Before you proceed: I believe the first amendment is critical to a healthy democracy. I do not advocate or wish to eliminate free speech.

For the past 3 years I have asked a person, Beth Light, in my community to stop sending me emails due to their content; typically ranting about how awful the president and Republicans are, calling out people in politics and even people in our community, their actions and words that Beth does not like. She insults individuals and groups alike, calls them names and even threatens them with legal action. After a while I noticed her email and social media rants were causing me stress so I asked her to please remove me from her email list. She ignored my first requests. I repeated my requests, initially being polite and friendly, after she ignored polite requests I began demanding that she remove me. Initially she refused and told me that because I was on the same committee as she was, I was compelled to receive them. So I quit the group due to her words (and to be fair the words of a few of the other members). I just did not want to hear or read them, I did not want to spend any part of my day listening to/reading about a person ranting and being mean to other people. I did not like how she treated people in my community and did not want to be around her ugly rancor. Now she is telling people that I need therapy because I am mentally unstable. That’s right, I am the one who needs anger management therapy because I am demanding she stop contacting me.

What do the members of the community tell me?

“That’s just Beth. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, she’s always been that way.”

“You need to toughen up.”

“Don’t be so thin skinned.”

“She’s just an old lady, don’t put too much into what she says.”

“Just delete her emails if you don’t like them.”

“Just block her in your email settings.” (By the way, I did that a long time ago but occasionally they slip though the SPAM filter)

“She donates a lot to the community.”

“She has issues, just ignore her.”

“She has a right to say what she wants- Free Speech.”

The last one, “She has a right to say what she wants- Free Speech.” Where is my right to freedom from her speech? Why is the responsibility mine to get away from her speech? Why do I have to change my behavior? Why does she not have to change her behavior? Does no one find it disturbing that a person continues to send unwanted emails to a woman who has made clear she does not want them? Made vehemently clearly. Why am I the one who needs therapy? Free Speech comes with responsibility. If you would like to read a similar perspective on this topic I suggest, Frank Sonneburg.

Maybe some have become immune to the angry rantings of others, maybe they think it is amusing to read, or perhaps they just have the luxury of ‘thick skin’. What exactly is thin skin and thick skin? Is thick skin when you have lost the ability to be affected by the nasty insults and commentary of others? If there is one thing that 45’s election has taught me is that words matter, what we say and how we say it matters. 45 has enabled the outrage of Nationalist Whites to come up from the sewer we thought it was buried under to the surface of our culture and media. While racism and sexism never went away, the election of 45 has enabled and empowered it to come back. Words are powerful as Maya Angelou well knew, that is why she didn’t want foul speech around her.

I will not sit in a group of black friends and hear racial pejoratives against whites. I will not hear “honky.” I will not hear “Jap.” I will not hear “kike.” I will not hear “greaser.” I will not hear “dago.” I will not hear it. As soon as I hear it, I say, “Excuse me, I have to leave. Sorry.” Or if it's in my home, I say, “You have to leave. I can't have that. That is poison, and I know it is poison, and you're smearing it on me. I will not have it.” Now, it's not an easy thing. And one doesn't all of a sudden sort of blossom into somebody who's courageous enough to say that. But you do start little by little.... Little by little, you develop courage. You sit in a room, and somebody says, “Well, you know what the Japs did then, and what they're doing now.” Say, “Mm-hmm! I have to go. My goodness! It's already six o'clock.” Leave. Continue to build the courage. Sooner or later, you'll be able to say out loud, “Just a minute. I defend that person. I will not have gay bashing, lesbian bashing. Not in my company. I will not do it.”

Why do we allow the people around us to behave badly? Instead of telling, discussing, asking, requesting or demanding that those who spew vitriol stop; we either spit it back at them or pretend to ignore them. Where does that leave us? It leaves us with a culture that enabled a misogynistic, racist, unqualified, lying, criminal as president. When we allow bad behavior to continue we are quietly condoning it. Every time a man chuckles with his buddies about, “what a hot ass you have” or a woman back stabs another woman instead of supporting her in the workplace, or a principal tells a bullied student, ‘suck it up, buttercup’, we enable bad behavior. When we tell the recipient there is something wrong with them because they are offended instead of calling out the offender, we enable racism, sexism, or hate speech. That’s how we have arrived at a place in our society where a president can say, “Will she run as our first Native American presidential candidate, or has she decided that after 32 years, this is not playing so well anymore? See you on the campaign TRAIL, Liz!". Can anyone imagine Ronald Reagan or John Kennedy saying that in a public arena? Did Obama or Bush brag about grabbing pussy? We should be able to disagree with another’s politics without slamming them to the mat. We ought to be able to talk about issues and qualifications without disparaging each other.

At some point we have to stand up and say, “No more. Your words are hateful, hurtful, ugly, racist, sexist, segregationist and are causing our society harm. Stop talking like that. Stop insulting people. Discuss policies and issues and qualification instead.”

Recently Adam Schiff (you may remember “So funny to see little Adam Schitt...) wrote:

This is a moment of great peril for our democracy. Our country is deeply divided. Our national discourse has become coarse, indeed, poisonous. Disunity and dysfunction have paralyzed Congress.

But the Russian attack on our democracy had its limits. Only we could do that to ourselves.

To my Republican colleagues: When the president attacked the independence of the Justice Department by intervening in a case in which he is implicated, you did not speak out. When he attacked the press as the enemy of the people, you again were silent. When he targeted the judiciary, labeling judges and decisions he didn’t like as illegitimate, we heard not a word. And now he comes for Congress, the first branch of government, seeking to strip it of its greatest power, that of the purse.

Many of you have acknowledged your deep misgivings about the president in quiet conversations over the past two years. You have bemoaned his lack of decency, character and integrity. You have deplored his fundamental inability to tell the truth. But for reasons that are all too easy to comprehend, you have chosen to keep your misgivings and your rising alarm private.

That must end. The time for silent disagreement is over. You must speak out.

This will require courage...............history compels us to speak, and act, our conscience, Republicans and Democrats alike. Adam B. Schiff, Democrat, represents California’s 28th Congressional District in the House and is chairman of the Intelligence Committee.

There are many places where I have commented about and discussed civility, in my personal life, private conversations, in groups, in meetings and on social media and many people seem to understand that my intention has been to entreat others to talk with civility using reasonable language. I have tried to be clear in relaying that I am not opposed to people’s opinions or their right to speak.

I do not want to limit or restrict Free Speech- it’s integral to democracy (which I happen to love very much).

I am not asking anyone to be silent; that is not my aim. I have witnessed the suppression of speech by some leaders in my community and it was ugly. Silence is not what I am proposing. Just plain civility- that’s all. Just recognize that as the poet William Carlos Williams wrote,

Requiring civility and rational discourse should not be mocked, those who ask to be spoken to with respect are not the problem. Can we please stop ridiculing requests for courtesy as if being polite and respectful are preposterous notions? A person should have the right to be spoken to with a modicum of decency and not be told they are need of therapy for requesting it. One day they may come for you.... and there will be no one left to speak for you.

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

Sadly, this follow up to my initial reports on working in my local Democratic Central Committee will not be an optimistic or hopeful story because I feel like Floki, one of the main characters in the TV Series Vikings  who is also an historical person and the first Norseman to deliberately sail to Iceland. 

Floki has a dream of creating a new world but his dream quickly fades as strife among the new settlers’ causes a death- Floki is devastated. He blames himself, that he was not effective as a leader. While I am certainly not equal to Floki in leadership or cultural perspective, I feel that I too have failed. My intentions in joining were to see if I could weave my own brand of open, positive discussion without insulting, type of communication into an older paradigm. It hasn’t worked. The bickering and dysfunction are still there, possibly worse. We now have a civil war within our tiny microcosm of the Democratic Party. I have no way of comparing our committee to other committee’s across the state or country. I do know that what I see in social media indicates that our local group likely represents a snap shot of the bigger picture. Somehow, I could not find the right words and actions to express to my fellow members that we should try to rise above bickering and arguing and attempt rational conversation in determining the path forward, somehow, my message of being open and transparent has turned into a mockery. My fellow members are sending scathing ‘shut up’ messages to me, accusing me of manipulation and fostering Wasserman-Shultz tactics and using ‘my position’ to compel the local public to vote my way. As if I have any sway on anyone- hell, I can’t even get my kids to clean their bedrooms!

Perhaps you are thinking, “That’s just the way it is.” “That’s politics.” “That’s how humans are.” Maybe you are correct but aren’t statements like that really resignation? Aren’t we really saying, “There is no point in attempting.”? If that’s how humans are then why does it feel so uncomfortable? Why did Floki feel like a failure? It’s uncomfortable to me because I put in work and my effort was met with disappointment and no progress. Actually, that’s a lie- it’s not uncomfortable, it’s disheartening and discouraging and depressing. I joined the Central Committee because I wanted to work on changing the outlook for my children and grandchildren. I see them struggle almost daily in one way or another in ways I never had to. I didn’t have crippling student debt, constant lay-off concerns, low job and salary prospects, or out of reach housing prices. The American Dream was relatively easy for my generation to achieve, but not so for millennials. We have so many serious issues facing us, locally (forests dying, drought), statewide (drought, loss of farm land, affordable housing), countrywide (extreme weather, housing, poverty, racism, sexism) and it is daunting. I thought to follow the adage, “think globally, act locally”, but even that does not seem to work.

And what is the serious issue that is causing this rift? Whether or not we should openly discuss candidate qualifications. That’s it. We are fighting about whether or not we should DISCUSS candidates, whether we should keep our evaluation of the candidates’ qualifications to ourselves individually or whether we should share our evaluations among each other. Seriously. We are arguing about whether or not to have an open conversation, that's it, and one member is threatening to sue another member over this battle. Yea, that’s what the Democrats in my community are arguing about while our Bylaws express that our stated purpose is: “Identify, recruit, develop, interview, ENDORSE, SUPPORT and elect Democratic candidates for local partisan and non-partisan public office.” We are fighting about having an open conversation.

I do not know what it takes to convince people to work together for the common good and clearly my theory and philosophy of open communication, “let’s just sit down and talk about this in a rational way” is not the answer. So I have failed in my mission and I am contemplating resigning. I guess the need to do battle ingrained in our mind is stronger than the desire to live peacefully. If ever there was a time for us to work together in unity, yea, I said unity, I thought it was now, but I guess we need more damage to our culture and more destruction to our world and more war before we will work together.

Please read my fellow author’s piece on Russian Collusion and ask yourself if you still want to see Democrats fight among themselves, or should we be unified (yes, I used the word unity- it isn’t a 4 letter word). https://www.idiotfreezone.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=678%3Aimho-the-glenn-simpson-transcript&catid=15&Itemid=612#.WmogaTzpSH8.facebook

Another good read that may help you understand the need for civil discussion and compromise is, Collapse by Jared Diamond.

“Collapse arose as an attempt to understand why so many past societies collapsed, leaving behind ruined or abandoned temples, pyramids, and monuments as romantic mysteries to baffle subsequent visitors and modern tourists.  Why did societies that were as powerful as the Khmer Empire, and as brilliantly creative as the Maya, abandon the sites into which they had invested such enormous effort for so many centuries?  Archaeological and paleoclimatic studies of recent decades have documented a role of environmental factors in many of these collapses.”

http://www.jareddiamond.org/Jared_Diamond/Collapse.html

The Loss of Things

Many years ago I heard that Fannie Flagg  was inspired to write a book because she found a shoe box of memorabilia her aunt had left behind, just a shoe box, after a life of living all that was left was a shoe box of miscellaneous things. That thought has resonated with me for many years. I also think about what imprint people make after their death when I saw a picture of the Chapel of Bones in Evora in Milan, Italy. All of those people had lived and died and no would ever know who they were, what they did, who they loved, how they lived- nothing, it was if they never existed. We know the biographies of many famous and infamous people and of our own loved ones because of what they left behind, their writings, their art, or their monuments. We can piece together their life and they can live again in our mind or stories or movies.

As an immigrant I have moved from one country to another and as an immigrant I tend to connect with other immigrants- we have an understanding that those who have not left the land of their birth may not be able to comprehend. I left Canada when I was 13 with my parents, my father had been offered a job in California so of course I had no choice. We came with a large moving van full of our effects in boxes. We had to sort through things we would no longer need, like parkas and snow pants, and purchase things that we would need. We were lucky, in 1974 Americans loved Canadians. We also were lucky to be able to bring all of our worldly possessions with us.

In 1992 a cousin of mine immigrated here (California) from Ukraine. She came with one suitcase. A grown woman, one suitcase. She felt her life in USSR controlled Ukraine was so awful that she selected what could fit in one suitcase and left everything else behind. I often think, 'What would I put in one suit case?' Or even one shoe box? How does one condense one’s bits and pieces down to one small container. What we possess says a lot about us, especially in a capitalist culture like ours. Peter Menzel created a book of photos of families from around the world with their possessions on display. As expected the United States family had a lot more possessions than say, a family in Bhutan. 

I am 58, I live in a small but beautiful cabin in the woods on top of a mountain but I haven’t always been so lucky. I have lived in tiny apartments, run down, old leaky buildings, cute suburban tract housing and even a trailer for a period of time when I was homeless with 3 kids and a very sick husband. I have packed my belongings in boxes more times than I can count, I have stored my stuff in garages and paid money to store my things in facilities. Initially my moves were to bigger and better homes until life events changed and I was compelled to downsize and get rid of belongings. With each move I was forced to choose what to keep and what to give away. Sometimes I overlooked something and it was left behind, like my son’s red wagon. Every time, well-meaning people told me, “Well, you have your health and your kids, those are ‘just things’.”

Just things. Yeah, just things. Even the most primitive cultures living today have possessions, even archeological sites and burial grounds show humans buried with things. Maybe they aren’t ‘just things’, maybe it is essential to being human that we collect things to carry with us, objects to keep around us. Are they talismans? When I moved into my new home my partner and I had a lengthy and passionate discussion about what to keep because we do live in a small home. We realized that was valuable to one was not valuable to the other but that we needed to respect our own unique definition of what was valuable. For example, on my kitchen window sill I have a collection of Red Rose Wade figurines. They are of very little monetary value and not even particularly well-crafted but I love the little creatures.  As I stand at the sink washing dishes or preparing food I see the statues and I am reminded of my mother and a childhood friend and the country of my childhood. Every night after dinner my mother made tea in a brown teapot, my friend and I would eagerly open the new box of Red Rose tea, the aroma of fresh tea wafting out, wondering which figurine would be in the box, humid, warm Montreal summer evenings, the sun setting behind a row of Lombardy poplars, kids voices coming in from the street to our window asking “Who’s finished dinner? Who wants to play?”….. all of that in a simple, tiny figurine. That’s why I keep them. When my great grandmother passed away the family discovered lace table clothes and crystal glasses all packed away. Apparently she was ‘keeping them for good company’. We never saw them at the table, who was she waiting for? Why we keep what we keep is a mystery to almost everyone but the person, asking them why they keep them could elicit tears or laughter. I have a wedding garter from one of my aunts that I keep in my jewelry box and when I open that drawer, I think of her. Can I still imagine my aunt and my grandmother without seeing those items? Sure, but like a song, an object opens a door in our mind that contains a unique moment in time, a memory with the sound, the sight, the smell, the emotion all packed into one feeling and we are transported to that very moment in our past.

Our meager treasurers tell a story, perhaps only we know the story, or perhaps our family and friends can piece together a story about us. They also show us and those around us what we have achieved, all of our living, our playing, our working, our joys and our struggles are contained in our belongings. It’s not that easy to leave them behind because they have become an extension of ourselves, who we have become as a human. If I had to choose between my mother, my child, my partner or a collection of figurines, of course I would leave the figurines behind. But who are those who are usually compelled to choose? Usually those who can least afford it. Do wealthy people have to make the choice, not usually, because money can buy them a large transport truck. It’s pretty easy for those with a lot to tell those with very little what they should leave behind. Placing value of someone else’s stuff is easy when you don’t have to give up your own.

I watch these people on our border who have come with a bag, suit case, or even nothing, just each other and I cannot imagine being in such dire straits that I would leave everything behind because anywhere was better than where I was. They have left behind their figurines, their crystal, their lace and their homes. Their home is chaotic, destroyed, dangerous or even completely gone. Little by little everything they worked has been lost, stolen or demolished. They have come to our door with their last and most precious possession- their children. And we are taking them away. The images and stories will haunt me for a long time. I am sorry if you can watch this story unfold and feel nothing but self-righteousness or even derision. I cannot judge them because I don’t know them. I do know that I would have to be at my lowest to find myself at the border of a country with nothing except my child. As hard as it was for me to lose my possessions I truly cannot imagine how it must feel to have my child taken from me. What have we become when we take that most valuable possession away from a parent? What more can we do to our fellow human beings and still call ourselves, human?

The Loss of Things.

It Shouldn’t Matter. But it does.

Texas-born Peter Ruiz is a friend who lives in Oakland, California. He is six feet four and – with a thumb in the eye to his receding hairline – he is purposely and fashionably billiard-ball bald. Peter’s birth name is, “Pedro,” redounding to his Mexican mother. His Spanish with her is as comfortable as the English of his African American father. Peter Ruiz is a self-contracting events coordinator, under the slogan, “Leave it to Peter” (my contribution). His clients are Silicon Valley-scale and similar. They keep him continually hopping all over the country.

I first met the pate-hirsute Peter a few decades ago, at a function in the home of my late brother Dr. Richard A. Long.  He was with the Atlanta-based Coca-Cola Company, in public relations. The events he arranged usually included notables in showbiz or sports. When he was not hosting for the company, the indefatigable Peter merely shifted the, “Movable Feast” to his home. I recently told him that Ernest Hemingway must have had him in mind when he penned that early 20th century novel. I would see Peter again  at other functions in Atlanta, where he was still irrepressibly and literally helping the Champagne flow.

I next saw Peter in San Diego. He was accompanying San Diego native Joanne Haberek from Atlanta to Oakland, where she had been reassigned to a nearby Army post. Later, when I was in residence at the Veterans
Administration’s blind rehabilitation center in Silicon Valley. Joanne and Peter would come by and visit. Sometime we would go to dinner in Palo Alto; once, with another friend of Joanne’s, we did an overnight visit to Monterey Bay. One Christmas, with Joanne festively outfitted, they showed up at the blind center with a beg full of goodies for everyone in my unit. Not knowing the rules, it caused quite a flurry when one of the minders noted that all the bags contained a bottle of wine! All of the grape had to be expropriated, much to the chagrin of Santa.

Peter’s extended stay in Oakland/San Francisco endeared him to the region, and gave him ideas as to how his talents could be transferred to that area. He had already begun to function as self-contractor in Atlanta; thus, bit by bit,that strategy was transferred to the upscale Bay Area and nearby Silicon Valley. This is now, “Leave it to Peter’s” base of operation, although frequently he is summoned to other parts of the country.

When my brother Richard passed, Peter was indispensable to the family. After a  three-way phone call to help us establish the fact, he flew to San Diego in order to accompany me to Atlanta. There we met up with my nephew Jim Richardson, his wife Malqueen and son. Jason. Peter stuck with us throughout the whole ordeal, and was very instrumental in helping us to pin down vital information.

For years, Peter would dedicate several summer weeks applying his skills at the exclusive Bohemian Club, a few miles from San Francisco. Formed in the 19th century, the club has been a getaway for countless notables in politics, business and showbiz. Peter is now pondering whether he will continue that summer diversion from his regular pursuits.

Several years ago, Peter began celebrating his June birthday by hosting an onboard party in the middle of San Francisco Bay. Clad in all white, the partygoers gather at the pier in Jack London Square, in Oakland, and make proper obeisance to his royal regency, the white-be robed Peter of Pan, before boarding the boat, with its larders well stocked with all manner of elegant libation and victuals.

I had other local visitors during my frequent stays at the VA blind rehab in Palo Alto. Mrs. Mary Parks Washington and her daughter Jan Lisa occasionally would come by and take me to brunch or dinner. Apart from being the widow of a Tuskegee airman, Mary is an art educator and talented painter. Jan Lisa was pampering PanAm passengers all over the world when they were still called, “Hostess”  -- and when sky-borne melanin was still at a premium! One Christmas, I took Joanne and Peter to meet the Washington’s, at their home in Campbell, near San Jose. Through their mutual acquaintance with Atlanta, they were able to make an immediate connection. Although Joanne can now only be located through pinpoints on a world map, Peter maintains his contact with the Washington’s.  We visited them following Peter’s most recent birthday jaunt.

Attesting to the fact that Peter’s generosity and kindness are constant and enduring, there is a disabled, elderly lady who was a neighbor of Peter’s. He would look in on her daily and make sure she was eating properly, and did not lack of necessities. Subsequently, she has been in a residence facility for several years, where Peter still visits her, provides her and others there with necessities, and occasionally takes her on a shopping trip.

To disabuse anyone of the notion that Peter is a pushover, even when on edge, his palliative personality persists. Listen to him on the phone, as he, for the second time, smilingly asks a polite but bumbling bank employee to put a supervisor on the phone: “…I know you are doing your best, but while I am able to keep my explosive temper under control, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to speak to a supervisor…”

It is not surprising that an ebullient personality such as Peter has been the subject of my poetic pen. Following is my latest poem, presented to Peter on the occasion of his latest birthday:

PEDRO, MEET PETER

Peter, oh Peter –
“Peter Pan,” in a way --
Sort of, “Life’s Cheater,”
The way that you play.

Always surrounded
By adoring fans.
Keeps one astounded –
Are they all, “Peter Pans”?

Daily life finds you
Popping up anywhere.
Seems there are none who
Can make you despair.

In Oakland? – No.
Where, then –
A Silicon show?
Writing a, “Poison pen?”
Hah! You’ll never know.

Brazil, perhaps?
Asia? La Rue de la Paix?
Assisting euthanasia?
He’ll never say.

A pop-in on D.C.
Or Texas – that’s home?
“Mamacita, here I be –
“Whoops, now I’m god!”

Oh, yes, Atlanta –
Heart and soul, for awhile –
Then, “I can’t stand ya” –
“Later, we’ll smile.” 

With all that fuss and blunder,
The Whirling Dervish display,
It all finds itself under,
When June brings his birthday.

Look out, San Francisco!
Dear Oakland, take care!
Your bays are about to
Become Peter’s fair!

The evites and skirmishes
Throughout U.S.A.
Are now Whirling Dervishes –
ll in white, at the bay.

But, wait! – What’s that vision,
Be robed to the feet,
Rising with such precision? –
Why, look! – It’s old Pete!

Yes, Peter Pan lives, folks.
Ya gotta believe –
In Oakland or Neverland Oaks –
Just peek under Pedro’s sleeve!