RACISM
is Alive and Well

Sometime you just need to let the pixures speak for themselves.

Hey, you know something people?
I'm not black
But there's a whole lots a times
I wish I could say I'm not white

Frank Zappa "Trouble Every Day" (1966)

Taking a Longer View
part 1

These are the days of lasers in the jungle,
Lasers in the jungle somewhere,
Staccato signals of constant information,
A loose affiliation of millionaires
And billionaires and baby,
These are the days of miracle and wonder,
This is the long distance call,
The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
The way we look to us all

"Boy in the Bubble" - Paul Simon

During his historic Victory speech on November 4th President-elect Obama made reference to a notable woman whom he had met on the campaign:

"This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations," Obama told the tens of thousands of supporters who had gathered in Chicago on Tuesday night. "But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing -- Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

"She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons -- because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

"And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America -- the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can."

This resonated strongly, because my family has discussed just this perspective since my first-American born aunt passed away two years ago at the age of 102. These women spanned the Twentieth Century in all of its wonder and horror. The century changed America and changed the World, in ways casual and common, in others subtle but profound.

I have used as an example of the more casual changes the contrast of vacation opportunities for my aunt in her mid-employment and mine today. In the 1930's there was little, if any, paid vacation for the common worker. If you had a nice boss, you might be able to take a week off -- but probably not every year! You had to pinch your pennies to afford that week. My aunt lived in Northern New Jersey; a trip to the Jersey Shore was nearly an all-day affair by bus and two-lane roads. You might share a family bungalow, and you brought much of your food in cans, boxes, and sacks, and fishing off of the piers would supplement your menu. You went less to be entertained than to simply relax.

I fall somewhere within the turbulent middle-class and have maintained my employment with one business for 22-years. It would be a simple matter to, Monday morning, clear my next week's schedule and present my supervisor with a request for one of my weeks of accrued paid-vacation time. That afternoon I could go to my travel agent and purchase a week in Hawaii. I would proffer my credit card and be given a handful of computer-generated forms. Five days later I could drive less than an hour to a regional airport, and twelve hours later, use the same credit card to purchase a loud shirt and a meal on Oahu's shore, and later attend a Hawaiian extravaganza to delight the senses.

One hundred years!

There has been a price, of course, one that we typically only recognize during crisis. There has been a profound challenge to hundreds of thousand's of years of human nature. That challenge is the very world we have created and which the fortunate so enjoy. Albert Einstein made it clear:

"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."

How did our world become so collectively, dangerously, complicated over one long lifetime? How is it that we are engaged in "cultural warfare?"

I have my thoughts, of course, and they will be presented in part 2.

OFF BY JUST A FEW YEARS ...

I was surfing the Net last night and ran across a bit of nostalgia dating back to when I was Eleven years olde and attending Parochial school. My grandparents were Polish immigrants, and the Catholic Church was a brooding presence in my life, even though I only attended Kindergarten and First Grade at that school. There was an Awareness that you were always being Watched, you were always being Judged, and all the angels forfend if you were to die with a blemish on your soul!

You could burn forever!!

There were fearsome nuns to insure that the children didn't step out of line, there was the sharp sting of the pointer-stick -- suffering is noble-- , there was attendance at Mass among the images of the Tortured Christ, and, of course, there was the public humiliations before your peers if you weren't sufficiently obedient and might dare to Question Authority. However!

There were the comic-books!

WHAT!? say you? In a Catholic School?? Strange as it sounds... yes. This was a particular double-bind for me. The reason that I had so much friction with Sister Leticia was that I apparently "acted above myself;" I was quite literate in First Grade, far beyond the Dick and Jane primers the rest of my classmates were just learning. The reason? Well, not only did my parents read to me regularly, but when a neighbor's mother bought him his (weekly) comics, she bought two: one for her to read to him, and one for him to look at the pictures. Every week they gave me one set of those comics. Action Comics. Batman. Superman. World's Finest. Wonder Woman. Justice League of America.

A side-effect of reading these fantastic titles was that I picked up factoids that widened my horizons. Nuclear fission. The Age of Dinosaurs. The Golden Age of Greece. Apparently, not things that an eight-year old is supposed to know about. So, I was punished. Intelligence is bad. But as I mentioned, however...

There was a comic book produced exclusively for parochial schools, and it was called Treasure Chest : Fun and Facts. It was a Catholic-oriented publication for children, and all-American, anti-Communist besides. You could read visual biographies of the Popes, and the Saints; it would illustrate Catholic dogma (the difference between mortal and venial sins is that the former could see you burning in Hell); it had mildly amusing, non-sequitar, pun-oriented strips told in six panels; and it carried biographies of sports heroes. One of the most interesting aspects of the magazine, though, was that it was relatively egalitarian in its presentation of the heroes and icons, although their race and ethnicities were not ignored. Jessie Owens and Jackie Robinson, and Hispanic missionaries rising to advance their people and raise their communities up despite humble beginnings and prejudice. In America, with Faith, and Hard Work, anything was possible.

Although I left Catholic School after First Grade (in a controversy that is another tale) and my family moved to another state, my relatives continued to send me the monthly issues of Treasure Chest for years. And in 1964, a story ran across several issues explaining the process by which our President is selected by postulating the campaign of 1976. I did not really remember that series until the initial nostalgic link beginning this diary reminded me, but then, oh how it came rushing back! It was quite progressive for its day, and its theme concerned social justice and the American Dream. It was preaching to the children of 1964 who would be voting in 1976, and it was clearly a challenge and a call to justice.

That was thirty-two years ago, so its arrival may be late, but this parochial comic book did try to be on the right side of history. So, however it came about, in the spirit of Hope and Change, may I just say : "GOD BLESS AMERICA!"