Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 95

WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Beem Weeks

For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Beem Weeks  and his original short story: “Wordless .”

[image error] Beem Weeks

Wordless

“What’s that word say?”

“That’s an easy one, Daddy. Just sound it out.”

Levi Bacchus can’t read. 36 years old, and he’d never learned the meaning of a single sentence.

“I just ain’t cut out for this, Jamie Lynn.”

The girl’s countenance dropped in disagreement—just like her mother, that one.

“So, you’re a quitter now?” she bellowed, sounding too much like the woman who’d walked out of their lives two years earlier.

Levi took offense. “Mind your manners, Missy. I ain’t never been called no quitter.”

“Reading is something everybody should be able to do, is all I’m saying.”

“It’s easy for you,” Levi argued. “You’re just a kid, still in school. You have teachers telling you what to do and how to do it. I’m just too old for learning.”

The girl narrowed her gaze, jabbed a finger into the open book. “From the beginning,” she demanded.

His heaving huff meant he’d do it again—if only for her sake.

Words formed in his head before finding place on his tongue. Some came through in broken bits and pieces, while others arrived fully formed and ready for sound.

Jamie’s excitement in the matter is why he kept trying. Well, that and the fact he’d long desired the ability to pick up the morning paper and offer complaint or praise for the direction of the nation. All those people in the break room at the plant held their own opinions on everything from the president to the latest championship season enjoyed by the local high school football team.

“That’s good, Daddy,” Jamie said, patting her father on the arm. “That’s really good. You’ll be reading books before too long.”

A smile worked at the edges of his lips, refusing to go unnoticed.

“I’d like that, Sweet Pea.” That’s all he’d say of the matter. If it came to that, well then, he’d have accomplished something worth appreciating.

Levi harbored bigger notions than merely reading books. When a man can read, he can do or be anything he wants to be. His own father often said a man who can’t read is forever in bondage. How can a man truly be free if he cannot read the document spelling out the very rights bestowed upon him by simple virtue of birth? No sir; being illiterate no longer appealed to him.

Of his immediate family—father, mother, two older brothers—only Levi failed to attend college. Oh, he graduated from high school. Being a star quarterback will afford that sort of luxury. But when those coaches from the universities came calling, low test scores couldn’t open doors that promised more than a life spent in auto factories.

He’d seen a show on TV about a man who’d been sent to prison for five years for armed robbery. While there, this man learned to read, took a course on the law, and became a legal secretary upon his release. Eight years later, he’d earned a law degree and opened his very own practice.

Levi didn’t see himself arguing cases in a court of law—defending criminals most likely to be guilty just didn’t appeal to his sense of right and wrong. What he did see, however, is the need for a good and honest person to run the city he’d forever called home.

“Think I could be mayor?” he asked his daughter.

Jamie Lynn always grinned over such talk. “Everybody has to have a dream, Daddy.”

It’s what she always says.

Everything begins with a dream.

She gets that part of her from her mother.

“Once I can read without stopping to ask questions,” he mused, “maybe I’ll throw my hat into the ring, huh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking questions,” she answered, weaving wisdom between her words.

*      *      *

She’d been a girl scout, his daughter—daisies and brownies before that. It’s the other girls who bullied her out of the joy that sort of thing once offered. Straight A’s have a way of making others feel inferior, even threatened.

But Jamie Lynn isn’t the type to pine or fret. She chose to tutor—and not just her father, either. Kids come to the house needing to know this and that among mathematics or English or science. Her dream? To be a teacher one day.

And she’ll accomplish that much and more.

Her mother had that very same sense about her as well. She knew what she wanted in life, and cleared the path upon which she traveled.

High school sweethearts they’d been, Jamie Lynn’s mother and father. She’d been the pretty cheerleader, he’d been the All-American boy with a cannon for an arm. She went to college, he didn’t.

But she returned to him, joyfully accepting his proposal for a life together. Her degree carried her back to the high school from which they’d both graduated. This time, rather than student, she became teacher—American History.

Levi went to work building Cadillacs in the local plant. It paid well, offered medical benefits and paid vacation time. Life settled into routines.

Then came their little bundle. This didn’t sit well with the newly-minted history teacher. No sir. It’s as if Levi had intentionally sabotaged his own wife’s career in some fiendish plot to keep her home.

Words of love became “stupid” and “ignorant” and “illiterate ass.” She walked out one evening and never came back to the home they’d built together.

A former student, he’d heard—five years her junior. They’d ran off together, supposedly making a new home somewhere out west.

Levi didn’t challenge it. He received the house and the kid in exchange for his signature on those papers he couldn’t even read.

Jamie Lynn, she’s the light that shined in his darkness, showed him there’s still so much more living to be done. And learning to read, well, that just added to the adventure.

*      *      *

The night came when he read an entire chapter from one of Jamie Lynn’s old middle school books—straight through, unpunctuated by all those starts and stops and nervous questions. By the end of the month, Levi had managed the entire story—all 207 pages.

“We have to celebrate, Daddy,” she insisted.

It’d been the silly draw of embarrassment that twisted his head left and right, his voice saying, “No need to make a fuss, Sweet Pea.”

But fuss is only the beginning. “Dinner and a movie,” she ordered. “Then we’ll stop off at the mall and pick out a few books that you might like.”

There were stories he recalled from his boyhood; books other kids clutched under their arms and took for granted. Stories that stirred so much excitement in those young lives.

They’d belong to him now.

“You’re finally blooming, Daddy—just like a flower.”

And so was his daughter.

A teacher in the making.

THE AUTHOR’S STORY

My name is BEEM WEEKS.  I am the author of the historical fiction/coming-of-age novel called “JAZZ BABY,” and a collection of short stories entitled  “SLIVERS OF LIFE.”   I was born and raised in Lansing, Michigan, USA. I am the third of four children – two brothers and a sister. My parents divorced when I was seven years old.

I’ve been a writer since my earliest years, having co-authored a play that found its way on stage at my elementary school. This play, a work in the time-travel genre, taught me that with nothing more than pen, paper and imagination, I have the power to create worlds and characters that would not exist without me.

When I reached high school, I enrolled in a journalism course, which led to my joining the school newspaper staff, where I wrote concert and record reviews, conducted interviews with student athletes, and anybody else who’d experienced something worth sharing. It was through my journalism class that I saw some of my music reviews make it into the local newspaper, giving me a nudge toward a career in journalism.

Unfortunately, I chose the path of drugs and alcohol after graduation. During those years, I wrote very sporadically, often going months without producing a single page of new work.

I eventually got sober, moved forward, and re-joined the living.

On November 4, 2010, I lost my little brother to the side effects of chemotherapy in his battle with leukemia. On May 30, 2012, a month after “JAZZ BABY”  saw release, my father passed away following a massive heart attack. This drained much of the excitement from my accomplishment. Neither my father nor my brother had the opportunity to read it.

But death is as much a part of life as is living. We are each of us born to die. It’s what we choose to do in the limited time we are afforded, that determines who and what we really can be. I am a writer. I shall write while I am here.

***

“SLIVERS OF LIFE”:  A Collection of Short Stories

Contact via:

Email: nostar67@gmail.com 

Twitter: @voiceofindie  & @BeemWeeks

Blog/Website:

The Indie Spot!

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

To learn more about Beem:

Beem Weeks RWISA Author Page

*Author Showcase

WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author LAURIE FINKELSTEIN

For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present Laurie Finkelstein and her original short story: “BULLETPROOF VEST.”

[image error]     Laurie Finkelstein

 

Bulletproof Vest

By Laurie Finkelstein

The bulk, padding, and steel plates weigh me down. The protection of a bulletproof vest is necessary. No matter the weather, I wear the cloak. The weight is a burden, but I trek on because wrapped is the only way to navigate my journey. The jacket protects my heart from being blown to crimson shards of death.

A direct hit is avoided for days and nights, lulling me into calm and complacency. “All will work out fine,” I tell myself. The truth tells a story I want to change. All my will and might does not make an impact to stop the bombardment.

Experience and time separate me from tragedy. At any moment, the bullets strike. Inside or out. My house cannot provide security, nor can a million people surrounding me. With nowhere to hide, I am a target. Shelter and safety are nonexistent.

Discharges are held back while luck and grace harbor me. The slugs will come, however, in a piercing barrage without warning, and will pummel me.

Knocked to the ground, I am immobilized and rendered helpless. My breathing is halted. My movements are stopped, and I understand what assaulted me.

The shockwave subsides, and in small increments, I am able to take in air. Incapacitated, I continue to lie until I am rescued by the rational thinking buried under an avalanche of pain, doubt, and fear. My thoughts check my vitals to make sure I am in the here and now. “Stay in the moment,” I tell myself. “I can manage this. I will persevere.”

“Rise,” I command. The mass of the garb constricts my movement, but I stand, analyze what must be done, and begin to act. The warrior in me comes out. Battles will be fought. My impervious attire gets me through another crisis, and its weight comforts me. Without the guise, I am unable to prevail against the onslaughts, which pop out of the dark corners of another day.

Yes, my vest is cumbersome, but without my swathe, I will not withstand the painful projectiles. Clips are filled, ready to punch and knock me down, disabling me should I forget for a moment to cloak myself within my protective armor.

My bullets are not made of lead, surrounded by a dense metal. The projectiles do not come from terrorists intent on decimating me. The ammo does not come from a police state or a dictator’s command. A barrel is not involved.

My bullets are made of depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Composed of irrational thoughts, insipid ideations, and ignorant rationalizations, they are crushing invisible forces. The capacity to shatter my resolve and render me dysfunctional invades me.

My unsociable enemy is treatable but never disappears. My therapists validate my experiences of being trapped, resentful, guilty, shameful, ill-equipped, grief-stricken, lost, uncertain, and disabled. My growth in therapy helps me accept the challenge with compassion and empathy in my heart.

Throughout my lifetime three stages will haunt me.

Stage one is the onslaught of rounds. The crisis mode. The shock and pain.

Stage two is being slammed down, breath taken away. Sabotaged. Terms and feelings of the emergency are acknowledged.

Stage three is advocacy for myself. Stand. Breathe. Make decisions. Tools in hand to counteract the depression and anxiety and OCD. Utilize appropriate response and care.

Encouraged by others, I enroll in Toastmasters. Time for me to improve my public speaking and thinking on my feet. Professional and compelling ways of expressing my views is a talent I want to possess. Persuasive interactions are in reach. My computer with Google as my guide, I find the Toastmasters website. The rules and guidelines answer many of my questions. Ready to take on the challenge, I enter my credit card information and become a member. A direct thrust knocks me down.

At first, I don’t understand what attacks me. My heartbeat begins speeding up. My gasps for air speed up. My head spins with dizziness. The mighty effects of terror hammer me to the ground. Despair sinks me deeper into the attack.

Stage one. The thought of standing before people enunciating in a clear voice avoiding “ums” and “ahs” strikes with negative force. In a semi-frozen state of fear and regret, I struggle to make sense of my attacker. Groups of Toastmasters are warm, safe environments to learn public speaking and leadership skills. “Warm and safe,” I remind myself. Still, my heart beats faster, and my breath diminishes by the second. A ghost of recognition appears before me. Panic is familiar.

Stage two. My history tells me to take an extra Klonopin. Scared to death is not an option. Upon reaching my medicine cabinet with weak, wobble-producing legs, I discover my pill case empty. In my next move, I check the bottle. Empty. My heart beats faster, and my limbs go numb. Sweat trickles down my forehead. My last attempt before I collapse in a heap of despair, I call my pharmacist. My trembling voice separated from my body explains my attack and lack of pills. “How fast can you fill the prescription?” my quivering voice speaks out. “Is ten minutes okay?” the pharmacy technician asks.

Stage three. My inner voice tells me to be brave. Think of a serene place. My happy place. Take deep soothing breaths. My toolbox is ransacked for more options until I come to grips with the present. The dispensary is too far to hike, so I must drive to pick up my pills. Cranked engine. Foot on pedal. Brake released. My self-talk takes me on a wild ride to the drug store. My trembling legs walk me to the back of the aisles. The friendly face of the tech reassures me. The credit card transaction is signed with a jellylike hand, completing the purchase.

Back in my car, I down the remedy with tepid water from an old bottle sitting in my trash. My panting is steadier, my heart pounding a little less. Within thirty minutes, I am relaxed, able to pursue my day. Ready to reassess my decision to become a Toastmaster. The choice is sound and important.

My bulletproof vest is worn as a badge of honor and survival. Without my garb, I would be a prisoner in my house, hiding in bed. Sick to my stomach. Useless.

The stigma of mental illness must be broken. My vest is worn with pride. I am a survivor. I am the voice of one in every five Americans experiencing the assailant. I am not alone.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA“ WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author: 

 Laurie Finkelstein RWISA Author Page

Contact via:

Twitter:  @lauriebethart

WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Karen Ingalls

For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present Karen Ingalls and her original short story: “A Fishy Day.”

[image error] Karen Ingalls

 

A FISHY DAY

It was one of those wonderful August days when the sun was high and warm in the sky. The big cumulus clouds slowly drifted by, creating designs that filled Jim’s imagination, who at nine years could see all kinds of amazing sights. He had been playing with his model airplane in his aunt and uncle’s yard, where he spent the summers on their ranch in San Diego, California. Staying with Uncle Leon and Aunt Helen was always a special time of adventure, fun and farm work.

“Jim, do you want to go to the pasture with me? We’ll check the water trough for the cattle,” Uncle Leon asked, at the same time he took his handkerchief and wiped some perspiration from his tan brow.

“Oh, yes,” Jim responded with great excitement. He ran to the front porch and put his treasured airplane on the table next to where Aunt Helen sat in her rocking chair.

Uncle Leon walked over to the Allis-Chalmers tractor and stretched his long, thin legs up and over onto the metal seat. “All right, Jim, you can come on up now.” Jim awkwardly managed to climb up and grab hold of his uncle’s hand, who swung him onto his lap. With the turn of the key, the tractor began to vibrate, and the engine roared. Shifting the gears into forward, Leon yelled, “Here we go!”

The pasture was a favorite place for Jim with its rolling hills, oak trees, and green grass. It was always a peaceful place where a boy could run until he was out of breath, and then fall onto the grass and let the wind gently blow over his panting body. Many were the times that Jim would spend his days, just climbing in the oak trees pretending he was hiding from some enemy or shooting squirrels with his imaginary rifle.

He and his uncle drove through the pasture until they came to a large trough sitting by a water pump on the top of a knoll. The cattle were grazing some distance away, but their occasional moos could be heard.

Uncle Leon helped Jim off the tractor and then sauntered up to the trough. “Not much water left so we best get this filled up.”

Jim was leaning over the trough where the top of it just reached his chest. “What can I do? I want to help.”

“Well, now, how about you pump the water in once I get it primed,” replied Uncle Leon with his usual smiling face. He was happy that Jim wanted to help, but he also knew that pumping water would be a big job for such a young lad. Once he had the water flowing with each downward motion of the pump handle, he instructed, “Okay, young feller, it is your turn now.”

Jim eagerly grabbed the handle and standing on his tiptoes, pushed it down, smiling happily when the water gushed into the trough. He repeated the pumping for as long as he could, but all too quickly his arms and shoulders began to ache. Jim did not want to admit that he was getting tired, but his uncle knew and said, “How about if I do it for a while?”

Once the water neared the top, Jim leaned over cupping some water into his hands. “This is the best tasting water I’ve ever had,” Jim thought to himself. He slurped several handfuls into his dry mouth.

Looking over at his nephew, Leon asked with a twinkle in his eye, “Did you see that fish drop into the water from this here pump?”

“What fish?”

“Why, that fish that came right out of the pump into the trough. I thought sure you would have seen him while you were drinking the water.”

“No, sir. I didn’t see any fish.” Jim wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve and earnestly looked in the water.

“Well, he must still be in there.” Uncle Leon leaned over the trough looking for the mysterious fish. “Now isn’t that something. I can’t see him anywhere.” He peeked a look at his nephew, who now had eyes as big as saucers. “I wonder if you accidentally swallowed that poor little fish while you were drinking all that water.”

Jim stepped back from the trough and began to rub his stomach. “I don’t think so, sir.” The minutes passed, and Uncle Leon continued to wonder out loud what happened to the fish. Jim began to imagine that the fish was swimming in his stomach. “I don’t feel so good,” Jim said as he stretched down on the cool grass.

Seeing that his nephew was fearful and feeling sick, Uncle Leon laid down next to him and pointed up towards the clouds. “Jim, look at that cloud up there. See the little one next to the big puffy cloud?”

He waited until Jim nodded his head and said, “I think so.”

“It kind of looks like a fish, doesn’t it? I wonder if that is the fish that was in the trough.”

Jim looked at his uncle, then up at the clouds, and then back at his uncle who was smiling from ear to ear. Uncle Leon laughed and began to tickle Jim’s stomach. “Or, is that fish still here? Where is that fish?”

Jim laughed and joked right back while he patted his uncle’s stomach. “No, I think that fish is right here!”

Soon they both stopped laughing and just looked at one another. “I hope I don’t tease you too much,” Uncle Leon said.

“Oh no, Sir.” Jim looked at his uncle and went on to say, “I like to tease my younger brothers. Mother is always telling me not to do it too much. She doesn’t want them to cry.”

“Well, I would never want to make you cry.” Uncle Leon put his big hand on Jim’s head. “Do you know why?” Jim slowly shook his head back and forth not wanting his uncle to remove his hand. “I love you too much to ever make you cry for any reason.”

With tears in his eyes, Jim whispered, “I love you, too.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sun, the warm breeze, and just being next to one another in the grass, watching the clouds drift by. It was a special day that Jim always remembered with a smile.

*The Author’s Story

KAREN INGALLS is an award winning author, public speaker, advocate, and posts weekly blogs for two separate sights. She states that she has been writing all her life, but it wasn’t until she was diagnosed with cancer that she published her first book. Since then she has published two novels and continues to write countless articles and blogs about health/wellness, relationships, and spirituality.

She has been a member and active supporter of RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB since 2014, an advocate for ovarian cancer awareness, and a volunteer and speaker for cancer organizations.  Karen describes herself as a passionate writer about important issues through stories, articles, and poetry.  In her free time she loves to golf and garden.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author: 

Karen Ingalls RWISA Author Page

Karen Ingalls *Author Showcase

Contact via:

Twitter:  @KIngallsAuthor

Pinterest

Facebook

Linkedin

Blog/Website:

Karen Ingalls Books

Outshine Ovarian Cancer

Titles:

“OUTSHINE:  AN OVARIAN CANCER MEMOIR”

“NOVY’S SON:  THE SELFISH GENIUS”

 

 

WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

For the next month, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present Yvette Calleiro and her original poem: “Words.”

[image error] Yvette Calleiro

Words

By Yvette M Calleiro

The written word and I

Are cherished friends,

Embracing each other’s thoughts and emotions

Like kindred spirits,

Dancing on clouds.

Bosom buddies who gossip and giggle

And gasp at all the same moments.

She and I are equals,

More than that, really.

We are two parts of a whole,

Complementing and complimenting the other,

Perfect beings.

The spoken word and I

Skirt around each other’s social circles.

We stumble around awkward pauses,

Unable to pull the perfect word or phrase

From our filing cabinet of knowledge.

Ease and grace flee without a moment’s notice.

She is more skilled than I.

She whispers her intricately woven ideas into my mind,

But her delicate strength is no match for

The hills of anxiety and the mountains of insecurity

That obstruct her path to freedom.

Before her words can reach my tongue,

They unravel into shreds of confusion,

Left unspoken.

If only the written word and the spoken word

Could meet…

They would live in perfect harmony.

But alas…

It is not meant to be,

Neither willing to leave her domain,

Each content to dance alone,

And I…

I am stuck in the middle,

Pulled in both directions,

Reveling in the comfort of the written word,

Needing the spoken word to survive.

But still I dream

Of the day when my words will intermingle

And a new love affair can be born.

 

The Author’s Story – @CalleiroBooks #RRBC

Yvette M. Calleiro is a heavily addicted reader of both young adult and adult novels. She spends most of her time, psuedo-living in paranormal worlds with her fictional friends (and boyfriends). She’s also been known to ride the stationary bike at her gym for hours while reading anything from paranormal to fantasy to suspenseful thrillers.

When she’s living among real people, Yvette is a middle school Reading and Language Arts teacher. She’s been sharing her love of literature with her students for over twenty years. Besides writing about the various characters that whisper (and sometimes scream) in her head, she enjoys traveling, watching movies, spending quality time with family and friends, and enjoying the beauty of the ocean.

Yvette lives in Miami, Florida, with her incredible son who allows her to enjoy children’s literature all over again. She also shares her space with an assortment of crazy saltwater animals in her 300-gallon tank.

 

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA“ WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Yvette Calleiro RWISA Author Page

Journalism’s Dangerous Shift from Impartiality to Advocacy

Those of us who have been in the news business for more than a few years (for me it’s more than 30 years) have learned a hard truth in the past decade or so: There has been a palpable shifting of the lines between what we learned journalism ideally should be and what it has become.

Coming as I did as a neophyte into the cavernous news room of the Chicago Tribune back in 1969 right out of college, I had editors who made sure that I didn’t stray from accurate, evenhanded and unbiased reporting into opinion and rumor. When I did, I heard about it from some crabby City Editor.

[image error]

An even worse sin at the Tribune was the sin of omission. That occurred if you took it upon yourself NOT to report something because doing so might not coincide with YOUR interpretation of the event or your political predilection.

“The only thing worse than writing a story filled with mistakes and lies is to ignore and bury a story because it violates your viewpoints,” a Tribune editor once chided a fellow reporter. “That’s like a doctor withholding life-saving medicine from a patient he may not like.”

That’s what happened last week when most of the media decided to ignore the story about Imran Awan, a Pakistani IT staffer who worked for several House Democrats including Rep. Debbie Wasserman Schultz. Awan is allegedly at the center of a scheme that involved double-charging the House for IT equipment, and may also have exposed secret House information online.

The Daily Caller reported for months that Awan and his family provided I.T. services to not just Wasserman Schultz but 80 prominent congressional Democrats across key committees such as the House Intelligence Committee. It also found that Awan and his brother secretly took $100,000 of Iraqi money, owed money to an Iraqi politician who’s been linked to Hezbollah, and possibly kept their stepmother “in ‘capivity’” for better access to offshore money.

[image error] Debbie Wasserman Schultz

Last Monday, The Daily Caller reported that the FBI had “seized smashed computer hard drives” from Awan’s home in addition to the Capitol Police’s seizure of “computer equipment tied to [Wasserman Schultz].”

Imran was arrested last Monday at Dulles airport as he tried to leave the country. His wife and children have already fled to Pakistan carrying a suitcase containing some $12,000 in cash. Ideally, this should be raw meat for hungry journalists.

Not surprisingly, however, the big three networks—ABC, NBC, and CBS—have virtually buried the story, preventing millions of viewers from learning about the scandal. So have most cable networks, except for FOX. And this weekend it was barely mentioned, if at all, by the Sunday news/commentary shows such as Face the Nation and Meet the Press. Newspapers, for the most part, have also ignored the story.

When I was learning how to be a reporter we were exhorted to strive for objectivity in our reporting. Of course, we knew there was no such thing as a purely objective reporter. All of us have biases and are more than likely predisposed to have prejudices one way or the other in dealing with events, sources, issues, etc.

[image error]

What dismays me today is that with the enormous influence of social media and cable news shows that purport to report stories unbiasedly, the viewing public has trouble discerning between news and opinion. The strict separation between news and opinion is simply vanishing. News anchors today feel it is their duty and prerogative to sprinkle their opinions throughout every story—especially those dealing with President Trump.

Legendary newsmen that I grew up with, such as Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, Harry Reasoner, etc. worked assiduously to keep their sentiments out of news stories. Why? Because doing otherwise would have undermined their credibility as professional journalists. And once journalists lose their credibility, they have lost everything.

I have heard journalists today insist that stories need interpretation and that journalism needs to be adapted to the “realities of 21st Century journalism.”

I beg to differ. The realities of 21st Century journalism should mirror those of 20th Century journalism. Superior journalism needs to be a watchdog on government and elected officials, and it needs to be as objective and impartial as possible.

There is nothing wrong with explanatory journalism, but there should be no doubt where news ends and opinion begins.[image error]

 

Too many reporters today believe that interpreting the news, is equivalent to advocacy. Journalists are not advocates and they should never fall into that trap.

One of the first rules I learned after joining the Chicago Tribune was that I was not allowed to engage in any kind of local politics–including joining the local school board. While reporters were allowed to belong to political parties, we were not allowed to work for any candidates or to express any open support for them. We were supposed to be independent observers, otherwise how could our reporting be trusted?

We weren’t even allowed to go on television to express our opinions about a story or issue if we were reporting or covering it.

Here’s a question for you. Are MSNBC talking heads like Rachel Madow, Joe Scarborough, Mika Brzezinksi, Kirsten Powers, and Chris Matthews journalists? I think not. They are paid to be provocative pundits/commentators, yet we see them anchoring shows that purport to be “news” shows.

[image error]

However, they couldn’t care less about journalistic credibility because they simply are NOT journalists. They don’t pretend to be impartial. Many are committed left wingers and they make no apologies about it. They are paid to share their left-wing biases with their like-minded audiences, in much the same way that Sean Hannity or Tucker Carlson are paid by the Fox Network to share their conservative notions with their audiences.

I have never heard Hannity or Carlson claim to be impartial journalists. They are paid commentators, not reporters. One watches those shows knowing that the emphasis is not on impartiality, but on opinion.

Yet, Fox News gets slammed again and again for being “unfair.” Frankly, I think Fox’s news coverage is as fair as any of the other cable networks (certainly MSNBC’s or CNN’s).

The challenge for the viewing public is to learn to discern between opinion programs and news shows. That goes for all cable and broadcast networks.

Unfortunately, with the blurring of the lines between news and opinion in the reporting process, that continues to be a near impossible task for most viewers and readers.

On the other hand, it may be that the viewing and reading public really doesn’t care if stories are slanted and biased as long as they are slanted and biased in the direction they themselves lean, left or right.

I hope that is not the case. If professional journalists and news organizations cannot or will not provide unbiased news that helps a citizenry to make informed choices and decisions then I fear our democracy is in grave danger.

A Little Shameless Self-Promotion

I want to thank all of you who are subscribers to my blog, ForeignCorrespondent. I sincerely appreciate your willingness to accompany me on my nomadic excursions of punditry, self-reflection, and occasional brainstorms.

Like all who blog, I am endeavoring to increase my subscriber base. Therefore, I am asking each of you to invite friends, neighbors, relatives, and just about anybody you know who has access to The Internet to check out my blog and subscribe.

Naturally, I am not asking you to do this without any incentive.

For the first five who can convince 10 new subscribers to join the congregation, I am offering $10 Amazon gift certificates.

All you need to do is email me the 10 names so I can check them against the subscriber list and voila, I will send you directions to pick up your $10 Amazon gift certificate.

It’s as easy as that.

AND NOW, FOR SOMETHING ELSE

During the past couple of months, I have received frequent inquiries from readers who ask when Book #3 (Working Title: “The Lost Years of Billy Battles”) will be available.

First, let me thank those faithful fans of the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy for their interest and encouragement.­ Your support means a lot as I trudge ahead writing this last chapter in Billy’s long and astounding life.

All I can tell you at this point is that I am about 85 percent finished with Book #3 and my objective is to have the book finished and published this fall.

As to the story, without giving away too much, I can tell you Billy and Katharina have some harrowing adventures in Mexico during that country’s bloody revolution. Later, some horrific events cause Billy to vanish. What happened? Why did he disappear? Where did he go? How long was he gone?

Those are questions you will find the answers to in “The Lost Years of Billy Battles,” the final book in the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy.

In the meantime, stay tuned for periodic updates, information on pre-publication orders, and how to receive signed copies.

Vang Pao: A Forgotten Warrior and Ally

In 2011 I wrote a story about Vang Pao, a Hmong guerilla leader who led the CIA’s “Secret Army” in Laos. Vang Pao had just passed away and I thought it was important to tell Americans just who this fiercely loyal man was and what he did to help the American war effort in Vietnam. Here it is again, lest we forget.

Few, if any Americans today know who Vang Pao was. That is a shame, because America probably had no greater ally during the Vietnam War than the Napoleon-sized Vang Pao.

[image error] General Vang Pao

Vang Pao, who died this week in Clovis, California, was the leader of the CIA’s so-called “Secret Army” in Laos–a force of some 100,000 Hmong (pronounced “Mung”) guerrillas that between 1960 and 1975 kept four crack Vietnamese divisions tied down in the Laotian Highlands north of the Plain of Jars and off the backs of American troops fighting in Vietnam.

The cost of the Hmong’s 15-year alliance with America was substantial. More than 30,000 out of a population of 350,000 were killed. An equivalent casualty rate in the United States would be a war in which 20 million Americans died.

[image error] Hmong Women

Even though the alliance officially ended in 1975 when the last Americans were ignominiously run out of Saigon by advancing North Vietnamese troops, the Hmong continued to die because of their once close association with Washington.

At the time of my visit to the Hmong refugee camps during my tenure as a foreign correspondent for the Chicago Tribune, I learned from Hmong survivors that the Laotian hill people were being systematically exterminated by both the North Vietnamese and the Communist Pathet Lao government.

General Vang Pao and a force of 18,000 Hmong fighters were finally forced from Laos in May 1975 by a vastly superior force of North Vietnamese troops fresh from victory in Vietnam. It was a humiliating defeat for the proud Hmong people made even worse by Washington’s almost total disregard for their once important allies.

There was little doubt that Vang Pao was still feeling a sense of betrayal when I met and interviewed him, though he never expressed those feelings openly. The Hmong people I met in Northern Thailand did, however. They were angry and frustrated by the cold shoulder they received from Washington after the fall of Saigon.

I first met Vang Pao in 1979 in, of all places, Corvallis, Montana. I had just returned from Northern Thailand and several of the squalid Hmong refugee camps along the Mekong River separating Thailand from Laos.

General V.P., as he was known by his followers, took me on a tour of a 425-acre barley farm he owned some 45 miles south of Missoula. He climbed behind the wheel of a battered olive-green Chevrolet Malibu, and the two of us headed off down a dirt road.

At one point he stopped the car, and his hard black eyes stared at the pine covered Bitterroot Mountains before us. I had asked him why he decided to settle in Montana with his large family. At the time he had 23 children, ranging in age from 32 to 3, as well as several dozen assorted aunts, uncles and in-laws, cousins and other followers.

“It reminds me of back home,” he said.

“Back home” is a place called Long Chieng, a picturesque valley settlement on the Plain of Jars in Laos.

Vang Pao, at the time 49, then maneuvered the Chevy around a curve and through a shallow ford. Along the roads and in the fields men, women and children worked or fished in one of the glassy streams that flowed through the farm.

“My neighbors are very friendly,” Vang Pao told me. “But most of them know little about Laos or what went on there during the war.”

Nothing has changed. Americans are just as ignorant of our Hmong allies today as they were then.

So here’s a little history lesson. In 1961 Vang Pao, who had earned a reputation as a fierce guerilla fighter against the Japanese during WW II, was recruited by the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency to lead a secret army of Laotian Hill tribesmen against Laotian Communists and their North Vietnamese masters. The North Vietnamese were using routes through Laos to supply Communist troops in South Vietnam.

[image error] Hmong Guerillas ca 1972

During a top secret briefing I was given in the late 1970s with an American military attaché in Bangkok, I was told just how valued Vang Pao and his Hmong fighters were to Washington and the U.S. military during the war.

“Of all the field commanders who fought the North Vietnamese, and that includes Americans, not one can come close to Gen V.P. in victories,” the military attaché told me. “And only a handful of Americans even know his name.”

Former CIA Chief William Colby once called Pao “the biggest hero of the Vietnam War,” for the 15 years he spent heading the CIA-sponsored guerrilla army.

In 1975, under CIA orders, Vang Pao and a small number of his military followers, were flown from their military mountaintop headquarters to Thailand. From there Vang Pao was flown to the U.S. And as far as the U.S. government was concerned Vang Pao and the Hmong were now history–and a forgotten history at that.

Later, as we sipped tea in his kitchen, Vang Pao told me: “I would like to return to Laos someday.” Then, pounding his fist into his palm, he thundered: “I don’t give a damn if the government in Laos is left or right–just as long as it is Laotian. But this government in power there now sold the country to the Vietnamese. Laos is no longer Laotian. It is Vietnamese. And that makes me angry.”

That anger eventually got him into trouble with the U.S. government in 2007. Federal authorities charged Vang Pao and some of his followers with planning to violently overthrow the communist government of Laos.

That Lao liberation movement, known as Neo Hom, allegedly raised millions of dollars to recruit a mercenary force and buy weapons. He eventually spent six weeks in jail before being released on bail. In 2009 the charges against Gen. V.P. were dropped once it became clear that there had been a “misunderstanding” of the evidence.

In late 2009 Vang Pao announced publicly that he wanted to return to Laos. “It is time to seek reconciliation so that the Hmong people still trapped in the jungle and refugee camps can be liberated.”

That plan was scrapped after the Communist regime in the Laotian capital of Vientiane said Vang Pao would be executed as a war criminal if he returned to Laos.

[image error] Hmong women today

Vang Pao moved to California from Montana several years ago to be closer to the largest Hmong community in the United States. His treatment at the hands of the U.S. government and now his death will no doubt galvanize the Hmong-American community into pushing for American recognition of the Hmong role in the war.

There is also a desire in the Hmong community for Washington’s backing in ensuring the human rights of Hmong still living and suffering under the Communist regime in Laos.

Whether or not anyone will support the Hmong cause in Washington is anyone’s guess. However, I can still hear Vang Pao’s words that day in the kitchen of his Montana farm. They ring as true today as they did in 1979:

“The United States has forgotten about the Hmong people and what they did. We helped the Americans. We died for the Americans–and we still are, long after the war has ended. And isn’t it ironic that most Americans don’t even know who we are.”

Postscript: After his death, Vang Pao’s followers in California’s Central San Joaquin Valley asked that he be buried in Arlington National Cemetery along with others who fought on behalf of the United States. The request was refused. Later in 2011, Vang’s efforts during the Vietnam War were officially commemorated at memorial ceremonies in Arlington National Cemetery organized by the Lao Veterans of America Institute,  the U.S. Department of Defense, U.S. Special Forces Association, and others. 

Vang Pao is buried in Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Glendale, Cal in the “Court of Freedom” section, Garden of Honor.

Tribute to a Vietnamese Patriot

Nguyen Cao Ky, the former Air Marshal and Premier of Vietnam passed away six years ago this month. I got to know Ky during the final days of the war in 1974-75 when the North Vietnamese were rolling south almost unimpeded. Eventually, they encircled Saigon and thousands of Vietnamese, including Ky, fled their homeland. It was a bitter pill for Ky to swallow, but even he could see the end was inevitable. I posted the following story about Ky the week that he died. I am reposting it today as an anniversary tribute.

 

When I heard the news of former Vietnamese Premier and Air Marshal Nguyen Cao Ky’s death, I was immediately whisked back to Saigon about a month before it fell to the Communist North Vietnamese in April 1975.

It was March 27, and I had gone to visit Ky at his sprawling home on Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut air base.

He greeted me wearing the black pilot’s flight suit and purple scarf he liked to be seen in. I had never met Ky before, but I had heard a lot about him. Stories said he was a swash-buckling “Top Gun” kind of guy who never backed down from a fight and had a reputation as a womanizer.

[image error] Nguyen Cao Ky

He may have been all of those things, but the day I met him he was pensive and worried about the future of his country–as well he should have been. North Vietnamese troops were less than 50 miles from Saigon and every day they were pushing South Vietnamese forces further south.

For those unfamiliar with America’s war in Vietnam, Ky was a staunch American ally during that conflict. But even more than that, he was a combat pilot who eventually became the head of Vietnam’s Air Force and in 1965 became Vietnam’s Premier–a post he held until 1967.

From 1967 to 1971 Ky served as Vietnam’s Vice President under Nguyen Van Thieu–South Vietnam’s last president.

When we met in 1975 Ky had been out of Vietnam’s political scene for almost four years–preferring to sit on the sidelines. Nevertheless, he still had tremendous support from Vietnam’s Air Force and probably could have led a successful coup against President Thieu, who was under heavy fire for a strategy that called for abandoning the Central Highlands of Vietnam and allowing the North Vietnamese to take control of a large part of South Vietnam.

“That was, without doubt, a major military error,” Ky told me. “And President Thieu must live with that decision the rest of his life. In fact, it may turn out to be South Vietnam’s death knell. I do believe Thieu should resign, but I am not in favor of a military coup. Vietnam must remain united in the face of the onslaught from the North.”

We walked around Ky’s compound, and as we did, he pointed to a helicopter sitting nearby.

“See that?” he asked, pointing to a HUEY helicopter. “That is my last resort. If the Communists reach Saigon, I will take my family out in that chopper.”

That is exactly what he did–landing on the deck of the USS Blue Ridge on April 29, 1975.

Eventually, Ky wound up in Southern California, and in 1980 I met him again at his house in Westminster south of Los Angeles. He owned and operated a liquor store and was living in a 3,000 square foot two story Spanish-style home in a nice upper middle-class neighborhood.

[image error] Ky in his Southern California liquor store

During his time at the top of Vietnam’s political pyramid he, along with other Vietnamese officials, were often suspected of profiting mightily from the $686 billion (in inflation adjusted dollars) Washington poured into the South Vietnam between the early 1960s and 1973 when the Vietnamese peace agreement was signed in Paris.

When I asked Ky about such allegations, he bristled. He still had his distinctive black mustache but had lost the black flight suit.

“If I had stolen millions of dollars would I be here operating a liquor store?” he asked. “Wouldn’t I be living like some sultan or king? Wouldn’t this modest house be a palace?”

Ky paused to light a cigarette and then continued. “Look, I am not a born politician. I am an artist, a flyer, a romantic. Back in 1967 I was very active in Vietnam, and I could have been president, but I stepped aside in favor of Mr. Thieu. I am just not a political animal.”

Nevertheless, about a month before South Vietnam’s fall, Ky was coaxed out of retirement to be part of a new “Government in Hiding.” That unofficial entity had at first attempted an unsuccessful bloodless coup against President Thieu then when several were arrested, it went underground in a bid to gain power before the North Vietnamese entered Saigon. Ky was not arrested because Thieu feared (probably correctly) that the VNAF would come to his aid.

As we sat in KY’s compound on the outskirts of Saigon that March afternoon in 1975 we could hear the sounds of North Vietnamese artillery and mortars pounding South Vietnamese positions less than 10 miles away.

“It is only a matter of time,” Ky told me. “Realistically, the NVA could come into Saigon anytime. But I think they are waiting to see if Thieu will step down. And I also believe they still are not quite sure what the Americans will do if they do roll into Saigon. After all, they are in violation of the 1973 Peace Treaty–though I have yet to meet a Communist who honors any treaty.”

I asked Ky if he was bitter at what many South Vietnamese considered a betrayal by Washington when it pulled its last combat troops out of Vietnam in 1973.

“I am not bitter about America’s involvement here, but I am bitter about the fact that her policy makers never listened to my advice,” he said. “That is a glaring weakness with American foreign policy. Washington politicians and bureaucrats think they know more than the natives of a country like Vietnam when in fact, they don’t. That is the arrogance of Washington, and in my opinion, it is an attitude that will always get America into trouble in countries they know very little about.”

Of course, at the time neither of us had any idea that America would eventually invade Iraq and become embroiled in Afghanistan in what has turned out to be the longest war in American history.

“I have consistently told Washington you cannot win a defensive war in Vietnam when the other side is engaged in an offensive war,” Ky said. “By fighting a limited, defensive war, the U.S. allowed the North Vietnamese to continuously re-supply their units in the field. Why did they do this? Because weak politicians in Washington were terrified that the Communist Chinese might intervene if the U. S. got serious about defeating the North Vietnamese. They didn’t want a repeat of the Korean conflict.

[image error] Ky and wife Madame Ky in their flight suits ca 1967

“The worst thing that happened to South Vietnam was when we allowed the United States to take control of our war with the North,” Ky said. ” Long before America decided to quit the war, I realized that this would be the inevitable result of America’s lack of commitment to victory. I offered to lead a South Vietnamese attack on North Vietnam, which was defended by a single division of regular troops. All I required from the US was air support, and that the us forces already in Vietnam would defend population centers. My purpose was not to conquer, but to force Hanoi to withdraw its divisions from the South to defend the North, and thus to bring about genuine peace negotiations.”

Ky shook his head and stubbed out a cigarette.

“Would you like a 33?” he asked, referring to the popular Vietnamese beer. He retreated to the kitchen of his compound and returned to with two half-liter brown bottles of “33 Biere.”

“You know, any military strategist with any training knows that the best defense is a good offense,” Ky continued. “But even our defense was passive. So-called ‘Search and Destroy’ operations were kept within South Vietnam’s borders. Enemy territory was always a safe rear base. The North Vietnamese also used neighboring Laos and Cambodia to establish lines of communication, supply bases, recuperation centers for their troops. The enemy general staff had adopted a plan of action calling on them always to take the initiative. When their forces were strong, they would attack, but when they were tired and weak they would withdraw to their rear bases to rest, recuperate and regroup.”

Ky lit another cigarette. “Someday I will put all of this into a book,” he said. Ky did just that, publishing “How We Lost the Vietnam War” in 2002 some 27 years after we shared those “33 Bieres” in his Saigon compound.

The gist of that book was less of a condemnation of the American military, which acquitted itself well on Vietnam’s battlefields, than a disparagement of Washington’s insistence on applying Occidental solutions to Oriental problems. In essence, the book argues that America cannot project its values, beliefs, and customs on an alien culture and expect success.

[image error]

In 1980, sitting in Ky’s house in Westminster, California, our conversation seemed to pick up where it left off in 1975.

“To insist that Vietnam fights a war while at the same time building democracy was impractical,” Ky said. “Building democracy in the West, in England and then in the United States, took centuries of struggle. We Vietnamese could only begin to build democracy after achieving peace and independence. And even then, democracy could not be achieved overnight but must be constructed in stages and harmony with the cultural, social and economic traditions of each people. To accuse South Vietnam of not establishing a democratic regime and to use that as an excuse for abandoning South Vietnam was a blatant betrayal of a trusting ally that had put all his faith in the word of America.”

Ky added that the White House and the Pentagon directly conducted the war from thousands of miles away, issuing contradicting policies with ever- changing directives that created confusion in commanders at the front.”

“The B-52 carpet bombings ordered by President Nixon toward the end came too late and were too short-lived,” he said. “They served only to pressure the Communists to come to the Paris peace talks so that America could prepare for an honorable withdrawal from Vietnam.

“After Watergate, America was a ship without a rudder,” he continued. “Vietnam was left to its own devices, drifting along towards its fate. The disintegration of April 1975 was an unavoidable conclusion. My only regret and sorrow is that the ending was shameful and tragic.”

Amen and rest in peace Nguyen Cao Ky.

The Regrettable Decline of Class and Good Taste

Most of us have received one of those emails displaying photos of so-called “Walmart People.” As you scroll down, there is a collection of pictures of Walmart shoppers wearing wild assortments of clothing covering bodies that seem fashioned from silly putty or carved from tree stumps.

There are horribly overweight women wearing skimpy shorts barely covering explosions of tattoo-blemished buttock flesh. There are men wearing pink leotards and combat boots. There are people who seem to have crawled out of a fissure in the earth–troglodytes perhaps? Or conceivably, humanoid-like creatures from another planet that crash landed into a Goodwill warehouse?

[image error]

Can any of this be real? Do people look like that? And do they go to Walmart and other places?

The answer is yes, yes and yes. These are real people. They do look like that, and they all-too-often abandon their dank and murky grottos to venture into well-lit public places such as Walmart.

What happened? How did our nation spawn organisms that apparently have no concept of taste, style or class?

Beyond these “Walmart people” I think national taste and style hit a new low when the Northwestern University women’s 2005 national championship lacrosse team showed up at the White House in wearing flip flops. What does this say about respect for the nation’s highest office, let alone personal pride and class?

It says none of that matters anymore. It says if you want to go to a funeral wearing cargo shorts and a tank top it’s OK because the most important thing is not showing a modicum of respect for the deceased, but how YOU feel.

[image error]

The whole concept of “class” or what it means to be classy is an unknown quality with too many people today. Nothing is left to the imagination. In movies today it has become de rigueur for the camera to pass through the bedroom door as actors and actresses engage in multiple forms of mattress gymnastics.

Remember movies when a couple would go through a door, and then the next scene would be the next day? Isn’t that enough? Can’t we leave something to the imagination for God’s sake?

Can you imagine Katherine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, etc. baring it all for a scene with a nude Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, James Stewart or Burt Lancaster? Wouldn’t have happened. And it’s not just because the censors in those days would not have allowed it to happen. It’s because once upon a time Americans had an appreciation for elegance and taste.

[image error] Judi Dench
[image error] Katherine Hepburn

Great actresses of today such as Meryl Streep, Judi Dench, Kate Winslet, Emma Thompson, and Cate Blanchett know you don’t have to do the horizontal waltz to exude sex appeal. They leave something to the imagination.

So why do otherwise intelligent women show up at the White House in flip flops? Why do “Walmart people” feel they can go shopping looking like two legged rubbish bins?

Dare I offer my humble opinion? I fear there is very little child rearing. Too many parents are abrogating that responsibility to schools, day care centers, etc. The result is a nation in which millions of kids have little or no understanding of shared values, self-discipline, social responsibility, respect for others, or what we used to call “good manners.”

All of that is utterly passé. The idea for too many young girls today is to look trashy, show as much booty as they can and have a big ugly tattoo poking out above their butt crack.

When I was teaching at the University of Illinois, I couldn’t believe how many female students came to my 8 a.m. class in their pajamas. They couldn’t have cared less about how they appeared. But hey, at least they were comfortable.

I think attitudes began to change dramatically in the counterculture, hippie-fueled, “turn on, tune in, drop out” 1960s when the mantra was: “if it feels good, do it.”

Miss Manners was about as relevant back then as powdered wigs and hoop skirts.

Therefore, we can argue that its “generational.” OK, I agree, up to a point. Back in “the day” (and here I am dating myself), we wore tight jeans and white t-shirts with cigarette packs rolled up in the short sleeves. Some of us had “Ducktails,” and we liked to cruise around in customized cars equipped with thunderous glass pack mufflers.

But how many of us looked like those people at Walmart–or for that matter at McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Burger King, or I-Hop? Because I have seen them at those places also.

[image error]

Until the 1960s people took a lot more pride in their appearance mainly because (in my case, at least) my mother would never have allowed me to walk out the door looking like a vagrant. I think too many parents today don’t provide that kind of supervision. Few teach their kids any discipline and instead infuse them with the idea that it’s not necessary to respect others, their property, or their opinions.

School teachers today tell me that when they get kids from homes like that (and that means most kids) every time they attempt to punish them the parents circle the wagons around their brats and often it’s the teacher who gets disciplined. I can’t imagine what it must be like to teach high school today.

Who knows where all of this will end. I am not optimistic.

In the meantime, I think I will take my camera to my nearest Walmart and digitally bag a few troglodytes.

“Hate Speech” and Literature

Let me say right off: I do not believe in the idea of hate speech. One person’s “hate speech” is another person’s “free speech.”

In that regard, the American Civil Liberties Union and I are in 100 per cent agreement. More on the ACLU later.

In a previous post, I talked about Political Correctness in Historical Fiction novels. I argued that there can be no PC in a historical novel because if there is, the novel will be devoid of reality. PC is a 20th and 21st Century phenomenon. It didn’t exist in the 19th Century or any other prior century. So to purge a book set in the 18th or 19th Century of offensive expressions used in 18th or 19th Century America is to be dishonest.

A direct offshoot of PC is the concept of “Hate Speech.”  Just as with PC there are unofficial Hate Speech police out there who like nothing more than to be the final arbiters of what can and cannot be said publicly in America.
[image error]

Of course, that is in complete opposition to an individual’s First Amendment right to speak freely and openly about any and all topics–be it race, gender, homosexuality, abortion, gay marriage, traditional marriage, war or peace.

You may even criticize radical Islam–though, today, if you do, you are likely going to be accused of being a racist. That is when you will experience the PC Thought Police and their close relatives, the Hate Speech Gestapo, at their narrow-minded worst.

If you were to go back in time to 19th Century America or Europe you might be appalled at the terms used openly and without remorse to describe blacks, Native Americans, Hispanics, the Irish, Italians, Catholics, Jews, Asians, etc.

That was life back then. Was it right to use those terms? Of course, today we would say “No.” But using racial, ethnic and religious slurs in the past was simply the way things were.

So if you are writing a historical novel about that period do you eliminate dozens of objectionable terms and phrases to satisfy today’s PC Thought Police and the Hate Speech Gestapo?

The answer: an emphatic NO!

If you do clean up a novel about slavery and use words like “African-American” instead of the range of hurtful expressions commonly used in the 19th Century, your book not only will lack integrity, it will be a ridiculous fabrication.

Now back to the ACLU.

Rather than paraphrasing the ACLU’s position on Hate Speech I will let that organization itself explain why it says there is no such thing as Hate Speech in a nation where speech is protected by the First Amendment of our Constitution.

The Q & A that follows is taken directly from the ACLU’s website.

Q: I just can’t understand why the ACLU defends free speech for racists, sexists, homophobes and other bigots. Why tolerate the promotion of intolerance? 
 
A: Free speech rights are indivisible. Restricting the speech of one group or individual jeopardizes everyone’s rights because the same laws or regulations used to silence bigots can be used to silence you. Conversely, laws that defend free speech for bigots can be used to defend the rights of civil rights workers, anti-war protesters, lesbian and gay activists and others fighting for justice. For example, in the 1949 case of Terminiello v. Chicago, the ACLU successfully defended an ex-Catholic priest who had delivered a racist and anti-semitic speech. The precedent set in that case became the basis for the ACLU’s successful defense of civil rights demonstrators in the 1960s and ’70s. 
 
The indivisibility principle was also illustrated in the case of Neo-Nazis whose right to march in Skokie, Illinois in 1979 was successfully defended by the ACLU. At the time, then ACLU Executive Director Aryeh Neier, whose relatives died in Hitler’s concentration camps during World War II, commented: “Keeping a few Nazis off the streets of Skokie will serve Jews poorly if it means that the freedoms to speak, publish or assemble any place in the United States are thereby weakened.” 
 
Q: I have the impression that the ACLU spends more time and money defending the rights of bigots than supporting the victims of bigotry!!?? 
 
A: Not so. Only a handful of the several thousand cases litigated by the national ACLU and its affiliates every year involves offensive speech. Most of the litigation, advocacy and public education work we do preserves or advances the constitutional rights of ordinary people. But it’s important to understand that the fraction of our work that does involve people who’ve engaged in bigoted and hurtful speech is very important: 
 
Defending First Amendment rights for the enemies of civil liberties and civil rights means defending it for you and me. 
[image error]
 
Q: Aren’t some kinds of communication not protected under the First Amendment, like “fighting words?” 
 
A: The U.S. Supreme Court did rule in 1942, in a case called Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire, that intimidating speech directed at a specific individual in a face-to-face confrontation amounts to “fighting words,” and that the person engaging in such speech can be punished if “by their very utterance [the words] inflict injury or tend to incite an immediate breach of the peace.” Say, a white student stops a black student on campus and utters a racial slur. In that one-on-one confrontation, which could easily come to blows, the offending student could be disciplined under the “fighting words” doctrine for racial harassment. 
 
Over the past 50 years, however, the Court hasn’t found the “fighting words” doctrine applicable in any of the hate speech cases that have come before it, since the incidents involved didn’t meet the narrow criteria stated above. Ignoring that history, the folks who advocate campus speech codes try to stretch the doctrine’s application to fit words or symbols that cause discomfort, offense or emotional pain. 
Q: What about nonverbal symbols, like swastikas and burning crosses — are they constitutionally protected? 
 
A: Symbols of hate are constitutionally protected if they’re worn or displayed before a general audience in a public place — say, in a march or at a rally in a public park. But the First Amendment doesn’t protect the use of nonverbal symbols to encroach upon or desecrate, private property, such as burning a cross on someone’s lawn or spray-painting a swastika on the wall of a synagogue or dorm. 
 
Q: Aren’t speech codes on college campuses an effective way to combat bias against people of color, women, and gays? 
 
A: Historically, defamation laws or codes have proven ineffective at best and counter-productive at worst. For one thing, depending on how they’re interpreted and enforced, they can actually work against the interests of the people they were ostensibly created to protect. Why? Because the ultimate power to decide what speech is offensive and to whom rests with the authorities — the government or a college administration — not with those, who are the alleged victims of hate speech. 
 
In Great Britain, for example, a Racial Relations Act was adopted in 1965 to outlaw racist defamation. But throughout its existence, the Act has largely been used to persecute activists of color, trade unionists, and anti-nuclear protesters, while the racists — often white members of Parliament — have gone unpunished
[image error]
 
Similarly, under a speech code in effect at the University of Michigan for 18 months, white students in 20 cases charged black students with offensive speech. One of the cases resulted in the punishment of a black student for using the term “white trash” in conversation with a white student. The code was struck down as unconstitutional in 1989 and, to date, the ACLU has brought successful legal challenges against speech codes at the Universities of Connecticut, Michigan, and Wisconsin. 
These examples demonstrate that speech codes don’t serve the interests of persecuted groups. The First Amendment does. As one African American educator observed: “I have always felt like a minority person that we have to protect the rights of all because if we infringe on the rights of any persons, we’ll be next.” 
 
Q: But don’t speech codes send a strong message to campus bigots, telling them their views are unacceptable? 
 
A: Bigoted speech is symptomatic of a huge problem in our country; it is not the problem itself. Everybody, when they come to college, brings with them the values, biases, and assumptions they learned while growing up in society, so it’s unrealistic to think that punishing speech is going to rid campuses of the attitudes that gave rise to the speech in the first place. Banning bigoted speech won’t end bigotry, even if it might chill some of the crudest expressions. The mindset that produced the speech lives on and may even reassert itself in more virulent forms. 
 
Speech codes, by simply deterring students from saying out loud what they will continue to think in private, merely drive biases underground where they can’t be addressed. In 1990, when Brown University expelled a student for shouting racist epithets one night on the campus, the institution accomplished nothing in the way of exposing the bankruptcy of racist ideas. 
 
As a former Dean at the University of Illinois, I was often amazed at the number of people who disagreed with the ACLU’s position on Hate Speech.
[image error]
 
Their remedy in dealing with so-called Hate Speech was to advocate some form of punishment for the offender–firing a non-tenured instructor, expelling a student, censoring a tenured-professor or administrator.

About the only thing missing, I used to think, where the ducking stools once used in Salem, Mass, or the public humiliation of the pillory and stocks on the university quadrangle.

In any case, literature and other forms of creative endeavor should never be restricted by those who believe THEY are the final arbiters of what can and cannot be said, written or shown.

If that ever happens, then our Constitution’s will begin with the 2d Amendment–because the First Amendment will be but a distant memory.