Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. | Dreams and Change  

Posted by: TMTW in , , ,



This post is in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and is aimed at you, dear Reader. It's aimed at us. It's to no one and everyone at the same time. It's to the faceless and to the named, and to those who feel that the world keeps them down. It's to those who make the rules or those who break the rules. It is for all who believe in Dr. King's dream. It is for those who learned the true history from that time period, who have read about or seen the inhuman way in which blacks were treated. It is for those who lived it, who lived through it. It is for those who forget about it and passed down segregation and hatred to their children and grandchildren. It is for those who take the sacrifices of our nation's greatest civil rights leaders and drop the ball, never to pick it up again.

Along with his last breath of life, a man handed over the reigns to future change. The drapes of racial oppression and segregation were torn down, exposing a promising future. To ensure that promising future, society stepped up and made demands on our government and our society itself. "We shall overcome" became a mantra of promise rather than just hope. Our government took measures to guarantee that all young men and women could achieve Dr. Martin Luther King's Dream.

(You need to turn off the music player in order to hear videos properly. The music player is found in the sidebar. Click the pause button. Thank you.)



(article continues after transcript)


Martin Luther King, Jr.

"I Have a Dream"
August 26, 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.


I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹


I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little 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.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."2

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.


And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!



The question is, have you contributed to the solution or have you simply allowed yourself to be part of the problem? Do you listen to those who tell you that you are being kept down or do you rise up and show the world that only you can keep yourself down? Are you trifling, lazy, complacent in your civic duty, or a self-pleaser rather than a peace-bringer? Do you shirk off the challenges before you because it would be too much trouble, and then do you further use an excuse of "oppression" to justify your personal apathy towards your own life? Do you turn a blind eye on the very things that keep your society down: drugs, gangs, prostitution and bigotry towards other races?

If this sounds harsh, I'm sorry. It's my feelings on the matter.

One determined and hard-working black man will be inaugurated on January 20th as President of the United States. What do I hear? Complaints from some people who insist that he's only half black, therefore not black enough to be the first black president. "He not one of us."

Who is the our greatest enemy? Is it people of other ethnic backgrounds? Is it the government? I believe it is us. We can't get ahead in life if we don't take control of where we are now, no matter our race. We can't blame anyone but our own self for how we approach life. Circumstances may not be favorable, but we determine if our life is bitter or sweet.

Perhaps Aaron McGruder, creator of the comic strip (and television series) Boondocks, says it best. His premise is that King did not die that fateful day but slipped into a coma only to awake thirty years later to a world where his dream was reality yet was also squandered away.

The episode that pissed off far too many people; it points out things that are overlooked far too often. I don't agree with McGruder on many of his political opinions however I applaud him for stepping up and expressing those opinions despite the negative (if not bitterly angry) attention that they sometimes garner.



Part 1





Part 2





Part 3



As we enter into Black History Month, let's not forget the contributions made by civil rights leaders such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Let's not forget organizations such as 100 Black Men of America, Inc. which I fully endorse.

Let's recognize the hard work put into UNCF, which is dedicated to empowering our young men and women.

Finally, visit The King Center in order to understand the struggles and triumphs of a people who gave all they had so that even the smallest and most fragile of souls, a child or young adult, a grandmother or mother, a man with the desire to serve, all who would seek this lofty dream could rise up in freedom and become a beacon of hope and change for all of society.

1 comments

Ewni'ceph  

Posted by: TMTW in , ,


The rich and the poor have this in common: the LORD is the maker of them all. ~ Proverbs 22:2

The offerings given for the sake of God are [meant] only for the poor and the needy, and those who are in charge thereof, and those whose hearts are to be won over, and for the freeing of human beings from bondage, and [for] those who are over burdened with debts, and [for every struggle] in God's cause, and [for] the wayfarer: [this is] an ordinance from God - and God is all-knowing, wise. ~ Quran, 9:60


Baahir sat on the low plaster wall and let his heels bounce gently on the warm beige stucco. He had a game of it, bouncing each foot a set amount of times to match the resonant and uniform thuds caused by the strange hand-cranked machine that was here to dig a new well. The seismic shocks rippled out from the site, rolling along the ground and racing up the wall. Baahir smiled and felt the well’s birth pangs in his chest (for that’s what he thought they were.)

“Water muddy water, up from bottom deep, lapping over bucket, and I drink so no sleep,” he chanted. He licked his bottom lip and then quickly regretted it; the machine was kicking up dust and the winds had placed a fine layer of powder on his face.

Tiny feet slapped upon the warm stone, and a shock of kinky brown hair heralded his sister’s arrival as she lifted her head and peered at the workmen from her hidden vantage point behind the wall.

“They done?” she asked as she tugged her rainbow colored shirt back into place.

“No, Alia,” Baahir replied. He reached over and tried to pat her hair down, but gave up after a while. Nothing could tame her hair. Not even their mother. Baahir felt a sharp pang of remorse. How much time had passed since the Bad Day?

Baahir helped his sister up so that she could sit next to him. “Do you remember mama?”

“Some,” Alia said. “I remember her laugh but her face is going away.”

The boy put an arm around his sister and pulled her snug against his side. He remembered mama’s face. He remembered the morning she tried to braid Alia’s hair. Mama had said, I will have strength or I will perish trying. Mama always said that when trying to get Alia’s hair into place. Who knew mama would finally be right? Who knew mama would run with each of them uncomfortably pressed into her ribs as she fled towards the scrubby bushes behind the house?

Her heart beat fast. Baahir remembered that, and he could even smell her sweet sweat as it spread across the fabric between his body and hers. She had no air for prayers. She panted and he watched the ground speeding under him, marveling at her feet as they propelled her forward. The jostling hurt badly but neither he nor his sister would protest. They sensed that something was wrong. He felt her wrappings billowing out behind them, around him, his world a prism of mama’s favorite reds and golds mixed with the lighter oranges of her hijab. Their father always pampered mama with beautiful things that he found on his business travels.

The brush was right before them, prickly and sticky. Baahir was afraid mama would run right through it and he tried to hitch himself a little higher up to avoid the nasty leaves and twigs. Mama’s breath left her in a puffed oof then, the same silly sound his sister made when he shoved her between her shoulder blades. Mama didn’t sprawl forward like Alia would do; she staggered a few steps into the scrub and then he felt something impact again. He was dimply aware of a loud crack rending the air. Then they fell, he and mama and Alia, and the scrub swallowed him painfully. He was smothered and frightened. He instinctively curled against mama and pushed his face into her body. He heard her heart beat slowly and then become still. He knew no more.

“Baahir? Baahir!” Alia protested, squirming next to him in the hot sunshine. Her brother was practically squeezing the air out of her. “Ow Baahir!” She pushed his arm off and he slid off the wall.

“Is it the dream, Baahir? The sleeping one where mama doesn’t wake?”

The boy rubbed his face with his arm, the angry tears mixing with the dust to form gritty streaks. This was their life now. He was powerless to change it, just as he’d been powerless to save mama. His sister would forever have wild hair because mama had said she would die if she couldn’t tame it.

Loud voices shouted in a foreign language. Alia skittered back over the wall and snaked her way toward the front of the building. Baahir followed, protectively pushing her closer towards the cooler shade provided by a wall. They peered around the corner.

The Ewni’ceph man was there and he was talking loudly to the well digging supervisor. They spoke in the foreign language, bantering back and forth while pointing in the direction of the well.

Alia tapped Baahir on his shoulder. “They give us the shots and some extra mash?” That’s what usually happened when these people showed up at the refugee camp.

“No, I don’t think he’s here for that. No women or doctors with the Ewni’ceph man.”

“He's here to make them dig faster,” she said, and offered her brother a smug grin.

Baahir gazed at the man. He didn’t like the way the man’s eyes looked. They were dark and tired, resigned and sad.

A third figure, a girl much better cared for than Baahir and his sister, carefully picked her way through the loose rubble.

“He speaks English and says ‘I’m sorry, but we’re pulling out of this area. There’s nothing more we can do. I’m so sorry.’ The Ewni’ceph peoples will leave now.” She made eye contact with Baahir; the look spoke volumes.

“What do we do?” Baahir said. “We can’t follow them and we can’t remain here.”

“We do what’s expected of us,” the girl said flatly. “We do what they wanted us to do all along, because it’s why they took our homes and families. We do as they want because all that we have, all the riches of life, are gone.”

“What do we do?” Baahir questioned again.

The girl shrugged. “We die. It’s not as if anyone cares about the rich or the poor of our peoples.”

Baahir shook his head. “We walk to the next camp.”

“The road is paved with the dead,” the girl replied. Alia began to cry.







More than four years have passed since the start of the genocide in Darfur, Sudan. As many as 300,000 innocent people have been killed and more than 2.7 million more have been driven from their homes. These refugees now face starvation, disease, and rape, while those who remain in Darfur risk torture, death, and displacement.

UNICEF - Sudan - UNICEF in action Please, help them help the children.

Although Darfur remains the worst complex emergency in the world, UN agencies and partners working in the region have reported a dramatic decline in donor support. Sadly, as media coverage has dwindled over the past two years, security has further deteriorated, the caseload of conflict-affected persons has risen and the dependency of communities on humanitarian aid has increased—meaning that funding cuts will make a direct and unfortunate impact on children and families, likely eroding the progress made. Due to the lack of funding, UNICEF is currently in the process of planning scale-back measures and strategies for handing over lifesustaining and life-saving programmes to the government, despite its limited capacity to fund and manage activities. With rationalization of costs and scaling-back of programes, UNICEF’s remaining funding will carry its operations in Darfur through until mid-May. If UNICEF does not secure funding in the next three months major cuts will be made with serious consequences for children. UNICEF urgently requires US$ 87 million to continue its life-sustaining and lifesaving programmes.

5 comments

The Tinker's Cafe, link updates  

Posted by: TMTW

The Tinker’s Café

We are well into our second month at Tinker’s (Blog Talk Radio) and Roidan and I are settling into a pattern. The whole thing has been rather disjointed up until now (and perhaps it still is.)

We’ve tried the laid back approach. We’re not really sure if it’s working. We’ve tried meditation segments, bible study segments (off schedule) as well as our normal segments. One topic shows are fine, if the listener wants only one topic. We’ve decided to skip around and offer multiple topics per show.

Our last show was awesome towards the end. We had Kevin (Gay Life Coach) on and he filled us in with some wonderful Community news. I think it is safe to say that he survived his brush with Fred Phelps and his minions.

Once again, I invite you to check us out and give us an honest opinion. Let us know how we can improve.

The show:
Tinker's Cafe, the BTR Show or www.btrshow.tinkerscafe.com

Our web site:
www.tinkerscafe.com

Our blog:
www.blog.tinkerscafe.com


To email your point of view:
pov@tinkerscafe.com

Listen to Autrice DelDrago The Tinker’s Café on internet talk radio

1 comments

Quote of the Day gone awry  

Posted by: TMTW in ,

Who died and made this crook
the Quote of the Day?

2 comments

Red Peppers, a Quest for Noel Coward's script  

Posted by: TMTW in , ,


I woke up with Red Peppers on the brain. Not the kind suitable for eating, dear Readers; the play.

I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)

Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.

There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.

Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.

To this day I have but one regret: I have never seen my mother perform. She was instructing and directing by the time that I came along. She has recited lines for me (such as the Red Peppers moment) and I always found myself to be dumbfounded by her knack of getting quickly into character, to step into a role that she had not embraced in over “a million” years. I was immeasurably proud of her during those moments.

Accents. “A Southern accent is infectious and can ruin an entire show.” It is sage advice from a woman who understands her craft better than most people know their own navels. My mother ran through a few lines (by memory) using a flawless Cockney (or East Ender) accent. The script begs for it. I was duly impressed as I stood in her library.


This is the point where I would insert a bit of dialog in order to give you a peek into Red Peppers. I would like to. I can’t find the lines anywhere.

Pickabook offers: Thisitem is not a usual stock item, but we can try to source it. Our price includes a finder's fee of £2.00 per copy. The usual dispatch time is 4-6 weeks.

No shit, Sherlock. I spent a good hour Googling in hopes of finding a snippet of lines from the script. Class and wit have been replaced by talking vaginas and cuckold men (my apologies to my NOW friends and family.)

Samuel French did have a copy and a short synopsis of the play.
One of the "Tonight At 8:30" series produced in London and New York. Doing a song and dance act in a vaudeville theatre are George Pepper and his wife, Lily. They also have a genius for picking quarrels and insulting co workers. When the house musical director, Bert, comes to the dressing room to bum a cigarette and a beer, they chide him for accompanying them in the wrong tempo, call him a drunk, and oust him. Mr. Edwards, house manager, comes to defend Bert, and he is insulted. At the following show Bert had his revenge when he plays the accompaniment so fast the Peppers get frantic and finally fall down. Lily stalks off the stage after heaving her hat at Bert. Also published in Tonight at8:30.
FEE: $35 per performance. Sheet Music (2 songs), $1.25 each.


La te da, Samuel French. (It's located in Key West. No, not Samuel French. La Te Da.)

I'd like to know some of the lines. I'd like to touch upon a memory. There is only one thing for it: Call Mum.

“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice. It’s noon here and I am actually out of bed. Did the house catch fire? Am I in the hospital dying from typhoid? Did we win the lottery?

Detour moment:
I never call her early in the day. I always manage to call her towards the end of the day, as if she were nothing but an afterthought to my busy (NOT) day. This is not the case, dear Readers. My mother is not an afterthought. She is writing a book and I do not wish to disturb her. Also, Better Half drives me nucking futs during the day and I seem unable to string two words together without him shouting at some animal or another.

“Nutmeg! NUT meg! NUTMEG! Get DOWN. Down. DOWN. DOWWWWNNNNNN!”

Jebus Crisp, Better Half! “Better HALF! BETTER HALF. Shush! SHUSH! SSSHHHUSH, I’m on the damned phone”. Thus go my days.

I have a sweet friend who also is cursed with oft-impish fur children. He will politely say, “Simba, get down. Mummy’s on the phone.” So elegant. I sometimes dread calling Michael for fear that Better Half will spontaneously explode from the sound of his own voice.

“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”

I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.

Back to my mother:

“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”

“Yes”

“Wasn’t there a song in there?”

“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.

I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?

She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.

“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)

I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.


I cast my mind about for lines from any productions that I’ve been in, reaching far back into my thirty-seven year old memory cache. It’s not impressive compared to Mum’s cache. (I have a hard time remembering what I ate for breakfast, where I left the dog and my own age.)

Lines? I have the ability to remember those. Perhaps it is a gift from Mum.

My first thought is The Decision. I remember the entire script, and I do mean the entire script. Every line. It’s a three-act play. Three hours of lines. I was in every scene; my father initially played the role.
This trial is one of great decision on your part. The accused is not present at this hearing. I have been assured by his counselor that the defendant will be watching these entire proceedings.

I am prepared to present to you many witnesses to prove the accused is guilty of having misled and confused millions of innocent people. In actuality, it is not so much the defendant who is on trial here, but rather it is his lunatic ideals that his followers have plagued mankind with…
I remember things from high school and earlier – first grade at St. Rose of Lima Elementary, we did a production called The Five Stones. I played the part of Martha. I think my husband was Zack. I can recall grabbing that young actor’s arm and delivering an irritated, “Come on, Zachary!” before dragging him stage right. Is this just some sort of floating dream? I reminiscence about a scrapbook and of an old photograph published in our local paper. It depicts that exact scene. Therefore, I can assume that either my memory is foggy or that I am actually remembering the lines.

Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.

Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.

My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.

0 comments

Buddhism: philosophy or religion?  

Posted by: TMTW in ,


Many people misconstrue Buddhism as a mystical practice best undertaken in the quiet hush of a white or red Zen-themed loft crammed with ash-caked incense burners and Asian idols. Prayers are offered to monkey gods, fish gods, Starbucks gods and small crouton- or plumb-shaped demigods. The practitioner must be bald or at the very least “one of those demonic yoga people” and they must at all times remember that their Buddha god (the fat or thin one) is in control of their happiness.

I haven’t a clue what all the various Buddhist branches, practitioners and organizations teach. I have encountered only a few groups and my memories of them don’t hold much water. This is not to say that I find them deficient; I am confident that millions of people profit from their spiritually strong Buddhist walks. I personally do not believe in praying to a god in order to change things that cannot or should not be changed. To devote all of one’s energy into demanding the world change to fit our needs is to stand on top of the world itself and rebuke the sun, if not the entire universe, for failing to revolve around the Earth. Why should we strive to go against God’s or the gods’ will?

I can spend hours filling pages of what I do know about Buddhism from an historical or philosophical point of view. I chose to refrain from doing that here. I will say this: to obtain enlightenment is to be a Buddha. The word itself is Sanskrit for “the enlightened One” and usually refers to Gautama Buddha; it has become a commonplace word used to describe those people who strive to reach their center and then to go beyond it, to transcend.

I belonged to an organization known know as Soka Gakkai International (SGI - USA division) in the late 1980s. It was Nichiren Shoshu of America (NSA) during my time. The 1990s split (NSA to SGI-International) was anticipated for quite a while. What remained afterward became, in my opinion, a lost puppy with good intentions. Yes, we can bring about world peace. Yes, by chanting we find our focus. Yes, we can be instruments of change. No, we should not have given the teachers (Buddhist priests) the boot. No, the Gohonzon (scroll, to simplify) is not worthless if handwritten by a priest. (Old Gohonzons were replaced with newer ones. They were just as pretty but did not have the same deep meaning for many people.) SGI broke down into a pissing contest between the old and the new. I left when it started to pick up a religious fervor (prior to the beginning of constant Gongyo revisions.)

Gongyo is integral to NSA/SGI. The word is Japanese and means “studious practice” and Gongyo itself is the chanting (recitation, repeating a mantra) of certain parts of the Lotus Sutra. Nichiren Daishonin, a Buddhist monk from thirteenth century Japan, studied this sutra and determined that “it contained the essence of the Buddha’s enlightenment and that it held the key to transforming people’s suffering and enabling society to flourish”. Certain groups state that the Lotus Sutra allows one to find inner peace in order to be more effective in the world at large, a pebble dropped in a pond. Nichiren’s Gohonzon can be seen below.

Gohonzon translation

Gongyo (chanting portions of the sutras) is meant to harmonize our individual existence with the universe(‘s). I found it odd when most of my American friends began to chant for changes in their lives, almost pleading with the Gohonzon as if it were a god. One can not find harmony with the universe if one is begging for changes to take place.

“Chant to the Gohonzon for a boyfriend! Chant for a car. Chant for a new job!”

This practice seemed futile to me.

I am a philosophical Taoist at heart. This is not the same as Buddhism. Taoism emphasizes the Three Jewels of the Tao: compassion, moderation and humility. There is action through inaction. To find inner peace, one must accept life for what life is and move beyond it, becoming one with the universe, as a blade of grass bending in the wind (the blade is still a blade no matter how the wind blows and thus it finds harmony. When the lawn mower comes along, part of it continues to grow while the other part moves beyond to become nourishment and shelter – mulch – for other things, thus it is still accepting of its fate and continues to be in harmony and balanced.)

Example: My laptop sits on my favorite table. I accidentally knock the laptop over. It breaks beyond repair or salvage:

A. I rage. I scream. I wail, lamenting the loss of my tool. I get angry. I blame the dog or invisible things (surely I would never be so careless
as to knock it over.) I grieve the loss. I become angry again because it will be expensive to replace. I kick my favorite table over, then become more irate over that bit of destruction.

~ or ~

B. I accept that it is broken. I mourn the loss. I vow to replace it and to be less irresponsible next time around. Nothing will bring my laptop back. Accept: allow yourself the dignity of having a response and then move on. Material things are immaterial in the grand scheme of life.
We are humans and often fail to respond as calmly as this (those with anger issues or bipolar disorder have a very hard time with it) but we can endeavor to apply this way of thinking to our daily lives. To do so, we should contemplate our actions and meditate to find our center.

The Taoist philosophy can be applied to any religion. There is a fantastic book out there for Christians who embrace this philosophy: Christ the Eternal Tao.


I digress.

I found the practice of begging a scroll (made somewhere in the world) for life changes absurd in comparison with the sutra being chanted to that scroll. Daimoku (the repetition of nam-(mu)-myoho-renge-kyo) for personal material or relationship gain was also pathetic. I can see where one chants to center one’s self in order to set out to make a difference, however. I have not met many SGI practitioners who do so. Somewhere the practice of sitting in front of the Gohonzon and meditating on the lessons/passages/encouragement become paper worship. The message of Nichiren Daishonin became elevated to more than it was intended. One can not become enlightened if one can not accept that the world is as it is, unless we allow ourselves the ability to let go and move to a higher level of thinking. To ask for material things is to remain grounded to material things, making them more important than inner peace (because, by that misguided logic, one can not obtain happiness until one is granted the material thing that one wishes to have.) You will hear this mantra from me frequently.

Please understand that I hold no ill will towards SGI. I simply do not agree with them. Current SGI President Daisaku Ikeda, on the other hand, is an incredible man who has championed for world peace without pause for breath. I hold him in the same high regard that I give to distinguished pacifists such as Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa. No human is perfect yet each of these people ventured to rise above the din to help others obtain some freedom from their personal hells.

I have included two YouTube vids below. One is of Gongyo (chanted at a normal pace); the second is Gongyo in a format that is easy to understand and follow. You should turn off any musical applications that I have running (it will be a box on the side, under profile. If you do not see it, then I have removed it once again.)

~ Enjoy ~


Gongyo (normal pace) with proper repetitions in place.




Gongyo (slow version; text) basic without repetitions. This version is hard to chant if you are accustomed to a much swifter pace (see above); it is like pulling fingernails. The words are broken down from Japanese kana (their letters). Each "word" represents a letter, just as each sound is a "letter" (and vice-versa) in Japanese. My name, in this confusing form, would be Au Trice Del Dra Go. This explanation is intended to be simple.



Links:
SGI-USA: About Nichiren Buddhism


SGI-Canada translation - fairly accurate, if this is were SGI is finally coming to rest in the sutras. Well done, Canadians. The full Lotus sutra can be found online. Please do not assume, "Oh, evil, the writer acts as if he is God. There is great depth to the Lotus Sutra and this small portion of it does not explain the whole of the work; a thorn in my side as it pertains to SGI.

0 comments

Quote of the Day  

Posted by: TMTW in

Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of this life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works ~ Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

0 comments

Invitations  

Posted by: TMTW in ,


She sat quietly in the playground and watched the other girls playing with their Strawberry Shortcake dolls. They laughed and combed the pink plastic hair, pausing to sniff the chemically infused scent of each doll. The boys raced around the blacktop in an impromptu game of tag, sweat making their faces glisten in the California sunshine.

There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.

The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.

None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)

Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.

The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.

I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?

She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.


The girl would shed silent tears later that day and act as if she were holding one of those envelopes. She would imagine choosing an outfit to wear for the party and then arriving at the party and allowing the girls to pull her over to the piñata or cake. It was all futility. An extremely dreadful knowledge held her heart captive; she was not wanted. It was a bit of emotional baggage that she would carry with her for a very long time.

5 comments

A Look at Willa Cather  

Posted by: TMTW in ,

WARNING: Controversial Material


Pulitzer Prize winning Willa Cather has been regulated to a “Quote of the Day”. Imagine that.

I first discovered this writer through her novel, “My Antonia”, which was an assigned reading project in my junior high English literature class. Cather’s writing style and attitude absolutely captivated me. Our school library did not provide other works by this remarkable woman and only the Encyclopedia Britannica offered any (woefully lacking) information. It would be many years before I could read her other works; almost a decade and a half before I could learn about Willa the writer.

Willa, who often referred to herself as William, was transgender in my opinion. Lesbians and women’s rights activists would disagree with me (go right ahead, it’s my damned blog!) She behaved boyishly and often dressed in a masculine fashion during a period of time when women of her social status were the epitome of grace and fluff. This was “just not done” during the Victorian era. She was managing editor of McClure’s Magazine prior to NYC suffragette parade in 1912 before women had the right to vote. It was she who saved McClure’s from financial ruin. “The mind of a man, the creativity of a poet of old”, Willa balked at society and took her place amid other male writers. She did not do this for women’s rights; she did it because she saw herself doing something perfectly normal for her inner gender: she failed to see herself as female.

I do grow weary of pointing this out: transgender people are not “cross-dressers” or “transvestites” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They are people who do not identify with their birth gender. They spend their whole lives feeling that they are in the wrong body. Some have surgeries to assume the gender that they identify with (replete with private parts.) Some are gay: a man that becomes a woman but still is attracted to women would be an example. Some are straight: a woman who becomes a man and is attracted to women would be an example. Before you whack me with your cross and bible, please consider that hermaphrodites (those born with both sex organs) are permitted to choose their gender now. If you are still confused, feel free to e-mail me: autricedeldrago@aol.com subject heading: Transgender.

Willa never put her gender or orientation into writing (or perhaps she did. Willa did fastidiously burn her notes; she was a very private person.) Very few transgender writers have the talent needed to explain the frustrations encountered daily. One sophisticated essay entitled My Life as a Girl comes to mind. I have encountered little else.

What if? What if Willa had been born a century later? She would currently be two years younger than me. Her novels would not have had the same impact. Her accomplishments would have been mundane considering that women’s rights have allowed all of us the ability to follow our dreams.

All that withstanding, what would she have to say about who she is and how she sees herself fitting into the world around her? How would she view the current political war raging between two parties? What would she think about gay marriage? Would her heart quicken upon learning that she could leave her old body behind and physically assume the gender that she identifies with? Would she shed tears over Matthew Shepard? I would like to think that she would use her talents to speak out about such senseless violence and death.

2 comments

Frustration  

Posted by: TMTW in


I am stuck. I have a sort of writer’s block for an unscripted story that wanders around inside my head, never having been mapped out properly and never fleshed out completely. It has always been there haunting, tormenting, morphing, an idle flight of the imagination. I have always known that I should write about it but have never been able to pin down a single plotline.

I began a story at Sequoia Junior High with my friend Sandra Irene Martinez (whom I miss terribly.) We were both writing the same story but from different angles; our inspiration stemmed in part from Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time while the rest was a jumble of Robotech and other far-fetched things.

I incorporated certain elements from this “wishful story” into a full-length novel when I was in my late teens/early twenties. The person I was collaborating with turned out to be an alcoholic twit – a genius, but a twit nevertheless. I scrapped it for US publication.

The work has been laid to rest (or so I thought), a bundle of files transferred from typewriter to WordStar, to WordPerfect, to MS Word. It twists and stretches, bereft of any bones. I have over thirty-two “design” files that contain mockups of creature development (there is an entire world and an entirely new civilized if “alien” species replete with social, political and religious nuances.)

There are days that I ask myself a simple question: WTF?

I have no idea why I am drawn to this endeavor. It is as if this book was born of my childhood imagination. I had already had a basic idea of the evolutionary process of these “creatures” by the time I was ten. My junior high experience was the motivation to put things down on paper; tell the story. My early adult years were the refinement. It’s all tucked away in my spongy grey matter and I, in complete frustration, can not figure out where I want to go with it. I have an entire world to play with and to manipulate, and a species to rule. I am a god of sorts and yet I sit at my monitor and I hear the monotone emergency broadcast signal played out, mocking me: “This is a test of your writer’s network. You have no idea how to proceed. Had you been an actual writer, the book that are trying to create would have been done ten years ago. This concludes this test of your writer’s network.”

I am also in the midst of collaborating (read Editing, capital E) with my Mum on her book. I won’t go into details on it except to say that I made several suggestions months back (which she balked at) and now, in a bit of her own inspiration, she calls to say that the gentleman that she spoke with had (the same damned) wonderful suggestions (that I had previously.) I love my parental unit, truly, however my hair did not begin to twinkle into silver tones until I started this project.

Did I mention that I also have another project: turning a three act play into a novel (again, her work. It is extraordinarily potent and I believe that it would impact readers in a very thought-provoking way.)

I have all this. Lovely to-do list, isn’t it? What am I doing to remedy any of it? I’m Blitching (blog bitching) instead of focusing on any of these projects.

1 comments

AnnieElf's Work  

Posted by: TMTW in

I have finally updated my links for Annie.


The Annie Collection

  • AnnieElf's The Benedict Notes

  • In My Dreams

  • Scenes From A Slow Moving Train

    • 0 comments

    Tomatoes  

    Posted by: TMTW in ,



    The sticky summer air gave way to hazy sunset as a lone figure trudges down the hill towards heavily laden Roma tomato bushes. Swollen red fruits dangle heavily upon their vines, their mass causing some to break away and tumble further down the slope. A wayward firefly trudges over a soft leaf, eager for the sunset.

    In the yard next door, a winsome giggle floats alongside birdsong as a small body tumbles down a grassy slope. The child, a girl no older than five, rolls along with eyes squeezed shut. Pink shorts and a yellow tee-shirt, already streaked with grass stains, flashes in perfect alternating colors as she somersaults like a rolly polly bug. Messy braids whip about her angelic face; somewhere in the grass is her glittery star barrette and the shiny quarter grandma gave her only that morning. She reaches bottom with an audible “hoof!” of air, then sucks in healthy lungful before allowing herself to explode into a fit of laughter.

    She pauses to watch Mrs. Next Door picking tomatoes before racing back up the hill again. Another somersault pass ends and she scores herself well for her efforts, just like those real Olympic gymnasts on the television last night, then catches sight of her neighbor again.

    “Tomatoes are good, especially when they are still warm from the sun,” Grandpa always says. She reflects on her Grandpa’s favorite tomato recipe, remembering how he loves sitting on the porch, eating them after Grandma marinates them in some salt and balsamic vinegar. This has always been her special time with Grandpa.

    Her small hands reach out to the chain link fence and she pulls herself upright. Mrs. Next Door has picked nearly all of the bright red tomatoes by now, filling a large pot to the brim. Mrs. Next Door’s dog, an old mutt with late summer shed fur sticking out at odd angles, ambles over and licks her face through the links.

    “Good dog,” she says. Her hand fits neatly through the fence and, as is their custom, dog and girl engage in a little bit of fur plucking, distributing a soft flurry of hair into the summer breeze.

    The dog seems to almost smile, turning from side to side as the loose tufts slide out of the coat. The fur seems to take on a life of its own, drifting in the air or slinking along the ground. The girl hopes that Mrs. Next Door doesn’t mind the fur that’s come to rest on the squash plant leaves close by.

    Her neighbor makes her way up the slope of the yard and waves. “My, but you’ve all but picked off every last clump of hair,” Mrs. Next Door smiles. “That deserves a reward!”

    The girl’s eyes grow larger as Mrs. Next Door lowers the large pot to within her reach. This, too, is a summer ritual. She is permitted to choose as many tomatoes as she can carry. It isn’t much, considering her size, but it is just enough to make Grandpa smile. She selects five very juicy ones, and thanks her neighbor before racing back up the slope.

    The last bit of sun begins to fade as the woman climbs the back porch steps. A lightening bug casts off from a tomato bush, lazily dancing in-flight as it prepares for the evening. The garden is bathed in an amber glow, birdsong still rippling upon the humid air.



    See more observant scribblings at Sunday Scribblings

    The picture below is in answer to one of my friend's questions. She asked, "Exactly what does an Italian refrigerator look like?" Both pictures are of our current crop.

    5 comments

    The Price of Betrayal?  

    Posted by: TMTW

    I have always wondered what sort of people would allow themselves to be sexually promoted online, and what sort of fool would take their bait. Is it some new form of prostitution, where one avoids disease by stroking off using their wife’s hand lotion as some bored frump types naughty things into an IM box? Do men pay a small fee (“we take Masterbaiter Card and IwishIhadaVisa”) or are these women simply so desperate and disease ridden that they would market themselves as sweet school girls that everyone absolutely loves and adores. What of those too good to be true men? You know the ones: they steal a friend’s picture and assume their roll, only it goes too far – they actually present themselves as that person during an affair that can last weeks or even months. Bob the Tubby just became Brock the Olympian. Such popular people; wherever do they find the time to break away from all those popular real-life friends in order to engage in a little online smut-o-rama? (I won’t touch upon the gold diggers or rapists who are looking to take more than they will give back.)

    Of course, none of this would happen if certain men did not possess the brain capacity equivalent to a gnat. The average American male will allow himself to be ripped off and lied to all for the sake of cyber eye candy. I find it humorous. Perhaps a bit too humorous considering that one of my close online friends is a large gay male who poses as a delicate Asian girl. He freely admits that he masturbates as he types, knowing that the clueless straight man on the other side of the screen is doing likewise. (Oh ICKKK!)

    Where does that leave us as a society? Technology is allowing us to become more and more connected but it also seems to destroy more and more lives.

    • 90 percent of Americans believe adultery is morally wrong. (MSNBC straw poll)
    • 17 percent of divorces in the United States are caused by infidelity. (AP)
    • Only 46% of men believe that online affairs are adultery. (Divorce Magazine)
    • One-third of divorce litigation is caused by online affairs. (This Is An Internet E-Mergency, The Fortino Group)
    • Approximately 70% of time on-line is spent in chat rooms or sending e-mail; of these interactions, the vast majority are romantic in nature. (Dr. Michael Adamse, PhD., co-author of Affairs of the Net: The Cybershrinks' Guide to Online Relationships)
    • Because of the anonymity, affordability, and accessibility of Internet sexual resources, the computer can accelerate the transition from "at risk" to "addicted," as well as the progression of sex addiction in those with a history of prior sexual compulsivity. (Cooper et al Survey)
    • 8-10 percent of Internet users become hooked on cybersex. (Dr. Bob Lanier, askbob.com)
    • Spouses who get hooked on Internet porn are a growing complaint among spouses filing for divorce, according to a survey of 350 divorce attorneys. "If there's dissatisfaction in the existing relationship, the Internet is an easy way for people to scratch the itch," said lawyer J. Lindsey Short, Jr., president of the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers, which conducted the study.
    • Evidence proves there is a high correlation between on-line infidelity and subsequent real-time sexual affairs.
    • Evidence supports the existence of disinhibition, accelerated intimacy, and hyper-sexual online behavior that can easily lead to real-time infidelity
    • 31% of people have had an online conversation that has led to real-time sex.

    According to MenStuff:

    • 57% of people have used the Internet to flirt.
    • 38% of people have engaged in explicit online sexual conversation and 50% of people have made phone contact with someone they chatted with online.

    It begs to be asked: why do people stay with spouses who are caught cheating? I don’t know. Online relationships are a strange thing.

    I have two sweet friends who have a casual online-only relationship. There is nothing sexual involved and they are not seeking to replace their spouses. In fact, they are friends first and flirty second. Their priority is not in ego or sexual gratification; rather it is that their families come first. They do not run around seeking partners to add to the cyber harem.

    My second set of close friends are both female and they, too, have a relationship. They do not have spouses or significant others. They live in different countries. Their love for their work is first and foremost. They meet up every so often for a night of fun, pledge to continue to love each other and they go about their days. Neither worries that her lover will cheat on her with a person in their respective home countries.

    My other friend faced a far more cruel life. She was a nice woman that used the Internet to expand her mind through college courses. She refrained from any sexual advances and vociferously pointed out that she was married. She was not happily married, however. Her husband is a cyber-addict who seems to spend his days looking at hot Asian woman and pursing relationships with other cheaters. I should point out that my friend had turned into a frump herself; she simply grew tired of his ways and she knew he would still run around behind her back no matter how sexy she was. She gave up on life. My circle of friends was stunned to learn that she had taken her own life this morning.

    That brings me back to my initial thought: "at what cost...". What do we as people give up when we engage in frivolous cheating. How much dignity to we throw away when we broadcast ourselves in a way that depreciates us as a human being? Will the ultimate price be paid - the cost of the injured spouse's sanity and their own feelings of self-worth?

    Dedicated to LlimaBeans (Cheryl Fergusan)
    1967 - 2008

    1 comments

    I ask...  

    Posted by: TMTW in ,

    A QUESTION:

    Darfur
    (starving mother and child awaiting treatment at an aid station.)



    and the Republic of Georgia
    (wounded Georgian woman lies in front of apartments
    post Russian air strike on the northern town of Gori.
    She was later taken to a safe area.)





    vs.

    a vegetarian

    Olympic swimmer

    in the buff

    (Amanda Beard and PETA.)



    Which cause

    deserves more press time?

    4 comments

    Do I have to?  

    Posted by: TMTW in ,

    Gertrude fidgeted a tad, her arthritic hands folded in her lap. I could tell that she had put on her best summer dress. Soft white curls framed her thin face, giving her head the appearance of a dandelion tuft. It was the archetypical old lady style.

    I was here to write about her ordeal although I really did not want to be. My editor and I had a heated discussion about it last week. I absolutely loathe these sorts of interviews. I stood my ground, I threatened and I cajoled. I even stooped to pleading, offering a drawn out “Jim, do I have to?”

    She thanked me for coming. Her voice was warm and the German accent endearing. I could almost picture her as perky Fraulein somewhere in Germany, eating sauerbraten and laughing with her friends.

    I took out my recorder and asked her to begin.


    _____________________________________

    The apartment building was ominously quiet. Philip, a lover of men in more than just one sense of the word, cracked his door and locked fearful eyes onto mine. We both stepped into the hall, ears pricked in anticipation of the noise of the beautiful entry door downstairs being kicked from its old iron hinges.

    “Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.

    “Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”

    The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?

    Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”

    I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.

    We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.

    The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.

    “They have come for me,” she stated.

    “Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?

    Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.

    “Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.

    We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.

    I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”

    “You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”

    I bit my bottom lip as I mustered up my courage. “Do I have to do this? No. I choose to. You can’t complain. They are at the door. Philip, help me tuck her under my bed. NOW!” I hissed these brave words even though my knees knocked together.

    We heard shouts below as the soldiers began to spread down the hallways. Heavy boots began to stomp up the stairs. Phillip pushed both of us into my apartment and secured the bolt.

    “This way, hurry!” I said, and Philip practically carried Mrs. Rosenbaum’s fragile body into my bedroom. He eased her down and she rolled herself under the bed. We pulled my favorite quilts from the closet to seal her in and make my bed look festive.

    As we stood back to survey our work, we heard solders knocking on doors. It was not a polite sort of knock; it was two or three loud raps followed by the crunch sound of a boot kicking in the door itself.

    “I suppose this is it for me,” Philip sighed. I gave him a confused look. “Liebling, I’m homosexual. They know where the Jews live. They know where the gays live. It’s the camps for us.”

    The absolute harshness of that reality struck me. “How would they know?”

    “They know. I am sure of it. They somehow know.”

    “But, you are German!”

    “I’m a fag. Most of us have gone into hiding. I stayed. I had nowhere to go,” he said, and then added in a thick voice, “They took Wilhelm last week.”

    There was silence between us then. His lover. I had known all along, but polite girls wouldn’t discuss such things.

    Two doors down, a frightened family screamed in unison as their door shattered off its hinges. The husband shouted that he was a loyal German, loyal to Hitler, loyal to the ideology. I knew that he had his papers in order. He might have been the bastard who turned in Rosenbaum and Philip. Who can say in these troubled times?

    I would protect Mrs. Rosenbaum and Philip. My mind began to work furiously. I knew that there might be a chance, if my plan worked. It would mean that I would be humiliated. I am a virgin, a good girl. I would never bed a man without the blessing of a priest. Yet… I asked myself, “Do I have to?” The answer was “yes”. If I failed… I did not want to think of such things.

    I turned to Philip and said, “Strip.”

    He looked horrorstruck. I said it again, even as I pulled off my blouse and unhooked my bra. “Strip. You are not gay if they catch you in bed with a woman. Perhaps the ruse will work. Hurry. We will pretend!” I pulled off my skirt. We must have looked like naughty young lovers frantically trying to join each other for the first time. The knock came to the neighbor next door even as we hurried onto the bed.

    When the knock came to us, we were kissing and rolling about like fish trying to find air on a dock. When the door shattered open, we sat bolt upright, a tangle of body parts, and I offered a scream for good measure. The soldier was rather embarrassed for us and lowered his gun.

    I rose from the bed and allowed him to see my nakedness as a form of distraction. Philip slid on his pants and then grabbed the sheet and offered it to me.

    The commanding officer joined the soldier and the young man quickly explained what he had walked in on, offering a bawdy laugh to cover his embarrassment. Philip and I produced our papers. The officer questioned Philip closely, but Philip and I both grew indignant at the implication that he was anything other than heterosexual. After all, we had dated since I was eighteen and we were engaged to be married. Yes, he still worked at the paper mill. Yes, his bad knees prevented him from serving in the military. The officer gave us a dubious look.
    _____________________________________


    She stated that her apartment smelled of stew that day. She remembered it so well. She could recall the young soldier’s face as he leered at her. She recalled Philip pushing the door back into place, then propping it shut with the couch. She could clearly remember Mrs. Rosenbaum’s hand waving at them from underneath the bed; her face wet with tears as they pulled her from her sanctuary, the old woman’s sobs wracking her body as Gertrude sat on the floor and rocked her. She remembered Philip kneeling next to her, thanking God and every saint that he had ever heard of. She found that so odd. Philip was an atheist.

    They stayed in the apartment that night, huddled together. They saw the glow of buildings on fire, and they feared theirs would ignite. They were afraid to look out the window but they could hear the occasional burst of bullets riddling some poor undeserving person.

    These are her memories. What would it be like to forget what she told me, to sweep it under the rug, to pretend it never happened?

    Philip evaded the concentration camps; so many of his friends did not.

    Mrs. Rosenbaum was later captured and taken to a camp. She accidentally tripped while carrying water, and was deemed too frail to be of use. They lead her to a communal shower (along with 49 other men and women) and as they sat shivering in the gloom, lethal gas belched from the fixtures. Eighty years on this earth were ended in such a brutal fashion.

    Who will remember these things when all the survivors are gone? Who will care? I ask myself, Do I have to? I hear my mind reply, No, but I choose to do this. I choose to remember.


    For further reading: Gay Holocaust - Lagers
    Other "Do I have to?" posts can be found at: Sunday Scribblings

    4 comments

    Solace  

    Posted by: TMTW in ,


    Rain-drenched trees bow politely at me, their branches shivering under the weight of a nocturnal torrent. Dark green forms somewhat veiled by substantial fog tease my imagination as I gaze into the early morning paleness.

    Foul weather is the fuel of my imagination. What is an inconvenience to some is pure bliss to me. I see the fog as my security blanket, the rain as my lullaby. The wet smell of the earth soothes me as I trudge along.

    I imagine myself to be a ghost, as pale as the fog around me. I swoop down the lane and slip through the cracks of an abandoned barn. I pause in the middle of the empty space and then sway to music only I can hear, oblivious to the dust and decay, recalling the barn dance nearly one hundred years ago. I asked my wife for her hand in marriage then, and we lived so happily.

    I am the hawk gliding upon a thermal. My feathers are impervious to the moisture of the low cloud cover as I circle a mile from the ground. I fill my lungs with the air, relishing the clammy feeling in my nares.

    I’m a molecule tossed into the air in the form of steam.

    I am a vampire, prowling for my next meal. I see a house in the distance and feel my hunger rising. The fog deadens the sound of my tread on their porch. I enter and find the inhabitants to be an easy meal.

    I am looking out my window and my mind returns from daydreams. Neither vampire or ghoul, nor hawk or molecule, I am simply me. I smile at the trees and roll over, content.


    To read more on this topic, visit Sunday Scribblings

    8 comments

    July 1st, Canada (birth!) Day  

    Posted by: TMTW in ,

    July 1st – a relaxing day. Not only is it my birthday, but also the day that Canadians celebrate the birth of the man (Oscar Canada) who discovered their great land. I’m told that they hold dog sled races in the deep July snow to commemorate the occasion, replete with lumberjack competitions and RCMP formation drills. The PM, Stephen Harper, was on hand to help judge the moose beauty pageant. The moose (or “mooses” if you are from the any state in the deep South, USA) must sing the national anthem (dedicated to Mr. O. Canada) with perfect pitch least they be disqualified.

    My wonderful Canadian friends are going to kick my ass all over the Internet, to be sure.




    I had a friend “back in the day” that honestly thought that Cinco de Mayo was held in celebration of the “man who discovered Mexico”. His name, of course, was Cinco de Mayo (no relation to Oscar Canada or even Oscar de la Renta.) The mistranslation of “Fifth of May” to “this guy’s name” undeniably stymied her attempts to date a Hispanic male. It didn’t surprise me one iota when some foolish person refused to believe Canada Day was about the enactment of the British North American Act. I am not going into detail about the “how and why” of it. Google and learn.

    How sad is it that Americans seem clueless with regard to their neighbors to the north and south? Are we nothing more than a nation that saturates itself with prime time talent contests, baby daddy talk shows, and hyperbole as it pertains to our self-estimation? (Be forewarned, the next generation was weaned on Fruit Roll-Ups, Starbuck’s burnt coffee and Go-Gurt. I don’t expect much in the way of vigorous brain cell activity. God forbid they reach their 40’s and suddenly discover that Canada is not the 51st state.)

    I can overlook some things. If you have never called a living and breathing human being in Canada, you might not know that you can dial the number just as you would any long distance phone number, using only 1+area code. Please do not try to place a call to Canadians who are not living and breathing; the dead tend to ignore the phone’s ring.

    Another misconception: Canada does not have “states”. Should you ask a Canadian what state he lives in, he will probably think, “a state of hell, having to deal with yet another inept American.” Canada is a federation of ten provinces and three territories. They have a PM (Prime Minister, which is not the same thing as prime rib) rather than a president.


    Canadians enjoy indoor plumbing, paved roads and buildings comprised of materials other than ice. They drive in the same sort of vehicles that you would see in the United States. Most do not finish every sentence with “ay”, although there are some that do. Contrary to popular belief, Canada has a military and space programs. Mounties do not ride yaks (the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen are Ren and Stimpy fantasy.)

    We will not even touch the clueless American who became rather perturbed upon hearing that Niagara (pronounced nye AH grah by the bungling) Falls has a “Canadian side”, how dare they! Les Chutes du Niagara cascading down from the Niagara River surely must belong to the Americans. It never occurred to her that there was more to Niagara than a single cataract of water.

    My birthday (I did not discover Canada) was splendid. Better Half treated me to the new Disney-Pixar film, Wall-E. We had a lovely dinner out and enjoyed a wonderful cherry cake.

    0 comments
    Newer Posts Older Posts