Dates That Define and Remind Us

Whenever December 7th rolls around, I remember that it is Pearl Harbor Day.  I stop for a second and send a prayer to the valor and bravery that was exhibited, and I also pray for those who lost so much on that terrible day.

 I do this because it's part of being an American, not because it's part of my personal history.  It happened before I was born.  But, I know lots of people who can recall that terrible day as though it was yesterday.  For them, this unexpected attack is seared into their brains and they cannot, nor would they ever wish to forget.  It's part of what has forged their identity...it's part of what makes them an American.  It's part of the package of grit, determination, an unwillingness to give up their way of life or the demands that living free often requires.  It is how they define the spine and courage of being an American.  Time passes and the rawness covers over.  Life moves on and horror becomes history

 

Whenever September 11th rolls around, I remember that it is the day that America was attack by Muslim Terrorists.  I remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and the effort required to try and wrap my head around all that I was hearing.  The effort that was needed to not run around in fear.  The silence of the skies devoid of all planes for several days. I stop now, and send a prayer to the valor and bravery that was exhibited, and I also pray for those who lost so much on that terrible day.

 I do this because it's part of being an American, and sadly because it is a major moment in my history.  I know lots of people who can recall that terrible day as though it was yesterday.  And, for many it is as if that terrible day was just yesterday.  For many life stopped on that day.  For them, this unexpected attack is seared into their brains and they cannot, nor would they ever wish to forget.  It is part of what has forged their identity...it's part of what makes them an American.  It's part of the package of grit, determination, an unwillingness to give up their way of life or the demands that living free often requires.  It is how they define the spine and courage of being an American.  Times passes and the rawness covers over.  Life moves on and the horror becomes history.

Now, 12 years later, the day makes me sad but proud.  The horror of it, while still there if I concentrate is dimmed.  Mostly, what I can still feel is the shock of the day and why anything like it would ever happen.  Still, I can wonder how people can hate enough to do something so terrible.

And, 12 years later, I also realize that there are now hundreds of children who have no emotional tie to this day, just as I have no actual tie to the December 7th date.  For them, the attacks of 9/11 may or may not be something they discuss in their history classes.  It may be something they ask their parents about to gain a bit of perspective.  For most, though, it will simply be something that seems sad or confusing.  It will be part of the background of history for them, not an active part in how they define themselves as Americans.

 Little ones like our Ava, who just turned two, won't know a thing first-hand about this awful time. I hope we find a way of making it part of who she is as a proud American.  I hope her family finds a way to take a few moments on days like this one to discuss it; to have a few moments of silence and a prayer for all who have witnessed these events.

And, today on this 9/11 anniversary, I'll pray that sweet children like our Livy, will wonder about such cruelty, but hopefully will never know it directly as part of their personal history.

Some might think I'm wrong about this; they'll say we should remember every single day about these horrors so that we remain vigilant.   That is also a way to view the world.  But, I think I'd rather we teach our children about the love that was witnessed after those terrible acts, rather than the hatred that caused the execution of them.  I'd rather we glory in the non-stop work that was done to care for each other and set things right again.   I believe that it is this positive energy that defines us as Human Beings and Americans and that is what I want our children to learn.

December 7th and September 11th will not be days our young children concentrate on very often.  And speaking as a Human Being who has one of those days branded into the fiber of her being, I'm all right with that.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka She Who Witnessed 9/11

Racism 50 Years Later: Where Do We Go From Here?

This Wednesday, the 28th, marks the 50th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s march on Washington and the broadcast of what is now called his, "I Have A Dream," speech.

I find it interesting that, just as we are going to pay tribute to that monumental moment, we are facing some upheaval in the United States that makes one wonder: how far have we really come in terms of race relations?  The media coverage of the George Zimmerman trial turned it into a race bait, even though it is a tragic case of a man and a younger man getting into a street brawl with one of them ending up dead.  It should be about a lot of things that would help us make better choices and better legislation but it didn't.  Instead it became about the color of skin.  It became about a white man killing a black man. Although, what you did not hear very often was that Travon Martin was unfamiliar to a neighborhood watch man, in a neighborhood being plagued by home break-ins and other issues committed by black youths.  The color issue seems to be one of those things that distracts us from the facts and turns a very sad case into something hateful and inflammatory.  Should the black man have been thought of as suspicious by the white man?  In a perfect world, no.  But, in a perfect world, black men wouldn't be committing the crimes that tend to make everyone suspicious of someone they don't know.  Since it was a white man who did the shooting, the media wanted to make this one about race.

Just last week in Oklahoma, a good looking Australian exchange student was murdered by two teenagers.  Why was he killed?  Was it because he was in a neighborhood in which he should have known better not to be?  Or because he was in a brawl?  Or because he said anything hateful?  No.  He was murdered while out for his regular run in a quiet neighborhood.  Why?  Because the ass-hats who did it proudly crow, "We were bored,"  while one danced around and carried on like a fool during the booking process. It may not have been race related, but when you read some of the stuff the shooter posted about hating most white people on his FB and Twitter, it makes it very frightening that a young person would feel these things and act on them.

Are you freaking kidding me?  We had a young man murdered as the result of boredom?  How incredibly awful.  The perpetrators are reported to have been running wild in their neighborhood without supervision of any kind for quite awhile.  The mother is in jail.  A father?  Nope, not around.  It's like these kids had gone feral.  It's interesting, however, that different from the Zimmerman coverage, since these criminals are young black men who killed a man who happened to be white, the media really do want to make certain we don't immediately jump to the conclusion that this was a racist hate crime.  Interesting.

What do these two incidences and how the news covered them, have to do with the 50th anniversary of Dr. King's famous speech?  I'd say everything.  I am a 58 year old, white woman who was an impressionable eight year old when The March on Washington happened; I remember it.  And, as a white woman, having the Civil Rights Movement as part of my history, I have always believed it is my moral responsibility to never judge individuals because of the color of their skin.

That hasn't been necessarily easy; I was born in the mid-50s, grew up in downtown Baltimore in the 60s when serious race riots happened in many major cities, and came of age in the 70s when peace and love were important and so was making race a non-issue.  In those early years, although the beginnings of awareness that racism is anathema, names like nigger, spick, cracker, honkie, kike, wop, guinea, dago, mick, bo-hunk, etc, were still used without a trace of discomfort.  They were part of our world.  Hell, we even used phrases like, "jewed him down," when we were crowing about getting something for absolute bottom dollar!

But thankfully, even though it seems slow, we are a long way from those days when how we thought about someone was decided by their color or nationality.  Are we where we should be?  No, but we are far better than we were.  And, with each generation that comes along, color becomes less and less important until it would seem that our children are becoming almost color blind when it comes to people.  Pretty amazing when you consider it.

So, here we are 50 years after Dr. King's speech and I'm really questioning. After all the affirmative action, and social programs, public housing, education, discussion, and now political correctness, are we any better, a half century later?

I say yes and no.  And,  I'm going to be totally Politically Incorrect and add, I am sick to death of  the continual suggestion that white people are racists and that race relations in the U.S. are still awful. Even more, I reject the notion that most white people are racists who have simply learned not to share their thoughts out loud.

I'm also sick of feeling as though race relations rests completely on the white race changing the way we are, the way things are.  We all play a part in the success, or failure, of this issue.  Why don't we spend as much time talking about what people of color should be doing about this issue?  Where are they in meeting whites somewhere in the middle to help things change instead of standing back and waiting for miserable whitey to finally get it?  And, why does it seem that when an African American of notoriety, like comedian Bill Cosby, calls out his own about their behavior, he's called an Uncle Tom or completely dis'd by the black community?

Dr. King, a black father, movingly said, "I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."   What a beautiful wish for his children!  All children should have a passionate parent who would dream such huge dreams for them.

Dr. King, I completely agree with you.  And, even though I grew up in a world that didn't always recognize the correctness of this sentiment, I have always tried to meet each Human Being with this in mind. I think the average person does as well.  But lately?  Lately, all I am is very frustrated.

Lately, I am left to question the increasing sounds of people telling me I don't like them simply because I am white and they are not.  IT'S NOT ABOUT YOUR COLOR!  IT'S ABOUT THE WAY YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE!

While I do everything in my power to not judge you by the color of your skin, it's up to you to live your life in such a way that I can only judge you by the content of your character!  You must do the hard work to live your life in a way that requires that others immediately recognize the content of your character.


If you are a woman and have a a child out of wedlock, I think you have chosen a hard life, but I support you in that choice.  I support you having a child and raising it.  I don't insist you be married.  But, if you continue to have children with different men and they don't even know their fathers or share their last names?  What would make you think that is correct?  Currently, the statistic is that 75 per cent of black children are born out of wed-lock or into broken homes. More and more white children are homeless or in terrible situations. More grand parents are becoming the guardians of these children as drug addicted or absent parents drift away.  That is not all right.  I don't care what color you are...it's wrong.

If you are a man having sex without using birth control and your children are scattered all over, who you do not financially and emotionally support, who wouldn't know you were their father if they bumped into you, that's not all right.  I don't care what color your are...it's wrong.

If you decide that it's all right for you to call each other nigga because you are black, but want to hurt a white person who uses the word, it's wrong.  You don't have the right to use that word in songs and in public if you have determined it's hate speech.  I don't care what color you are, if the word is hateful, it's wrong to use it.

If you act out in public with your pants down around your thighs so that your ass is out and I see your underwear, you act in a way that is disrespectful to yourself and those around you.  It is not a fashion statement, it's stupid.  I don't care what color you are, it's wrong.

If you find yourself in school and you don't do everything you can to maximize the opportunity you are being given, it's wrong.  If the school you are in is broken or not teaching you, go find a mentor, go find a tutor, go find an adult who will help you.  Don't sit there and say, "It's not my fault they're not teaching me anything," go look for someone who would be more than happy to help you!  Hell, call me, I'm happy to tutor you!

If you can do something to help your neighborhood come together and begin to regain its peace and sense of community, but instead you run in gangs, take part in drive by shootings that kill innocent children, sell drugs, and terrorize people, it's wrong.  If you don't help people in need, beginning with your family and extend a helping hand to those around you,  I don't care what color you are, it's wrong.

If you have the opportunity to form a committed relationship and a secure family instead of using each other like sex toys and spreading unwanted children all over the place, and you don't do it, it's wrong.  I don't care what color you are, it's wrong.

If you don't look for a connection with the God of your understanding, and instead act in a godless, miserable way, spreading hate, fear and crime, I DON'T CARE WHAT COLOR YOU ARE, IT'S WRONG!!!!

And, I'm not racist expressing these ideas.  Nor am I wrong to call "Bullshit," on those insisting that I am intrinsically racist simply because I was born white.  If you believe that, aren't you acting in a racist way, or am I missing something?!

So, as I see it, here's the challenge, (and the liberating thing is that this whole racism issue is no longer just the white race's issue to correct,) because...

...I can very successfully not judge you by the color of your skin.  Thanks to Dr. King and other people who were part of the Civil Rights Movement who helped us all to understand the importance of this.  BUT, only you can decide to live your life in a way that compels me to respect you, by the content of your character.

We have a lot of work to do in this country, but it's the work of all.  It's no longer enough to point a finger at Whitey and say it's their work alone.   If we want racism to vanish so that we're not having this same conversation at the 100th anniversary of Dr. King's speech, it's not enough for only white people to hold themselves accountable.  People of color must also work within the framework of our collective society to bring about the change that is needed.  And, if we really wish to eradicate racism, we must teach children that it's not enough to be color-blind; they must live their lives justly so that the content of their character is the only measure.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly 

July Jots And Musings

It's finally July again.  It is a month with lots of moments that mean something to me.  I wish I liked it more, but it falls right in the middle of summer and is always blistering hot.  And, hot and me?  Not a good combination.  I hate to be hot.  Hate. To. Be. Hot.  But, it's such a big month.  Birthdays for certain.  Canada Day and Independence Day here...major celebrations, parades, picnics, fireworks, (which by the way, Rory absolutely is phobic about which is another reason that July can work on my nerves.)

My next door neighbor Allen and I share the same birthday which is fun.  We generally get together for drinks and a "Cheers to us and our new year!" 

Vacations are a big part of July...and one can always look forward to that.  This year My Lion and I are headed to the New York Finger Lakes area.  We'll stay in a bed and breakfast and tour around on The Spyder seeing a new part of the country.  I am sure it will be fun.

I turn 58 years old on the 12th.  I  try reading that number and not wonder how I can be 58 when I'm certain that I'm really only 28.  There's a 30 year disparity there.  30 years....30 YEARS.  I know by today's standards that's not 'old' but it's mind altering to realize how different reality can be from the image and vision one holds in their head.

58; it's not old, but pretty substantial.  And yet, older as I am, I still remember Julys most clearly from my days as a kid on Howard & 27th Street in Baltimore.  The heat from all the concrete and asphalt.  The people coming out of their homes to sit on their front porches under the yellow glow of the many street lights.  Sitting and rocking, hoping to catch an errant breeze, talking over the low walls or rails that separated their porch from their neighbor's porch.  Rails low enough that you could throw a leg over to drop something off to them or borrow a cup of sugar.  Easily chat over if both were inclined. Large enough to respect the need of the other to simply sit and not talk.  Not eavesdrop on conversations that might be easy enough to hear but had nothing, whatsoever, to do with you.  Short enough to be neighborly; tall enough to be respectful. Such is life in row-homes.

Flower boxes on wide porch walls growing petunias or other mundane flowers that could withstand the heat of high summer in a city.  Or, in the case of my pragmatic grandmother, basil and herbs grown in an aluminum wash tub.  The sound of conversations or laughter more easily heard after the roar of rush hour cars had faded away.  Kids standing on the street corners in groups, laughing and being kids.  Until their noise got too big and then an adult would yell at them and tell them to move off.  Sometimes they did; sometimes they'd stand there in defiance.  At least until the beat cop strolled by and then they'd scatter.

For me as a kid, the 4th of July was a prelude to the much more important date of July 12.  My birthday was always way more important to me.  But one year, the year I was to turn 9, the 4th of July changed everything for me.

My Grand Pop got up and started his day as he always did, except for some reason, he decided to put on one of his good suites.  And, Nanny The World's Meanest Woman, chuffed at him for putting on his good clothes.  She strongly suggested he go change into something else because we were having a family picnic later and he was sure to get food on it.  But, he waved her off and went to sit out on the front porch.  He sat and waited for the time to pass until it was time for all of us to leave.

Nanny was on her way down the steps to get something out of the cellar when she felt as though she really needed to go check on Nick.  She thought it silly and started down the steps again, only to feel as though something was pulling at the back of her house dress.  She'd felt that before, when one of her six children turned out to be in serious trouble, but not for years.  Following her instincts she went back up and through the long house out to the porch.  She stood next to Pop who looked up at her and said quietly, "Mom, I don't feel so good," and he slumped into her.

Across the street Uncle Joe, Nanny's brother, happened to be sitting on his porch, a rare day off.  It being a holiday, his green grocery located across the alley from the back of our home was closed.  All the beautiful produce normally out on the steps locked tight inside.

Joe, saw and rushed across the street after yelling for Aunt Rose who raced out of their house.  Neighbors gathered and someone called an ambulance.  It came quickly.  But it drove away slowly to Union Memorial Hospital; no lights, no siren, no need because Grand Pop was gone.  Just that quickly.  Gone.  And the world changed for all of us.

Typical of a kid who has the myopic vision of one who has only been alive for a short time, I was totally angry with Pop.  His dying certainly meant the end of my birthday plans!  And, I never said a word to anyone about how disappointed I was in him for ruining my birthday, not to mention what I would always remember about The 4th of July!

I couldn't stay mad at him long.  Very shortly, my sadness over his leaving overtook any other thought or feeling.  I loved him.  And, his death was the very first one that I had experienced.  I knew other people had died, but he was the first person whom I loved and cared about that I had to process.

Shortly after his death, the family decided it would be better for Nanny if Dad and I moved in with her.  I didn't want to do that.  I liked our apartment over the restaurant!  We were just across the street from her, why did we have to move in?  But, I was a kid and had no say so we moved.  I had been all right with visiting with Nanny and Pop whenever I felt like it.  It was good to have another home to visit, like visiting with Aunt Rose and Uncle Joe across the street.  Or visiting with Aunt Rose and Uncle John on the other corner.  But, I sure didn't want to give up my home to move in with Nanny! 

Life went on again.  It always does.  And so many more Julys and Independence Days have come and been celebrated in my life.  Along with many more birthdays.  Now I'm glad that Pop went out with a bang on the 4th because I never ever forget him on that holiday and always stop to give him a thought and I love you.

But, this year it occurs to me that one of the reasons I don't always like the coming of my own birthday is colored by that 4th of July so very long ago when Grand Pop changed the world for me.  And, while I'm no longer sad over his passing, having the wisdom and experience to process it correctly, somehow, my birthday has never been as joyful for me.  That, I've never really been able to change.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka Nicholas Dituri/Dietor's grand daughter