Sixty-Three

He would have 63 years old today; instead, he died at 23. It is ironic that a quiet, shy and gentle young man that did not smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol would have his life end this way — an innocent victim of a senseless act of violence by an angry man with a gun, under the influence of street drugs and looking for revenge from the world.

He was the baby in his family, the youngest of four. The apple of his dad’s eyes, he had his mother’s kind and humble spirit. He was well loved and admired by family and friends. He planned to join the Navy when he finished his technical training. He wanted to be an aviation technician on an aircraft carrier, but a minor medical issue, crushed that dream. He couldn’t get in and was very disappointed.

He was at his parent’s house before work that day. He heard his mother scream and went out to try to talk the intruder down. He was not afraid, he knew him from growing up in the neighborhood. He thought he could reason with him, but he was shot point blank at close range.

The doctors said that for a fraction of an inch, the bullet could have gone straight through to the other side of the body with minimal damage. Instead, it hit his belt buckle and fragmented in his abdomen.

When they heard the news, donors from all over the metropolitan area flooded the hospital’s blood bank. Many were turned away because there was no more room to store the donations, but doctors could not stop the internal hemorrhaging.

He left behind a young wife, a two-year-old daughter, and a baby on the way, another daughter, born five months later.

Just before this tragedy happened, life seemed to be going as expected for this young family. He finished trade school; and landed a great job with a major airline. She worked at a prestigious teaching hospital. They bought a house in a popular development away from the city and the old neighborhood but close enough to the family to help out as needed. From one day to the next everything changed.

Each day brings its own joy and surprises, but also toil, and troubles. Treasure and make the most of each moment for we do not know what tomorrow brings.

Work- a New Day, a New Chapter

“And suddenly you just know it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” — Meister Eckhart

I began a new chapter this week. I started a new job. I work as a Part-time Library Assistant at a local public library, and I am so excited about it! This job was one of the first positions I applied to several months ago. The process of getting here was excruciating though.

The other day I read a post from a young woman just out of graduate school but who had been working in her chosen field in different capacities for a few years. She wrote about how frustrating and disheartening it is to be a young person looking for work these days. She described feeling that she was jumping through hoops while trying to decide what the interviewer was looking for based on the odd interview questions. Looking for work does feel like a full-time job without the pay.

I found the article interesting because I felt the same way but from a mature person’s perspective. I was beginning to wonder if I kept getting turned down because of my age or too much experience. Generally, the application process is all done online, and even though you are asked to upload a resume, you still have to fill out a multi-page application in which you manually enter the information already on your resume. I found out that although some sites ask for a resume, your interviewer may only get the application questionnaire. Once you receive an invitation for an interview, there may be pre-interview personality testing or online testing of your general knowledge.

In my own experience, sometimes during the interview, the answers to the questions seemed so obvious that I stopped to second-guess myself wondering if there could be any other answer. For example, one retail giant asked. “If you get a phone call that there is an emergency at home what would you do?” I answered that I would tell my supervisor and find coverage if needed. As the interviewer stared at me blankly, I wondered if it was a trick question. Should I have responded, that I wouldn’t get an emergency call at work because my phone would be turned off and in my locker?

One employer had called a former co-worker as a reference. She asked if he thought I could tolerate not being in charge; and would I be able to adjust to an entry level position? I had honestly addressed the reasons for applying for this particular position working with families in the community. What was she thinking? After that incident, I thinned out my resume so that I did not appear intimidating on paper, but better qualified for an entry-level position.

I was so happy to get the phone call with the job offer for Part-time Library Assitant. Over the past several months, I had applied to several local libraries whenever I saw a vacancy advertised. As I was growing up, the library was a significant part of my life, as it was for my children and grandchildren. As an adult, I enjoyed volunteering at a local public library through a previous employer’s community partnership program. Although I sent applications to various companies with better salaries, I still prefer to work in a library. I believe compensation for work can be measured in different ways. I consider that libraries continue to be an essential part of the community and I wanted to be a part of maintaining that legacy.

I am looking forward to working with creative people who enjoy reading and writing stories as much as I do. I am anticipating good times in this next chapter in my life. Wish me luck!

Gratitude and Thanksgiving

I sat here in front of a blank page for a while wanting to write something but couldn’t get started. The season brings many memories, most with warm and loving feelings. From our earliest days in Brooklyn to most recent holidays in Florida so much has changed around us. The family has grown and spread out around the country. Last year we spoke about having one big family holiday like the old days at some midpoint probably on the East Coast. It’s not as easy as it sounds. It’s still a work in progress. We gather in smaller groups, now. Some of us have become part of other families while others create new traditions with friends.

As I reflect back through the years, I think of the faces at the table that have come and gone; friends who’ve moved away, partners that didn’t work out, loved ones who have passed. I am amused thinking how the contents of our table have changed through the years as well. Often persons who join us being a part of their traditions. Through the years we’ve added things like homemade stuffing, collard greens, sweet potato casserole with pecan toppings from the South; kremsnita, a phyllo cheese pie from Croatia, or yucca marinated with onions, olive oil, and vinegar, common in the Carribean.

Thanksgiving was not a tradition in Puerto Rico for my parents growing up in the 1930s and 40s, but I remember in Brooklyn in the 1960s we celebrated it every year with my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Our parents blended their traditional foods and flavors with what was usual holiday food in the NorthEast. Growing up we would have a roasted turkey prepared with a rub of garlic, salt, and oregano; it was the same type of seasoning Puerto Ricans traditionally used for roast pork during the holidays and special occasions. We had baked sweet potatoes or yams and guineitos en escabeche; pickled green bananas that were marinated days before. These were served alongside a dish called arroz con gandules; it’s like a paella, prepared in one pot with pigeon peas, peppers, onions, garlic, cilantro, and tomatoes or tomato sauce. My mother loved to cook and often made pumpkin pie, flan, and Pillsbury sugar cookies.

All the years of memories tend to blend together, and in my recollection, I remember our faith practice of gratitude and singing; in old photographs, I see dancing. I distinctly remember lots of laughing and warm smiles. My mother had started experiencing symptoms of her illness, and my dad took to drinking every day after work and yet, I remember feeling safe and loved. With all their personal struggles, they made us, their children, a priority. For that alone, I am eternally grateful. I think that supportive foundation helped me tackle a lot of challenges throughout the years.

It was that feeling of love and security that I wanted to re-create for our kids. My siblings and I did. My daughters and their cousins remember the holidays with the same nostalgia. They want to pass on the same love, laughter to their own children. Thankfully, as the family grows, they have added new traditions along the way.

Today as I contemplate the holiday season, I wonder why Thanksgiving is not a more important holiday in this country. Of all the holidays, I think Thanksgiving can serve to unite us as a nation. Many cultures and religions practice gratitude. From earlier times people have celebrated a good harvest giving thanks to a higher power. Even folks who are not “religious” recognize that living in gratitude and being appreciative is to be in a good state of mind. One would think that given the emphasis that our leaders place on God’slaws and God’s rules, that they could agree to celebrate gratitude with more enthusiasm. Giving thanks seems to be a common denominator, even if you are a humanist you can be grateful for your particular abilities and achievements.

Perhaps someone’s White House can one day hold a service and invite religious and secular leaders of diverse groups to a Thanksgiving dinner. There is something about literally breaking bread together that unites people and overcomes barriers. I know it’s not even remotely on the agenda for this administration but its something to consider for the future. I understand that similar activities have been attempted at different times without success, falling apart at party lines, but I am sitting here living in the moment during a season of hope and so I continue to believe in our democracy.

I am mindful that not everyone feels the same during this season, perhaps some can’t find anything to be grateful for, not past or present. Itis actually very common to feel sad and alone especially during this holiday season. I would encourage my readers to open your eyes, look around and reach out to a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker and perhaps invite someone to join you. My family has never had excessive material wealth, but there has always been room at the table for one more. To those who may get an invitation, don’t turn it down. Its never too late to make a pleasant memory.

I am thankful that you stopped by today. Peace be with you.

My color is Ecru Cream

Alternative title – A Roze by any other name is still a Roze

I Have Been Weary

The other day, Jill Dennison of Filosofa’s Word posted “A SHARED OPINION …” in which she shared an article by Charles M. Blow of the NY Times, titled “You Have a Right to Weariness.” As usual, Jill’s comments to this article echoed my own thoughts. It is a great opinion piece for our time of unsettling barrage of news stories. I have been weary.” It’s not in my nature to ignore world events around me. My eighth grade Social Studies teacher taught me, “Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it.” Winston Churchill. Unfortunately, watching current events unfold makes me feel like I’m watching a train wreck about to happen, but I’ve no superpowers to stop it.

I thought I was Over It

As I attempt a smooth transition to my “Third Act of Life,” I am dealing with feelings and frustrations that I thought I had overcome or mastered years ago. You see, I am a woman of color, I like to say it’s “Ecru Cream.” I describe Ecru Cream as a very light beige, like raw linen- almost white, but not quite. I lived most of my life that way-almost white.

I am No One’s Anchor

I was conceived in Puerto Rico, and when my grandparents found out that their 22-year-old, unmarried daughter was pregnant; they sent her to Pennsylvania to stay with her married older sister, Evangeline. Evangeline had migrated to the States a few of years before when her husband returned from his tour of duty for the US Army. They bought a house and started a family. My grandparents decided that Evangeline would be a good role model to help her sister in this situation, and so my journey of life began just outside “the City of Brotherly Love.”

No, I was not an “anchor baby.” My parents were born American citizens in Puerto Rico, and my grandparents were granted citizenship as young adults in 1917. My grandfather was drafted to the US Military shortly after, just in time for WWI. Brooklyn

Nuyoricans “Passing” for an Opportunity

After I was born, my father came to see us at Aunt Evangeline’s house, and since my mother was “the love of his life;” we moved with him to New York City. We joined his older sisters and brother who migrated and settled in Brooklyn. My parents seemed to quickly become accustomed to the new culture and way of life while maintaining and blending the traditional customs of the major holidays. We used to tease my mother that she learned how to be “American” by watching “I Love Lucy” and Days of Our Lives.”

My parents socialized very little with friends outside of work so that we spent our weekends and holidays with family. For the most part, my family is very light skinned; my cousins and I grew up without accents, and our last names did not end in “Z.” These characteristics gave people an opportunity to get to know us before realizing that we were just an illusion of whiteness. Yes, we were “passing” as a means to have a chance.

In school, at the church and in the neighborhood, our friends were not Puerto Rican. Our friends were the first or second generation of immigrants. They were Italians, Irish, French, English, Polish, Canadian, Brazilian or Middle Eastern. Most spoke a second language at home. Together we navigated the Melting Pot culture of NYC and were absorbed into the American Dream.

Celebrity Magic Shows and Miracle Excelsiors

It wasn’t all easy peasy as my granddaughter likes to say and when I hear the rhetoric, I can’t help but feel a bit of fear and frustration. I continue to say that DJT is not the problem. He is who he is and who he has been. He didn’t get more obnoxious on the campaign trail. He did gain more visibility. I was not a fan of his before, not as a businessman or as a celebrity. I never watched his reality TV show and rolled my eyes whenever he did a cameo in a movie that took place in NYC. I was one of those that would have bet my last dollar that he would not get into the White House. The American people would never vote a con-man into the highest, most powerful office in the country. By Election Day, I had changed my mind. I watched how Americans adored his bravado and his magic displays with smoke and mirrors. I was not surprised by his win at all. Mostly though, I was hurt. I continue to feel betrayed by friends and family.

A Christian Education

I knew race tensions existed, and I was aware the KKK was still alive and well, but the events of the past couple of years reach me at a very personal level. I am reminded of my years as a young adult, my first year away from home in a Christian Bible college. It was a small Bible College in the North East, about an hour outside of The City. In was presented as “interdenominational” in promotional events and material. The leader of my city wide “interdenominational” Christian high school club recommended it highly. Interdenominational meant that all Christians around the world were welcome. Even though Baptists founded it, the school welcomed students from Presbyterians to Pentecostals in all shapes, sizes, and color. We had to include a photo with our application.

By the end of my first semester, I learned that indeed all that glitters is not gold and whitewashing walls is a quick, effective way to cover up dirt and imperfections. We learned that the school accepted minorities and international students of color in pairs, one man and one woman. It was preferable if they were already married. One of our friends was “spoken to” because people saw her around campus accompanied by a Brown student. To be truthful, I don’t remember what country he was from, but in my memory, I recall him as perhaps from India or Pakistan. The girl was so upset by this situation that she did not return next semester.

The Founder and President of the school taught a class on Dispensations. It was in his class that I decided not to come back after my second semester. I did not go back to my local church either. His beliefs did not resemble the Christianity I learned at home. His lessons were peppered with digs and condescending, derogatory remarks about other denominations that were not entirely in accord with Baptist dogma. I questioned my beliefs, my faith. It was years before I returned to an organized religious community.

Who Are My Friends?

There were many other things about the school that made me uncomfortable,but the most hurtful thing occurred after I left the school. I had become close friends with my roommate and a few of the girls in my dorm. Gwen, Margaret and I were inseparable. Margaret and I made plans to visit our boyfriends at a Christian College in New England next semester. I continued to correspond with the girls by snail mail. One day I received a letter from Margaret. One line in the message hit me like a gut punch. “Gwen and I miss you so much; we had to adopt another inner-city girl.” Wow! I thought we were friends, real friends. I thought she was my friend because we had a lot in common because I was smart, witty and fun to be around. She saw me as an inner-city-girl who went to her school on a partial scholarship and lived in her dorm.

Disguised, They Came For the Immigrants…

Years later, I was working at a psychiatric day services program is a New England city nicknamed “The City of Immigrants.” One day, after the clients left, and we were meeting to review the day’s events and planning. There was construction going on around us, and the noise prompted a co-worker, Doug, to make some awful comments, similar to DJT’s views, about the men who were working on the project.

The workers were mostly brown men if I had to guess they were probably from countries in South America and the Caribbean. “I can’t believe you just said that,” I told him. His response to justify his words was worse. I explained that these men could very well be my cousin, brother, or father. While he had never been disrespectful to me or made racist comments of our clients in front of me, it hurt me that he thought this way of these people he didn’t even know – just because of the color of their skin and their accents.

Doug was a man that I worked with for several years; we co-facilitated successful groups, we walked together at lunch, had our coffee together, I considered him a close friend. He finally said, “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.” It didn’t make it any better if anything, it made it worse that he wasn’t thinking about the impact of his words. Things were never the same between us.

Then They Came for Me…

People forget I am not “white,” I am a woman “of color,” Ecru Cream is my color. If our country were to continue to erase all the progress made regarding equality for all people; if as a nation we lose respect for basic human rights what is left for us? What becomes of me, of my family? If someone comes knocking on my door and drags me away because of a flippant comment I made on Twitter, will my friends stand up for me? Will they say, “Well, you shouldn’t have said that after all, he is our President.” I remember the words of Martin Niemoller, “… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

All this rhetoric brings all these emotions to the surface. DJT did not get to the White House on his own merits. Witnessing day after day that our lawmakers condone and defend his actions is very draining. I am reminded again: “…and when an experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” — George Santayana

Hope for Rational Government

The recent elections bring some hope that people realize that the current events are not just politics and business as usual, nor are they healthy for our Democracy. On the flip side, the recent election shows that there is still lots of work to be done. The numbers were too close for comfort, and there were too many mistakes and too much irregularity at the polls. Yes, I am weary, but I am hoping that tempered and rational thought comes with the new legislators to Congress before we resort to “Hunger Games” for the dignity and survival of the 98%.

Left Behind after a Death

A social media post reminded me the other night that it was a year to the day since my cousin, Joe died. I’m sad I didn’t remember, I spoke to his mom earlier that day. We talked for an hour about all sorts of trivial things, but she didn’t mention him till we were wrapping up. Even then, she told me it was his wife that missed him. She said: “Lizzy called this morning and told me she had been dreaming of Joe.” I’m usually more on the ball and can pick up things with my “third ear.” She called because she was sad, but I missed it.

I grew up close to my cousin and his sister. Our families would get together every weekend when we were kids in Brooklyn. He was the best man at my brother’s wedding. He went to prep school in New England on a scholarship, and after that, as the years past, we saw each other very little. I know he was a family man; crazy about his kids and a good husband. His son posted a sweet memorial that day and wished his dad would have been around to meet his first granddaughter.

When hurricane Maria caused chaos in Puerto Rico, Joe went to get his recently widowed mom and brought her back to stay with his family until he was sure things were better in her town. It was November when he dropped his mom off at the airport. That day, Joe told his mom that he wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon. He liked his job and was in good health. “I’m in it for the long haul,” he told her. They said goodbye, and he went to work. A few hours later, a co-worker found him slumped over his desk. It was his heart. He was 60 years old. My aunt didn’t go to the funeral; she didn’t want to see her little boy buried.

This incident got me thinking about how after death, life goes on around us here on earth. I remember feeling disconnected from everything and everyone whenever I’ve lost someone very close to me. I sat at my desk one day holding back tears because I was in pain and the world keep spinning on its tilted axis. The sun and the moon each came up as scheduled, people worked, laughed and played all around me as they had the day before and the day before that. I wanted to scream “STOP! It still hurts, Can’t you see? I’ve lost a part of me.” Intellectually, I know we all take turns with grieving one thing or another; and we all grieve differently, but at that moment, it hit me how personal grieving really is, but as they say, “the beat goes on.”

Growing up, as an Evangelical in Brooklyn, I knew nothing of the “Day of the Dead” traditions. In that fundamentalist religious culture, anything otherworldly is anathema, considered evil and would lead straight to perdition. It is that way for Halloween and the “pagan” Gaelic origins in Samhain. I find it interesting that both the Aztecs and ancient people of Scottish-Irish islands had similar celebrations before Christianity got to there. I was curious and learned that other ancient cultures in addition to China and Japan also set aside one day to celebrate or honor the dead ancestors.

I found out later in life that my grandparents traditionally celebrated the Day of the Dead, but with a somber tone. Even though they were not Catholic, they liked to be respectful of the family members who passed on before them. It was a day of quiet reflection for them. When I converted to Catholicism several years ago, I found the celebrations of All Souls Day and All Saints very comforting. I’m glad that the Church did not erase the sentiment behind these “pagan” traditions.

In my family, we have lost many loved ones prematurely by today’s standards, but really who is to say how many days are in the itinerary for this journey. Because we don’t know, we are encouraged to live each day to the fullest, to take every opportunity or to “make it a great day.” What happens when things don’t work out the way we plan?

A long time ago, I decided to embrace the idea that life or success is not a straight shot. At least it hasn’t worked that way for me or others I have met along the way. As I mentioned to someone the other day, getting to our goal is perhaps more like using the subway system or public transit to get our errands done at the different stops along the way. Let’s say we have a “to do” list, and sometimes we forget or miss an item and have to go back, or we find something interesting but unexpected, and we are detained for longer than we planned.

Of course, sometimes the train malfunctions and we need to rethink our strategy. The problem is out of our control, but we need to get things done. What do we do? We get out and walk, take the next train, find other means of transportation or look at how we can rearrange priorities to maximize our time.

I’ve been fortunate to have great role models. Grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles who taught me that is possible to overcome obstacles. I have heard stories of any one of them who was helpful to someone in need, even though they may have been confronting their own struggles. People remember them with love and admiration.

None of them were famous or of great wealth, but they left a mark that they were here. During these days of celebrating life and death, I didn’t light candles or put out food for their visit, but I remember them and honor their lives every day. And if there is a bridge or door or whatever for the spirits of our loved ones to visit, I hope they are pleased with how their seeds have grown and flourished.

I loved the movie “Coco” #Disney magic.

Why Bring Flowers?

Used to be Love, Flowers, and Goodbye

Tildie slowly exhaled and closed her laptop. Every morning after meditations, she checked her emails and social media. Now and then Tildie would come across the story of the eighty-year-old man who walked five miles to have breakfast with his wife in a memory care facility. When people asked him why he continued to go daily for so many years if she didn’t remember him; his answer always gave Clotilde “Tildie” Delsapo reason to pause: “She doesn’t remember me, but I remember her, and I haven’t forgotten how we used to be.”

Tildie dressed this morning with an old Barbara Streisand – Neil Diamond duet on her mind. The song, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” had taken on a new meaning for her. On rough days she would sing it fighting back the tears.

Today Tildie decided to stop on her way and buy fresh flowers from the garden nursery. She knew Sergio could still appreciate the beauty and perhaps the sweet fragrance would trigger a memory. She would make sure there were sprigs of lavender with hopes that somewhere in his new world he would find her.

At one time Sergio and Tildie were two spirits bound by love flying high above the clouds and earthly troubles. It wasn’t all rainbows and chocolates, but she had chosen to file the bad memories in a separate place. Tildie remembered the laughter, the tenderness and the adventures they shared. She remembered their late night talks. In her arms he was able to unlock the complex emotions he kept hidden from the rest. Tildie recalled how finding a smiley face on a post-it note in her notebook, kept a silly grin on her face for the rest of the day.

Sergio Miviere taught her many things about the world, about love, about herself. He helped her believe in her talents and pursue her dreams. Sometimes as they ate ice cream by the seashore, they would people watch. They would sit close together and whisper stories. They could build on each other’s imagination to create vignettes about their surroundings. “How do you come up with this stuff?” he told her often as he giggled like a small boy.

He had a scholar’s mind and could rationalize or give explanations in great detail about anything. Teaching was second nature, everything was a life-lesson, and she loved to hear him talk about the world around them. Yes, she thought, intelligence IS sexy.

She first started to notice a problem, when he talked to her of people she didn’t know, or he would say, “Remember the other day we were at …” but she had never been there. He had been there for business or with friends. She wanted to ignore the signs, but others started to ask concerned questions.

By far the saddest moment was when Sergio finally put aside his pride and acknowledged that his difficulty went beyond distraction or the stress having a lot on his mind. She watched him change before her eyes as he became angry and fearful of what was to come. Tildie promised Sergio all her love; to be with him forever.

In the years that followed they took extra care to cherish every moment. Every sunrise and sunset marked another day they were together. They received each day in gratitude, but little by little Sergio went down a path that left Tildie behind, alone to make difficult decisions.

The day Sergio moved to the care center was just another day of muddled talk and confusion for him. He stared at the ceiling as they helped him to bed unable to find words to ask questions. In that bed, Tildie left a shell of the man she loved, but also a piece of her heart. That night she couldn’t sleep, and the next morning she was at the Center by his bed before he awoke. He didn’t know who she was, but she knew him. She remembered who they used to be, Sergio and Tildie.

On good days Tildie thought there was a flicker of recognition. He would let her lay in bed with him. She liked to believe that his spirit remembered hers. She held him and sang to him “May I have this Dance?” until he fell asleep.

Today there was a vase of fresh flowers on the desk by the window with sprigs of lavender. Sergio’s eyes widened, perhaps in recognition of a memory they shared, but he no longer had the words. These moments had become Tildie’s life. How could she learn to say goodbye?

The more I write, the more I become aware of my process, and I’m beginning to see patterns in my writing. Even though I don’t post every day, I make it my business to sit down and work on something. I wrote this piece for my critique group this week. It’s flash fiction, and my challenge is trying to stay within the 750 words. I looked at some things in my drafts folder and started a few other stories, but nothing seemed to motivate me enough to put energy into it.

I went to see the new “A Star is born” last weekend. It was excellent on its own but some aspects still reminded me of Barbara Streisand. I started playing some of my favorites and was inspired to write this story with limited knowledge on the subject. It was well received in the group. Coincidently, another writer shared a personal account and a few poems about the same topic from a different point of view followed by some interesting discussion. I got some great suggestions which I will work on in the future, but it will certainly be more than 750 words.

(Pictures are not my own. Borrowed from Pexels on WordPress)

Just Do It! Dream Crazy.

Believe in something, even if it means sacrificing everything. #JustDoIt

A few months ago I wrote a post about Freedom of Speech which included Roseanne Barr, Samantha Bee and of course a section on Collin Kaepernick. In light of Nike choosing to work with Kaepernick for their 30th-anniversary campaign, and people burning their sneakers or cutting up their clothes, I felt the need to speak my mind about the way I see it – well because that’s what I do. You’ve been warned! (previously mentioned post can be found at the end of this one)

How much “sacrifice” is enough?

Let me start by saying that I support our Military and veterans. I believe our veterans and their families make the ultimate sacrifice for our freedoms. Not just freedom for a handful of power-hungry individuals, for but for all Americans. I will add that it’s a shame that the money generated by owners of professional sports franchises and professional athletes themselves is obscene compared to what “benefits” our active duty military and veterans get. I believe that one does not “honor” our country, our Republic by honoring a piece of cloth waving on a stick. We honor our country by honoring its people – all of our people, all the colors, shapes, sizes and abilities. The dreams of our people have made us a great nation. We celebrate strength and persistence in our people. I believe that is the message of the Nike campaign.

Let me follow that by saying, just to be clear; I do not purchase Nike products. Not now, or as long as I can remember. They don’t suit me. The shoes are too confining, the shirts and pants geared to more athletic types, which I am not. It’s a personal choice to be comfortable especially when I’m paying my hard earned money for a product.

Having said that, I have to admit that Nike has excellent marketing and a catchy slogan. I’ve used it myself when I’ve been obsessing about something I want to take on; for example, a new job, a major move to a new city or merely to get back on the treadmill and be more mindful of my food choices. Usually, it happens that after weighing all the pros and cons, sleeping on it, consulting each and every one of my friends and family, I get up one morning and after I’ve brushed my teeth, I stare at the mirror and say sternly to myself “JUST DO IT!” Suddenly I’m all pumped up and feel strong and confident like an Olympic athlete. Actually, that’s how I started blogging one day.

I want to share the full commercial that Nike is putting out as part of this controversial campaign. I find it pretty neat. It’s bigger than Collin Kaepernick, and it’s bigger than DJT. https://youtu.be/Fq2CvmgoO7I

Over the past couple of days, the networks and all kinds of social and news media have had lots to say. One of the first conversations I heard was that people took offense to the slogan that suggests that Kaepernick lost everything, but they contend, that Kaepernick had nothing to lose. I don’t know much about the game; the sports reports indicate that he was a second-rate quarterback that had one good season and then was underperforming each year after that. That may be true, but I think sitting on a bench and getting an NFL paycheck is better than being without a job or sponsors even if you did walk away with one-third of your original signed contract. ( ALL these sports guys get paid way too much anyway, but that’s another story.)

I also want to make clear that I am not a football fan, never have been – except maybe in high school because I was crushing on a couple of football players, but the charm wore off quickly as I realized I had more in common with the philosophers and artists. The sport doesn’t hold my interest long enough to understand why all these guys run and pile on each other over and over again. People have tried to explain it but – well let me be frank, I’m just not into it.

I give Kaepernick credit for feeling so strongly about something that he was willing to risk the dream he had worked for since the fourth grade. Maybe he just decided there was something better to wish for, like equality and justice for all. 2016 was a terrible year for high profile police shootings of unarmed African American men. I went back to look at the disturbing footage before I wrote this piece but I will not engage in rehashing the past. I will say that based on my experiences, I can appreciate the fear, the pain and the rage at the loss of life in an undeserving way.

What is the issue?

The other opinion I will share is that I believe the situation became toxic once DJT decided to make it an issue. I watched his “get that SOB off the bench, he’s fired! ” speech in Alabama in 2017 in which he also complained that the game was losing popularity because when the players hit too hard, they get a penalty. When the not so subtle hints didn’t work, he started putting more pressure on the team owners because as he said, “…It will happen…most of them are friends of mine”.

Before NFL team owners started getting pressure from the Administration to discipline, fire or get “control” of their players, it seemed that each team addressed the issue and the players’ right to “free speech” was respected. It was obvious to most that players were not disrespecting the veterans, the military, the country or the flag. They still “worked,” paid their taxes, and obeyed the laws of this country. Some commentators say the uproar over “taking a knee” would have eventually died down. Of course, that didn’t happen. The team owners felt obligated to play the other game and drew up rules to appease the rhetoric. Essentially they said, we don’t care, what you do, just do it where the public doesn’t see you.

Let’s not forget after all, that there are groups that do not salute the flag, for example, the Jehovah’s Witness or the AnaBaptist like the Amish or Mennonite groups.

Jehovah’s Witnesses intend no disrespect for any government or its rulers by a refusal to salute the flag. It is just that they will not, in an act of worship, bow down to or salute an image representing the State. They view it as similar to the stand taken in Bible times by three young Hebrew men who refused to bow down before the statue raised up on the plain of Dura by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar. (Daniel, chapter 3) – From Watchtower Online

and,

“The flag is fine, but we’re the only nation that worships the flag. It’s very heathen. The kingdom we live in, we pledge our allegiance to God, not the flag.” – quote from the PBS film “The Amish.”

All this research today, trying to get to the bottom of this leaves me with questions instead of an answer. If Collin Kaepernick said was on a jet plane, and God spoke to him and told him to kneel before the flag instead of pledging, would it be OK? If it were Tom Brady, the number one quarterback in America, and who decided to take a knee to protest something that he felt strongly about would it be an issue. Maybe a better comparison would be Tim Tebow as another controversial figure and a mediocre quarterback who brought his personal beliefs on the field each time? Is it really just a racial issue? Was it more about saying “there is no problem here.” Does Nike really aspire to inspire to unite?

Any ideas?

https://rosalind.life/2018/06/03/roseanne-samantha-and-free-speech/

A PRECIOUS Tribute to Mom

This has been a week of anniversaries for me. I’ve come to a place where I am at peace with each one. I’ve reposted this in remembrance of my Mom. I know she is free and sometimes I feel her so close to me. I am forever grateful for her. She wasn’t perfect and yet she was wonderful. I hope you can enjoy

via AtoZ Challenge P is for PRECIOUS

Why Is It So Hard To Reunite Immigrant Families Separated At Border?

I don’t begrudge this administration for getting tough on securing borders or irregular immigration (new buzzword from State Department). You will find most of us can agree on that, but I think all points of entry should be secure, not just the Southern Border. I also oppose the spirit of the policies implemented to “uphold” the laws. The message has been clear that zero tolerance is for Muslims and people of color.

Numerous fact-checking and media sites report that Barack Obama deported more people than any other president. DJT was correct on that one. Records show that he deported a couple million at least. All you have to do is type “Deporter in Chief” in your browser. The difference is that the Obama Administration was upholding the law without the reality TV mentality, without fanfare or bells and whistles. They followed the law as it was written by administrations before until they could make sustainable immigration reform. It was not all sunshine and lollipops, but they did not gloat in the predicament of those deported unable to obtain asylum. They utilized family detention centers trying not to separate families, especially with small children. Unaccompanied minors were held in centers or placed in the least restrictive settings while trying to connect them with parents or families already in the US. The Obama Administration did not set a goal of teaching lessons on illegal immigration to people from Central and South America. The Obama Administration did not make a spectacle of the annual pilgrimage sponsored by religious groups and Pueblos sin Fronteras (translated People without Borders) to assure safe passage to people in need of Asylum.

The significant difference in 2018 immigration policy and procedure that has caused humanitarian outrage is the story of the “tender age” children that were separated from parents without warning. Some too young to speak, others less than five years old didn’t know their parents’ real names or where they came from. It has been reported that parents seeking asylum did not have an opportunity to speak to children to explain what was happening before the children were taken away. Younger children and toddlers, of course, are the most vulnerable. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that there was no reliable documentation about the separations. No one knew which kids were sent where? They need DNA to find kids to match with parents?

I’m glad others have contributed additional information about the fate of these children, Lest we forget.

Please read below.

https://wp.me/p14KRi-2eLU

DJT and the KGB

I had a few busy and fun packed days this month. I apologize that I didn’t have the foresight to plan ahead and schedule posts for the time I would be away. Still learning, lesson learned. Now and then I had a few minutes of quiet while the kids were playing outside and I would at least try to share something with you that I thought was interesting or thought-provoking. Thank you all for the comments. I always appreciate the feedback, and I answered folks that shared their thoughts with me.

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I Have Been Weary

I thought I was Over It

I am No One’s Anchor

Nuyoricans “Passing” for an Opportunity

Celebrity Magic Shows and Miracle Excelsiors

A Christian Education

Who Are My Friends?

Disguised, They Came For the Immigrants…

Then They Came for Me…

Hope for Rational Government

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