Good intentions that got it all wrong

These are troubling times, and I for one am often confused about what I’m supposed to believe, what is “right” and “not right” about racism. There are no reliable guidelines for our beliefs or actions. Today I read a long thread, many voices, most if not all white, on Facebook, where I believe the intentions were good, but most of the respondents got it all “not right.”

The general gist of it was defensive—there was never racism in our home, we raised our kids right, they don’t see the difference between black and white, and some of them had to be bussed to black schools, and it did no good because now we are going through it all again. Really? Two of my four children were bussed and liked it; they both had the same, wonderful teacher at Eastland Elementary, and the younger one particularly had a rich experience that both he and I treasure to this day. I didn’t teach anti-racism or racism in my home. I just raised them with what I hoped were values that would enable them to be good citizens, good people in the world. So far, it seems to have worked.

Part of the objection today was that Rayshard Brooks’ funeral was on TV getting national coverage and what about all the cops who died in the line of duty and all those whose loved ones can’t have funerals because of COVID. Seriously? If you lost a loved one tomorrow, would you want the funeral on national TV? Maybe we should devote a channel in each state or county to coverage of funerals. Yes, all lives matter, and, yes, most deaths are tragedies—except those that bring blessed peace to the individual. But most lives and deaths are not national news; Rayshard Brooks’ death was, to his misfortune. I’m sure his widow or his mother would give anything not to be on the news today, probably not to have to share their personal grief with an entire nation, some of whom it appears are skeptical.

Another subject in this stringy thread was the conspiracy of the media. Somehow it had to do with what the media shows us and what it doesn’t. But these folks didn’t mean the trumpian kind of conspiracy to make our leader look bad. I’m not sure what they meant but I suspect it was back to that funeral in Atlanta. To me, a conspiracy occurs when two or more people plan together to accomplish some goal, usually but not always nefarious. So what is the media goal in this so-called conspiracy? The Star-Telegram’s Bud Kennedy suggested that TV media is a business and as such they show what people want to see. He got told he should stick to food writing, though I doubt that flip retort bothered him much.

We sling a lot of terms around these days—integration, diversity, assimilation, reconciliation. There again I am often confused. But when I read this thread today one term jumped into my mind: white privilege. These people were inconvenienced—by bussing, by Rayhard Brooks’ funeral, by disruption of their firmly held beliefs on how life ought to go along day to day, by their comforting conviction they had done it right all along and it hadn’t worked.. And to me they sounded whiney.

Sorry for the rant, but when I read that thread, it struck me as wrong, but I couldn’t figure out why. Sometimes a nap clarifies things, and when I woke up, I wrote this right away while what I wanted to say was clear in my mind. I hope it was clear to you, and I hope I didn’t offend any friends.

Thoughts on Juneteenth

Everybody is publishing their thoughts on Juneteenth. Here are mine. 

I may yet master this remote discussion business. I’ve now been to a wedding, a memorial service, and a book discussion through zoom technology, although on various servers. Last night was the church discussion of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, by Austin Channing Brown. with probably a hundred people involved.

I did not master the mute/unmute button so was unable to contribute and am not sure I was confident of what I had to say. In response to “When were you first aware of racial differences,” a couple of people cited experiences at six or seven of seeing “No Colored” signs and being first puzzled, then indignant. And one couple, from rural Iowa, said  they’’d never met a black person until college.

My experience growing up on the South Side of Chicago was so different. I always knew there were two communities and as a child was afraid when outings took us through the black neighborhoods. My father never locked the car doors on the strange theory that he had survived WWI and nothing was going to hurt him. But in my neighborhood in the fifties, most of us believed violence and danger came from the black population. I grew up afraid, and it’s been a hard legacy for me to put behind over the years.

For much of her adult life, Brown has worked in non-profit religious organizations in the white world, and when she described the rebuffs she’s received, I realized I can never truly say to her, “I understand,” because I don’t. I have never experienced the condescension and discrimination she has. All socially proper, but damning nonetheless. For instance, she says any time conflict arises in an office, it is tactfully suggested that she “try a little harder,” never that they sort things out in a truly equal manner.

Take-away is a buzz word these days, and I found several take-aways in this intense book. One is the concept of whiteness. I guess I have always thought in terns of white and black, but not whiteness, an attitude that pervades everything aspect of life. In pointing out how deeply rooted whiteness is, Brown makes the point that what many white people want is assimilation, which is wrongly called diversity, and not reconciliation. For most of us, all that we say and do and believe is rooted in whiteness. We tend to accept black community members as long as they look, think, dress, act, and speak like us.

What that overlooks is blackness. African-Americans have their own deeply rooted culture and traditions, an ancestry we fail to appreciate. Brown makes that point almost ironically by inferring that the white community is insular and then saying in a later chapter how comfortable and secure she feels in the black community. She grew up “privileged,” which means she went to predominantly white schools and churches and “discovered” the black community late in her childhood. She describes the joy and freedom she felt the first time she attended a black church with the enthusiastic singing and commenting, the freedom to move about, the abundance of joy. It is indeed a totally different world from, say, mainstream Protestantism, and maybe it speaks for the differences between the two communities. It seems to me that the black community is also insular and what we must find is a way for the two, disparate communities to work together as equals.

I think the separation works two ways, though Brown doesn’t address that. But one respondent last night told of a multiracial group from the church that was going to attend a picnic in the black community—until it turned out the black members did not want them, because they would have to acknowledge the friendship and would then be called “Oreos” (black on the outside, white on the inside) by their neighbors. That story demonstrates that there is a lot of hard work ahead for both communities if we are going to achieve anything beyond token integration and a racially balanced society.

It’s a lot more than, “some of my best friends are ….” or “take a black friend to lunch.” I recommend this book.

Don’t name that baby girl Karen!

Always a good day when you learn a new word. My new word of the day is Karen. If you already know what a Karen is—notice, it is what, not who—I’m sorry for being late to the party. Apparently, the term has been in slang usage for some time. A Karen is a middle-aged, privileged, entitled white woman. You know her, she calls the police on a black family picnicking in the park or a young black girl selling cold drinks on the sidewalk.

I saw the term this morning in an article entitled, “Karen” isn’t going “wild.” She’s just being documented. The article began by comparing the term to the use of the N-word, saying both are offensive. Minutes later, I read an account of a white woman and black man who tangled verbally in Central Park when he, a dedicated bird watcher, asked her to leash her unruly dog. It escalated, she called the police and, according to the report, lunged at him, breaking social distancing. The man was later quoted as saying, “Her inner Karen came out.” Police came, no summonses were issued, but by evening “Karen” had been temporarily furloughed from her job and asked to surrender her dog to the rescue group from which she got it. Now that’s a word I already knew: Karma.

Later today I saw a clip about a middle-aged, overweight white woman, with unkempt hair, yelling at a Mexican family for playing Mexican music in the park. Maybe they should have played “Degüello.”

Don’t name your new baby Karen (with apologies to the only Karen I know who is a really good person).

We resumed our weekly ladies’ happy hour tonight with neighbors Mary Dulle and Prudence Zavala—so good to see these ladies again. We sat distanced, and everyone brought their own drinks. Mary brought individual appetizer plates for each of us, and Pru brought each a canister of piroulines—great dessert tonight. We sent them home with bags of chocolate mints—the good kind you sometimes get on restaurant plates, and a bag of corks for Mary who swears someday she will do something with them. During this quarantine, I’m trying to guilt her into it by supplying lots of corks. Jordan plans an early morning trip to Central Market tomorrow and so asked each of the ladies what they needed. That’s how the world works these days—going to the store? Check with your neighbors. Sitting on the patio was so pleasant—no bugs, though Pru brought her bug zapper—lovely temperature, slight breeze, a perfect evening.

Now Christian is fixing Mongolian beef, and Jordan has put Louella’s rice in my toaster oven. We will have a good dinner—and I’m hungry.

Stay safe and well, everyone.

The blessedness of rain

Rain was predicted for the early morning hours today, but I woke to dry sidewalks, a lovely breeze tossing the trees about, and gloomy skies that could easily hold rain. By ten o’clock, there was a bit of thunder rumble and some sprinkles on the back-yard walk. But most blessed was that unmistakable, wonderful smell of rain. And the weatherman predicated a high of 88. A gift from the gods as we head into August.

It proved to be an illusion. It apparently rained all around us but not on us. And my indoor/outdoor thermometer said 97 at four o’clock. Nonetheless, Jordan and I did sit on the patio for a bit with wine, until I thought I was getting bitten. No see‘ums. For tonight, the weatherman predicts a 60% chance of rain between midnight and four in the morning. If it comes, I’ll sleep through it. But I pray to wake to wet sidewalks.

Proof that my boys are fishermen: here are Jacob with his fish, and Uncle Colin with his. They threw the fish back, of course, to catch another day. But both were pretty proud of themselves and their catch.

Megan likes to joke that the planning-ahead gene missed her but landed squarely on Jordan. Like me, Jordan plans ahead. For large parties, we put serving dishes out days ahead with notes in them about what goes in each. That once led Christian, when they were newly married, to tell her, “You and your mother have a screw loose.” We don’t think so. For trips, we begin packing a week or more ahead. Megan starts to think about it the night before her family has a five o’clock in the morning flight.

Now, Jordan and I are thinking ahead to our Great Lakes cruise. We leave August 23, but tonight she started going through my closet, pulling out and setting aside clothes I might take. Anticipation is part of the fun of a trip. But I did email Megan about our early packing—she’ll have a good laugh.

Saw an interesting clip on Facebook today about the conversations black parents have with their children to prepare them to survive in a world where white supremacy reigns. It’s about what to do when the police pull you over—not IF they pull you over but WHEN, because it’s inevitable. And then the zinger of a line: it will be your fault, because you’re black. Bingo!  How many times have my kids said to me, “Mom, if there’s an accident when you’re drivinf, it will be your fault, because you’re old.” Won’t matter if I’m innocent—I’m old. Struck me that there’s a problem common to the elderly and to people of color. It’s the instant assumptions people make about us before they know us. My insight for the day.

And on that note, good night, sweet dreams.

Lessons in semantics

Some lessons in semantics lately have, I hope, made me more sensitive. But they’ve been hard lessons. Last year I published a novel titled Pigface and the Perfect Dog. The sobriquet Pigface refers to the major bad guy in the book. One look at him, and protagonist Susan Hogan is reminded of a pig. We’ve all seen people like that—fat, fleshy face, with beady pink-rimmed eyes buried in the flesh, small, pursed mouths. I didn’t think anything about it when I used the word. Susan simply turned when he bumped into her at the butcher counter, and her immediate thought was that he looked like a pig. The nickname stuck throughout the book.

Alas, that book was not my best-seller, and when I investigated, I discovered several people were vocal about disliking that term. Some said it was an insult to pigs. I am amazed I didn’t think of that—pigs are underestimated but truly intelligent and sensual animals. So, I’m guilty on that count. Others countered that in this age when most of us try to be sensitive to others, it was demeaning and nasty, and I can see that too.,I think it was like a lot of childhood insults—we still use them without thinking first. Finally, there was a Jewish friend who reacted because of her religion’s abhorrence of swine. I suspect that doesn’t count for many, but I respect her position.

Would I do it all over differently? I don’t know. I write by instinct, and that’s what came to me. It fit, and it made the title work and carry on the use of “perfect” established in the first book But authors have to look at the marketing side, and if I’d known that word would affect sales, I might have gone an entirely different direction. Of course, I have no proof that was the cause of the low sales. If you haven’t read it, take a look at Pigface and the Perfect Dog. I still think it’s a pretty good mystery.

Now to my current work-in-progress. Titled “Contact for Chaos,” it’s a Kelly O’Connell Mystery on the theme of racism. For shock value and to emphasize how awful it is, I used the n-word on grafitti and banners from the bad guys and, occasionally, from someone’s mouth. In fact, an early stab at a cover had grafitti with that word on it. Several people objected, and my editor wrote a long note about how that jars people, especially in the black community, and how they would particularly resent it coming from a white woman.

The fact that I used it to emphasize the negativity, to show how wrong it was, got lost in the discussion. I certainly can see why it would put people off on the cover, and I’m bowing to wiser heads and writing it out in the text—mostly writing around it, occasionally using “n-word” or “n-----.” Racism was a difficult topic to tackle, and both my beta reader and my editor have praised my handling of it, but I want to walk that difficult line between marketability and intellectual honesty.

It all reminds me of that childhood verse that began, “Eeny meeny miney moe.” If you’re old enough (as I am), you’ll remember the version I’m referring to.  If not, you know the sanitized version, probably from the sixties, and I won’t repeat the older one.

I fear that Americans of my generation unconsciously absorbed racism and its language, even when we knew better. I was raised on the South Side of Chicago, a diverse area if anything is, but I was early taught to respect all people as equal. Still I absorbed the attitudes of the day—in my case, fear—and the language, and though I know much better, those old habits come out sometimes. I’m working hard to banish them forever. It’s one of the many things we all must do in this troubled political climate.

Memories from my childhood

  

Last night I watched parts of a documentary titled, “I Am Not Your Negro.” It dealt primarily with Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, Jr. The parts about Malcolm X brought memories flooding back to me.

In the 1950s, at the tender age of fourteen, I went to work as a go-fer for my father’s executive secretary. Dad was the administrator of an osteopathic hospital and the president of the associated osteopathic college. Before you shout nepotism, let me say it was the best training I ever had. Over the next six years, I became a darn good executive secretary and could still do that today, whatever moniker you put on that job. And I loved it. Had to be dragged kicking and screaming to college. (Besides there were all those cute medical students that I dated.)

Joan Schmidt was an eccentric, and why my dad, a dignified, straight-laced Anglophile, put up with her, is a mystery, except she was so good at what she did. Probably then in her fifties, she was tall, thin, with red hair piled on top of her head. I suspect, in retrospect, she was a lesbian, but we didn’t talk about such in those days. She smoked, and she drank martinis at lunch. She would occasionally let me order a brandy Alexander and then make me chew parsley before we went back to the office. Once she took me to lunch with someone she really wanted me to impress and asked sweetly, “Judy dear, why don’t you have the Calavo pear with tuna salad?" I replied that I would if it were an avocado, but I didn’t like pears. She kicked me under the table—hard!

Joan lived three blocks from the hospital, on the western edge of Chicago’s historic Hyde Park neighborhood. On hot summer days, pre-air conditioning, she would send me to her apartment to take a shower and freshen up at noon. The apartment was right across the street from a temple of the Nation of Islam and the headquarters for Malcolm X. This was a time of high racial tension, fostered in part by Malcom X’s insistence on black supremacy. One of my girlfriends had to take the El (elevated railroad) to work at Dog World Magazine (talk about a dream job), and she used to describe the black man who went through the train crying, “Arise. The white man is your enemy.”

No wonder that I, a shy and timid teenager, was scared to death as I walked to Joan’s apartment. I was scared of the oversize black men who milled around outside and the women in flowing white robes that even wrapped around their heads. I never actually saw Malcolm X, but I knew all about him, and I was scared by his reputation. Racism was rampant on the South Side of Chicago, and probably elsewhere, in those days.

On the South Side of Chicago, I learned both fear and respect—fear because that was a dominant emotion in those days, on both sides I expect. The bogeyman (oh, was I scolded for using that term!) comes in several colors. And respect from my dad, who knew every person, black or white, who worked in his hospital and always had a personal word for each.

Mostly good memories of a time that shaped my course in life.

Outrage

Warning: rant ahead. Detour if you wish.

I am outraged, angry, humiliated, resentful, puzzled—I cannot begin to tell you the emotions that have raged through my mind since I read about 45 referring to people from “shithole countries.”  That such language from the Oval Office is unpresidential goes without saying; so does that it violates every one of our dearly held democratic principles, the ideas that our country was founded on. “Give me your tired, your poor, your hungry.” The statement is racist beyond belief.

And sadly, it will appeal to his base, those people who are desperate to find some way to feel better about themselves. LBJ, whose wisdom was probably underappreciated in his day, said it: If you can convince the lowest white man that he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice that you’re picking his pocket.”  Unfortunately, not much has changed since LBJ’s day, and 45 is playing that song like his theme.

But there’s more. Not only is he a disgrace to democracy, to American principles, and to our presidency and the White House, he is a man with clear mental incompetency, what appears to be dementia.

And nobody is doing anything! That old phrase keeps going through my mind: “If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck . . . .” Well, you know the rest.

Clearly the Republicans are in power, and they are the ones who can do something about this terrible, frightening situation that they have thrust us into. We look to Mueller to save us (and he may, but he’s a slow and deliberate man, carefully building a foolproof case—will he be in time?); recently we’ve looked to Michael Wolff’s book to save us (and again it may—that’s what Kim Jung Un predicts). But it is the Republicans who have the power and the tools in their hands right now to correct what they have wrought. They have the 25^th Amendment.

Suely they don’t think their legislative record, their blind eye to the president will win them votes. Most are seasoned politicians, and they know the odds. The base 45 courts is not big enough to counter a voter wave that will sweep many of them out of office—perhaps that’s why so many are announcing resignation and retirement. But for the nonce, they are unfettered. They have their way, with a president who can be easily manipulated, and they’re going wild with power. Not a conscience or a backbone among them. The best they can do is resign, which doesn’t help us. I call out Senator Bob Corker who seemed for a bright moment there to be earnest, sincere, and aware, but he caved to a little bribery. Greed rules all.

What will save our country at this point? I don’t know. Do you? Will you be the one? Will you vote come November?

Troubling thoughts

A lazy Saturday. That’s what I thought when I woke up this morning, and it was true for the day. I stayed in bed as long as Sophie would let me, dozing and thinking about what I’d do once I got up. Like fix myself corned beef hash—a favorite breakfast—and make the pasta salad I’ve been thinking about for a week. And, of course, write my thousand words for the day. I did all that and had a good, hard nap. I hadn’t slept well during the night, and I dreamt during my nap of my nephew and his kids and then of running a coffee house—my, how the sixties sometimes come back to haunt us. Or maybe the domestic violence of the sixties was talking to me.

Highlight of the day came when neighbors said they were coming for happy hour. They even brought the wine and some really good cheese, and we had a lovely visit, a happy hour that was truly happy.

But all day troubling thoughts were beneath the surface of my activities. While Europe suffers through terrorist attacks which unite countries in a determination not to be beaten, we are a divided country with Nazi sympathizers and white supremacists marching through our streets. And our president makes their hate okay to display in pubic. In seven short months, America has gone from being the leading world power to being dismissed as a joke….and a bad one at that.

What kind of animals honor the Third Reich? They must see the pictures of skeleton-like people, humiliated and demoralized to the point they lack humanity, lined up waiting to be shot. Of holocaust camp victims. I have read the theories about fears of white genocide, men feeling disenfranchised and wanting to return to the day “when blacks knew their place,” all the excuses for this current white supremacist behavior. None merit a moment’s thought.

Equally as bad to me are the people who claim the counter-protestors are anarchists and communists. Many are people of faith, religious leaders who fight violence by silent protest, and others, everyday citizens who, quaking with fear, feel called upon to do protest evil. Lord protest them.

I am troubled also by the frenzy to erase all signs of the Civil War. I’ve read those theories too—the symbols are offensive, they weren’t erected to honor Confederate heroes but to frighten blacks. When Six Flags amusement park forgets history and takes down not only the Confederate flag—it was the battle flag and not the official flag of the Confederacy—but also the flags of Spain, Mexico, France, and the revered Republic of Texas, the madness has gone too far.

What matters is not how things were in the past but how we treat people today—and we’re doing a damn poor job of that, with racism, immigration laws that tear families apart and target innocent citizens, gender bias that would govern our bathroom behavior, laws that cut funding for the least able among us.  There is an evil force at work, dividing us, making us less than we are.  Please. Let’s recognize evil and terrorism where they are, here today, on our streets and in our laws, and fight those forces, not tilt at statues that are no more than windmills.

Out of the mouths of babes--policemen are our friends

When my children were quite young, there was a local TV program called "Hobab Means Helper" and a friend of mine hosted it. So one Saturday, all four of my children were her guests. At one point, following the helper theme, she asked them what they did to help their mother. Oh, you wouldn't have believed those little angels--they made their beds, picked up their dirty clothes, carried their dishes to the sink, etc. All with halos shining brightly. Until, that is, it was four-year-old Jordan's turn. She looked at them in amazement and said, "The maid does all those things." (Disclaimer: I was then married to a doctor and had a far different lifestyle than I do now.)
Then came a discussion of policemen, and I forget what the others said, but Jordan's answer will live on forever: "Policemen are our friends, and if you don't have a Cadillac or a Mercedes, they will help  you get one."
That line rings in my head these days because I am so appalled at the instances of police brutality we're seeing daily on our televisions--if it's not Ferguson, it's New York or Tulsa or, now, Baltimore. I truly believe that most law enforcement officers are good people, trying to help others, enforcing the law when necessary but not taking pleasure in beating the less fortunate. But it's happening too often, and the victims of this brutality are (without an exception I can think of) black. Don't even begin to talk to me about profiling.
Not too long ago I read an article by a black mother who talked about her fear every time her son went out, her cautions to him to be polite, respectful, etc. When a policeman shot a man in the back (see, there've been so many incidents I can't remember where this one was), I wished the man hadn't bolted when he got out of his car. He was wrong. Apparently he had something fairly minor against him--traffic violations or failure to pay child support. But is there no other way than to shoot him in the back and kill him?
I know that crime is high in black communities, and I can understand police frustration. I know they feel their lives are on the line every time they go on duty. But to break a man's back? It sickens me. Or to shoot a man because you mistook your gun for your taser. There's probably too much overuse of tasers anyway, but that's not a subject I'm qualified to speak on.
I do feel capable of asking if law enforcement attracts people with hidden anger that they are waiting to take out. What's outrageous and scary is that this is not a localized problem--it's happening in cities far and wide. So I don't know what the solution is. Except police forces have to work together, to screen candidates, to train them better, to train them to reach out to their communities and avoid the obvious antagonism that existed (and still does) in Ferguson and other communities. God help us, if we become a nation terrorized by those who are supposed to keep us safe.
I'm like Jordan--every policeman I've ever met, including those who came when I mistakenly set off my health alarm, have been unfailingly kind, helpful and friendly. No, they didn't offer me a Cadillac or a Mercedes. But then, I'm not a black male.

A relief, a worry, and a puzzle

A relief: I am mightily relieved that the Senate rejected the Keystone Pipeline. I've read a lot about it: the scientists warn against it--one went so far as to say it was a note of doom for the planet; others point to the spills the pipeline has already had in Canada and this country, including a huge one in North Dakota; the President is not the only one to point out that Canada was merely using the US as a path to ship crude (and dirty) oil to China and other parts--there will be no benefit to the US, except 50 permanent jobs (Bernie Sanders said today that is not job growth). I saw a map today--the Tar Sands oil is in the southwest of Canada. The pipeline would snake it's way over to the Midwest and through our "bread basket," across the Southwest to be shipped out. We will not get a drop of oil; our gas prices will not go down, might go up. Someone told me tonight that the same oil is now being shipped on railroad cars, which is more dangerous. I vote we ban that shipment--let Canada ship its own dirty oil without detouring through our country, either by pipeline or rail. I am grateful for senators who want to work to correct climate change and are not affected by greed.
A worry: the brewing trouble in Ferguson MO. Whichever way the grand jury decides there will still be trouble, I fear. I read a Facebook posting recently about how tired Americans are of giving tax breaks to corporations that pay no tax and make huge profits, of paying corrupt politicians, of the general breakdown in our political system, of racism, of the gap between the wealthy and the poor. It ended with the ominous message: a storm is coming. I'm afraid Ferguson, especially an acquittal, might be the spark that ignites that storm (okay, mixed metaphor). But I remember too well how riots spread across the country after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. It could happen again, but I pray not. There's no ignoring that there is simmering tension in this country.
A puzzle: for some time it's been assumed that Hillary Clinton will be the Democratic nominee for president in 2016. Once again, I rely on Facebook--it's a great monitor of public sentiment--and I feel instead of gaining support, she's losing traction. More than one person has touted Elizabeth Warren as a presidential candidate. From my point of view, she'd be great but I'm not sure she has the following--yet. There's been talk of an Elizabeth Warren/Bernie Sanders ticket, which sounds idealistically wonderful to me. But I'm not sure they stand a chance. I dismissed a mention of a Clinton/Warren ticket--this country just isn't ready for two women.
With all these issues--the climate, race riots, jockeying for political position--I think it's one of those times we have to trust in whatever God we believe in. I can't believe rational thinking will win out.

What happened to civility, let alone respect?

A friend of mine is spending the fall in Hungary while her husband fulfills a Rhodes teaching fellowship. I'm vicariously enjoying the entire experience with them, including their European tour before settling down in Debrecen. But she wrote last night that she thinks she will have to temporarily unfriend me until they come home. She is dismayed at the vituperative nature of some comments on my posts and, feeling that she and her husband are representing the United States, doesn't want her Hungarian friends to see how crass and disrespectful some Americans are toward their president.
I know what she's talking about. Recently a photographer caught Michelle Obama in an unguarded moment, playing with some children, with a expression on her face that mixed mock surprise and horror. It was spontaneous and the kids probably loved it, but it was not the most charming picture of our First Lady. Some of the comments were so mean and in such poor taste that I was moved to comment--and the vile comments continued about how ugly she is.
Now the "coffee cup salute" has gone viral on the Web and shown up on TV. I agree--the President should have handed the cup to an aide and saluted properly, but I don't think it's calls for such responses as "He's an ass" to "Don't insult an ass that way." It's turned out to be a tempest in a teapot since there is slight history of the presidential salute (President Reagan started it) and there's a funny picture of George W. Bush trying to salute while holding a dog. All but die-hard critics of the Obamas have dismissed the incident.
But there are those die-hard critics, waiting for one of the presidential couple to make the tiniest mis-step. Come on folks, this is the President and his First Lady, elected twice by a large majority of the American public. In spite of that, he has aroused more hate in a minority than I ever thought possible--and they are loud, crude and rude in expressing that hate. The Ugly American come back to life. Makes me, for one, embarrassed to be an American, especially a Texan.
I said it before in a post but it bears repeating: it's one thing to disagree on politics or policy in a reasonable and polite manner; it's another to attack personally (one person refers to him as a Muslim Marxist, after insisting on calling him the "half-Kenyan" for a long time).
Saddest of all, despite vehement denials, these remarks betray the deep strain of racism that is still strong in our country. Makes me despair!
This has taught me a strong lesson and I'm going to watch my posts more carefully. I have been a little too quick to make a joke or laugh at one--as when Gov. Perry said Juarez was the most dangerous city in Texas. But I hope I've never sunk to using profanity and crude personal attacks. Even so I'll be more careful.
One thing I don't understand: the list of achievements the President has made for this country is impressive: lowering the deficit, lowering the unemployment rate, the Affordable Care Act (hush! it's working in states where it is allowed to). The Republican House on the other hand has offered no credible bills, stalled bills from the Senate, defeated minimum wage increase, equal pay, veterans' benefits. They've been on vacation more than they've worked. Why do people dump on the President for failures in our country? It goes beyond partisanship, though that too is alive and well unfortunately.
Maybe Nancy can just hide my posts so I can still see hers but the lack of class in some Americans won't embarrass her in Hungary.

Please pardon my politics--but not my compassion

Tonight I was browsing Facebook and came across a picture taken in the Oval Office. A little girl in a frilly dress, barely walking but clutching the edge of the desk and with a pacifier in her mouth, is looking at the president who is bent down in his chair holding a hand out to her. A gentle, compassionate gesture and yet someone commented, "He is a genuine fake." A few posts later something called the Grudge (with good cause) posted what a cause for celebration Obama's last day in office will be.
Folks, I am genuinely tired of this irrational hate of the President as a human being. Disagree with his policies and his decisions if you can do so in a rational manner, supporting what you say with facts, research, statistics. Please spare all of us the blind hatred.  I can think of nothing the President or the First Lady have done to merit such anger. In fact, I think they seem like pretty nice people that I'd like to live next door to (their house is in the Chicago neighborhood where I grew up). I don't know enough about international diplomacy to make definitive judgments on his policies. I know a little about health care and think, the ACA is a good step toward needed health care reform--it's not the final word, but it's a bug step in the right direction. Studies seem to prove that. Most of Obama's other policies--voting rights for all, equal pay, etc.--seem aimed at closing the gap between most of us and the one percent (while such policies as Paul Ryan's proposed budget would make that gap a great gulf). It baffles me that people on the lower edge of the middle class are so angry at the president--they're the ones he's trying to protect. Regardless, I think you have to separate political person and human being, and it's disrespectful to slander, rant and otherwise curse the man who was twice elected to run our country.
I really didn't like the policies of George W. Bush, and I was pretty vocal about it. But I don't think he's a bad person. I do think he was given bad counsel (because he chose poor counselors) and made bad decisions. But he seems to be a nice guy who likes the outdoors, likes to paint, loves his family, and is a proud grandpa. Besides, he's keeping out of politics these days which speaks well for him--except promoting immigration reform which is needed. But I never heard people rant about him as a person, much as they decried his wars and tax cuts and other bad decisions. I believe we're still seeing the negatives of his legacy in the Supreme Court--but that's political, not personal. He has every right to be a conservative and to make such appointments--I just wish he hadn't.
When hatred of Obama comes up, some are quick to deny race has anything to do with it. Methinks they doth protest too much. I can't believe race has nothing to do with it because the hatred is so irrational, so much deeper than that bestowed on other presidents (even President Clinton during his impeachment trial). I think it's a sad commentary on our country.
What I think is great is that the Obama family, as a unit, seems to go about life without acknowledging it or letter it bother them.