shot eight times by police in his own backyard. The only weapon he held was a cell phone, and his only crime was the color of his skin. The shooting of Stephon Clark represents everything that is wrong with America. When people ask what white privilege means, this is it. I know I can safely stand in my own backyard, talk on my cell phone for hours, and not get shot in the back by local police. My African-American neighbor across the street does not enjoy that privilege.
Yes, we have made progress in the last fifty years. It was heartening to visit a theatre last week to watch an African themed movie that has been the biggest box office hit of the year, and currently ranks among the top ten grossing movies of all time. It was an encouraging moment to look at the other people in the theatre and realize that we weren’t the only white people there. The patrons in that theatre were as diverse as my neighborhood. Fifty years ago a movie like Black Panther would have been unthinkable.
I remember the day, fifty years ago, when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. I was not quite nine years and one month old. We lived in Vinita, a small town in northeastern Oklahoma. The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite was one of those daily events where I had to be quiet while Dad watched with focused attention. Mom was usually in the kitchen fixing dinner, but would pop in periodically to catch what she could from the news.
Mom and Dad were Kennedy Democrats. They stood with both President Kennedy and President Johnson on the issue of Civil Rights. I also remember June 1963 and Mom cheering when President Kennedy sent in the National Guard to thwart the efforts of that “horrible man” (Alabama Governor George Wallace), who stood in the doorway trying to prevent black students from registering at the University of Alabama.
On the evening of 4 April 1968 the news was almost finished and dinner was almost ready. I was helping Mom set the table. Suddenly Walter Cronkite broke the news that Martin Luther King, Jr., had just been killed on the balcony of his hotel in Memphis. Mom shouted, “Oh No!” She quickly whispered to me to “be still” and sat in her chair next to Dad. Except for the voice of Walter Cronkite the room was silent. Mom and Dad were visibly shaken. They understood that this was a moment when the world stopped spinning.
The year 1968 was a difficult year. President Johnson had lost the support of his base over his handling of the Vietnam War. It was an election year, and he knew he could not win a second term, so he bowed out of the race. Bobby Kennedy was everyone’s favorite to win both the Democratic nomination and the election in November. Bobby was in Indianapolis at a campaign rally on the night of 4 April 1968 and broke the news to the gathered crowd. In his statement he said, “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated.
Fear and uncertainty gripped the country. Yet even in death the voice of Martin Luther King, Jr., could not be silenced. His belief that “none of us is free until all of us are free” motivates us today to pursue justice for all. Yes, we have made progress in the last fifty years, but we have so far left to go.
I hope we have learned lessons from the life and death of Martin Luther King, Jr. I would hope that those whose hearts are filled with hate learned that murder only makes the victim’s voice grow louder and clearer. However, hate has a way of preventing people from learning anything. I hope we learned that motivated citizens can be a force for change. When people march peacefully across a bridge, or down Pennsylvania Avenue, or on any state capitol building, their voices are heard and the electorate can be motivated to support them. Most of all, I hope we have learned that we are stronger when we are united in our diversity and not divided by the particulars of who we are.
Fifty years later we once again live in difficult political times. We have a president who seems to embrace all of the cultural ugliness that Dr. King fought so hard to eradicate. We have a congress that puts greed before justice. We have local authorities in communities across the country that buy into notions of bigotry. Yet there is a glimmer of hope. People of good conscience appear to be motivated now more than ever to combat the forces of ignorance and hatred. The voice of Martin Luther King, Jr., must be heard loud and clear today and every day.
https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_priz...
https://www.bluewatertales.com
Yes, we have made progress in the last fifty years. It was heartening to visit a theatre last week to watch an African themed movie that has been the biggest box office hit of the year, and currently ranks among the top ten grossing movies of all time. It was an encouraging moment to look at the other people in the theatre and realize that we weren’t the only white people there. The patrons in that theatre were as diverse as my neighborhood. Fifty years ago a movie like Black Panther would have been unthinkable.
I remember the day, fifty years ago, when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. I was not quite nine years and one month old. We lived in Vinita, a small town in northeastern Oklahoma. The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite was one of those daily events where I had to be quiet while Dad watched with focused attention. Mom was usually in the kitchen fixing dinner, but would pop in periodically to catch what she could from the news.
Mom and Dad were Kennedy Democrats. They stood with both President Kennedy and President Johnson on the issue of Civil Rights. I also remember June 1963 and Mom cheering when President Kennedy sent in the National Guard to thwart the efforts of that “horrible man” (Alabama Governor George Wallace), who stood in the doorway trying to prevent black students from registering at the University of Alabama.
On the evening of 4 April 1968 the news was almost finished and dinner was almost ready. I was helping Mom set the table. Suddenly Walter Cronkite broke the news that Martin Luther King, Jr., had just been killed on the balcony of his hotel in Memphis. Mom shouted, “Oh No!” She quickly whispered to me to “be still” and sat in her chair next to Dad. Except for the voice of Walter Cronkite the room was silent. Mom and Dad were visibly shaken. They understood that this was a moment when the world stopped spinning.
The year 1968 was a difficult year. President Johnson had lost the support of his base over his handling of the Vietnam War. It was an election year, and he knew he could not win a second term, so he bowed out of the race. Bobby Kennedy was everyone’s favorite to win both the Democratic nomination and the election in November. Bobby was in Indianapolis at a campaign rally on the night of 4 April 1968 and broke the news to the gathered crowd. In his statement he said, “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated.
Fear and uncertainty gripped the country. Yet even in death the voice of Martin Luther King, Jr., could not be silenced. His belief that “none of us is free until all of us are free” motivates us today to pursue justice for all. Yes, we have made progress in the last fifty years, but we have so far left to go.
I hope we have learned lessons from the life and death of Martin Luther King, Jr. I would hope that those whose hearts are filled with hate learned that murder only makes the victim’s voice grow louder and clearer. However, hate has a way of preventing people from learning anything. I hope we learned that motivated citizens can be a force for change. When people march peacefully across a bridge, or down Pennsylvania Avenue, or on any state capitol building, their voices are heard and the electorate can be motivated to support them. Most of all, I hope we have learned that we are stronger when we are united in our diversity and not divided by the particulars of who we are.
Fifty years later we once again live in difficult political times. We have a president who seems to embrace all of the cultural ugliness that Dr. King fought so hard to eradicate. We have a congress that puts greed before justice. We have local authorities in communities across the country that buy into notions of bigotry. Yet there is a glimmer of hope. People of good conscience appear to be motivated now more than ever to combat the forces of ignorance and hatred. The voice of Martin Luther King, Jr., must be heard loud and clear today and every day.
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