It's 1986, and am in California, studying towards a graduate degree in cultural anthropology, but am considering medicine with my background in biology, being beyond curious about neuroscience. In my mind, I'm also thinking about veterinary school at UC Davis, having done research on, and cared for, so many birds. I so love those avian dinosaurs that managed to survive the mass extinction crisis prior to the one we're in right now.

I have to work. Unlike Denmark, higher education in the USA is unattainably expensive for so many, and is a major cause for America's degeneration towards a religion-justified, corporate dystopia.  America's not quite yet there, even as I write these words in 2021.  

I have a job interview at a huge landscaping firm, whose customers are mostly owners of corporate buildings that require intense botanical scenery around them. They seek someone who can analyze and problem solve plant diseases, coordinate planting, sprinkler installation and repair, guide mostly Spanish-speaking workers, interpreting landscape design schematics for them. Driving all over southern California, site to site, from the LA area to the Mexican border was also a part of the job. The salary promised to be good.

Fully decked out in my best suit and tie outfit, on a chilly, unusually rainy morning but comfortably cocooned in my car, I am straining to see through fast moving windshield wipers the narrow and heavily trafficked, curvy roadway, up and down a mostly desert region to make my appointment. Having survived a Nazi pedophilic Christian horror in childhood, which, a decade later on November 29 in Denmark, would take the life of my younger sister, I'm also struggling to pay attention to my body, employing breathing techniques to manage a creeping, very intense social angst and other symptoms from a complex form of PTSD. It wouldn't be good, if, during that interview, I would suddenly cry, or freeze, unable to express myself clearly, with buckets of sweat pouring out of me. I really needed this job, and had performed professionally perfect during the initial phone interview. To help me along, I've got my favorite Moody Blues album playing from the cassette stereo system.

As I round a very sharp corner, challenged also by fast-moving, oncoming traffic, I suddenly see a huge brown form lying still by the sandy shoulder on the other side of the road. It's a dog. Ignoring someone honking behind me, I slow down to a crawl, roll down my window, wind-driven rain plastering my face, and noticed that one of its forelegs is moving very slowly as a car just then drove over it's long tail. I can't help myself, and pull as far over to the narrow shoulder on my side as possible so cars can pass from behind. It wasn't easy to safely get out of the car and run over to the dog, completely ignoring the rain beginning to soak my expensive clothes, while also ignoring what that would do to my interview in less than a half hour.

The mixed breed, large dog could barely move its head, as its very alive but so pain-ridden and sad eyes looked up at me. I crouched down to gently pet its head, collar-less neck, and then ran my fingers down its backbone, noticing instantly that it, and one side of its chest, was broken beyond repair. At least one of its lungs worked fine, for now, as it painfully heaved, and, in putting my ear to that chest, heard the strong thumping of a heartbeat. But its pest-ridden, short matted fur stank like no dog I have ever smelled, even to today. There was no blood, except by its broken tail, which I swiftly pulled closer to the shoulder as cars further drenched us in splashes of brown dirty water. I put my mouth close to one of its ears, and began to softly sing,“Hey Jude,” as best I could.

It was pretty cold, so I took off my now-ruined jacket and covered up some of the dog with it, up to its neck, and lay down next to it, my feet safely downhill towards the scrub-desert valley below, cradling its head, kissing it, petting it, as it soundlessly kept looking deep into my eyes, struggling ever more to breathe. I kept singing that song written by Paul McCartney to soothe John Lennon's son, humming through some of the forgotten lyrics. Wondering only briefly what passers-byes were thinking about this blond dude in a brown-drenched, white-shirt with tie was doing with a suit-decked dog, it took some ten minutes more for it to finally die. Based on everything evident on its body, until that moment it had survived so much harshness from a human world that had cast it away long ago like the morning trash.

I then dragged its lifeless body halfway down that valley, and left it for nature to take its course.

I did get that job, by the way, later calling from a gas station to excuse my absence with a white lie, and thus getting a new appointment.

Just because you move away from alcohol, just because you divorce yourself from a spouse who is drinking or an alcoholic relative dies and you think you are free, you are not. Alcoholism has far reaching tentacles that follow you around and tap you on the shoulder, “Hi, it’s me again. I never went away, I just got a new body.” Alcoholism will always find you- you cannot run away from it. You may be sitting placidly in a restaurant with friends and there it will be at the next table, a woman arguing loudly with her husband, not caring who hears, slurring her words while her husband tries to shush her. He thinks he has her under control. He doesn’t. Alcoholism is the dinosaur in every room, there is no blanket big enough for you to throw over it, there is no closet large enough to fit it. It touches every life somehow, someway.

You leave your father’s house relieved to be free of your alcoholic mother but it doesn’t work- there she will be showing off her inability to keep her drinking under control in front of your new fiancé. Or, you take your children away from their alcoholic father and try to raise them in safe place but alcoholism will find them. Alcoholism will be the dad that never calls or writes. Alcoholism will be hiding in their new girlfriend. We will have a smile on our brave faces pretending we don’t care or that the alcoholic monster is tiny and controllable but we are lying to ourselves. We hope to hell you don’t recognize the stench of alcohol around us because we are ashamed and embarrassed so we will politely clean up ‘that little mess in the bathroom’ or promise to ‘replace that expensive dish’. On the way home we will cry burning tears that run down our cheek along our neck and onto our chest. Silent tears that you will never see. Quiet tears that alcoholism won’t recognize, because, “What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t I just have a little fun?!”

Alcoholism will be there at the party basking in its glory while a sister unobtrusively scurries around tucking dirty laundry in a closet and quietly putting 3 week old dirty dishes in a sink because, “She’s been so busy at work lately, I guess she didn’t have time to do the dishes.” While shame burns red across the sober sister’s face. Alcoholism loves to squander money, your money, because, “Why not? We deserve these new online purchases.”

So you leave, breathing a sigh of relief that it is behind you. But it isn’t. Your new worker is an alcoholic. Your new boyfriend’s father is an alcoholic. Alcoholism is the monster who ruined your car even though you were driving safely (and sober). Your son’s new school friend suddenly needs a safe place to stay for the weekend because the sheriff calls and explains that alcoholism has invaded the child’s home.

Sometimes alcoholism dresses itself in fancy names- wine sommelier or wine connoisseur, or wine aficionado. Sauvignon blanc alcoholism imported from the Bordeaux region of France is not a much better behaved alcoholism. It can be deceiving but alcoholism in a silk dress is just as ugly. Alcoholism retching in a marble bathroom is no different than in a gas station toilet. But elite alcoholism isn’t like that! Like those ‘others’. Certainly elite alcoholism is superior to common alcoholism, isn’t it? No. It simply has the ability to cover up with lawyers, easily paid moving violations and daddy or wife paying to remove evidence.

No matter how hard you try to get away from alcoholism, it will find you because we can’t evade it. We have to wait. Wait until our bank account is drained. Wait until our 401K is gone. Wait until we lose a job. Wait until our home is foreclosed. Wait until our children are ashamed of their parent. Wait until the wedding of our dreams is ruined. Wait until the call comes for bail money. Wait until the family car is smashed. Wait until someone is killed. That’s rock bottom. Until there is rock bottom we are doomed to endure it.

Alcoholism has seeped into our collective unconscious and filled it with lies. “They have to help themselves.” “There is nothing you can do until they ask for help.” “It’s not that bad.” “Everyone drinks a little.” “We can’t have a social event without wine or beer.” We have to walk over the half dead bodies of our loved ones lying in a pit of despair because we are told they ‘have to ask for help’. If lying unconscious in their own vomit is not a cry for help, what is?

Where are the defeaters of alcoholism on their steeds? The alcoholism dragon spews its drunken fire breath at us and we are defenseless. There are no wise kings or queens willing to acknowledge the demon, open their draw bridge and welcome the ailing dragon in for treatment. Not until the dragon is broken. Then, only then, can a meager handout of help be offered. “Bring them in for a month and we will dry them out.” Then what? Where do they live? Where do they work? Will there be family left? Perhaps, but it will cost them their entire bag of gold.

Alcoholism grows where there is pain, anxiety, loneliness, abuse and misunderstanding. Until we treat the causes alcoholism, it wins. Until we recognize that alcoholism is the symptom of a disease and begin with understanding and treatment, it always be creeping around looking for the next body to inhibit. Alcoholism is a powerful demon, much more powerful than mere mortals. Alcoholism doesn’t infect one person, it infects a person’s whole world, and all the people they touch are affected. Rock bottom is expensive and often too late. We need a better course of remedy.

In Puerto Rican parlance, and a derivative of the indigenous language and Spanish, the island is known as, “Borinquen” or “Borinquén.” Puerto Ricans, in turn, call themselves, “Borinqueños,” “Borincanos” or “Borícuas.”

“Lamento Borincano” is a plaintive song that describes how Puerto Rico fared in the economically depressive state into which it was thrust after it became a ward of the U.S., as a result of the Spanish-American War. One of Puerto Rico’s most popular songs, it was penned by the island’s prolific composer Rafael Hernández (1892-1965). Hernández, a Puerto Rican with obvious African roots, was a longtime resident of New York City. There, undisturbed by economic and other encumbrances that befell the island as a result of becoming a U.S. prize of war, he was able undisturbedly to compose a variety of musical elegies dedicated to his beloved Borinquén.

In light of what Puerto Rico is going through today, I thought it would be interesting to imagine, by way of the following versification, what Rafael Hernández might be saying about the current state of affairs.

The Puerto Rican, “jibaro,” a naïve small-town dweller, was used by Hernández in the diminutive form, “jibarito,” to personify the island’s grief at that time.

This is my translation of one stanza of the song:

And sadly,
The jibarito goes along his way,
Singing, mumbling to himself, crying:
“What will become of Borinquen,
“My dear God?
“What will become of my island?
“What will become of my home...?”

***** ***** *****

My concept of what Hernandez might be thinking today:

Puerto Rico, my isle in the sun,
Snatched from Spain by the bold Yankee gun,

Still wearing chains in this verdant cage,
Still wond’ring when we’ll become of age.

Tata Taíno, long-vanished blood,
Disappeared under the Spanish flood,

Your spirit remains within us all;
Through song and dance, you plaintively call

The African drums that followed you,
Beat out the whip’s lash that you felt, too.

The ebony hand that touched those drums
Still lives today, and the cuatro strums.

The jibarito did suffer much –
Money-deprived, of trinkets and such –

But, never in his’try has cruel fate
Left Borinquen in such a state.

Money is useless with naught to buy;
Such damage can only make one cry.

Wind and water turns green to pale;
The lack of power hurts those who ail.

Dwellings are lost, or just stripped bare;
There’s no release from oppressive air.

Babies cry, and their poor mother’s moan;
Supplies are all cut down to the bone.

In hamlets, far from the food supply,
With the roads blocked – can copters still fly?!

Why has the Army not established
Command posts, just to serve those ravished?

With sun all day and nights without light,
Three million souls all suffer this plight!

It will not end tomorrow or next’
Mi pobre gente seem to be hexed.

Isla bonita, hurt as you are,
This your Borinquen soul will not scar!

Marc Anthony does a modern rendition with his own touch at the end;

In the midst of the entire BS that is our political reality, life goes on. People have to go to work; have to navigate through traffic jams; have to feed their families; have to play with their children and help them with homework; have to deal with illness and mounting medical bills; have to bury loved ones and cope with their absence; have to struggle with debt and stress. 

There was a time you could depend on friends to help you get through the tough times, no matter what.  But since the advent of social media (and especially since the presidential campaigns for 2016), friends that I once trusted, friends that I thought were capable of critical thinking, have shown their darker sides. Far too many of my longtime friends and acquaintances are behaving like xenophobic haranguers. This conduct greatly disappoints me. It wounds my heart and offends my soul. The real kicker? They don’t seem to give a damn. They are often intolerant and delight in tearing others down over political, authoritarian BS, as they grab onto false stories (aka, “fake news”) and post incendiary memes that are not based in fact.

Don’t get me wrong.  I, too, am guilty of posting false stories or fake memes on occasion. When that happens, it is most often due to my sharing something on Facebook that came from one of my friends. I admit that I sometimes don’t take the time to check a post’s validity because of the overall trust I have in people, and I am particularly trusting of those whom I call my friends. However, when a post that I’ve shared turns out to be BS and someone points it out, I own up to my mistake. But, oh, how I hate it when I fall for BS and then turn around and share it. I should know better. I am normally astute, and I know how to detect BS.

Yes, it’s embarrassing to find out that a news article or a meme you’ve posted is BS. But, despite any personal chagrin, appreciate it when friends respectfully call out BS posts.  Constructive criticisms allow you to rectify gaffes (clean up the BS) and help you learn to avoid stepping into the same social media dung again. Demeaning denunciations of something you’ve posted that is BS is a form of BS in itself and will tempt you to go ahead and wallow in the mire, instead of rising above the stench…

Friends don’t let friends post BS… and true friends don’t attack, unfollow, or block you if you do.

Now, I don’t use social media like most people do and I never have. I didn’t engage in Facebook at its start, while others were accumulating friends by the dozens. When I decided to join the trend, I used it frequently for activist purposes; posting news stories about the environment, government, politicians, and commenting on social issues. I also utilized it for downloading pictures of my grandchildren, sharing music I like, community theatre pieces, and poking my old friend, Bill K. (I love us, Mr. Bill.)

In the first quarter of 2011, I greatly increased my use of Facebook for four reasons:  (1.) John Kasich was the newly elected Governor of Ohio. (2.) State Senator Shannon Johnson introduced Senate Bill 5 (SB-5) – a bill that was “a direct attack on public employees that would strip them of their collective bargaining rights”.  (3.) Facebook was an effective way to connect with groups and people in the fight to repeal SB-5. (4.) Several of my friends and family members are public employees and I couldn’t stand on the sidelines in silence while government “referees” made bad calls against "our team".

Back then, it was through Facebook that I was able to connect and team up with like-minded people in the battle to repeal SB-5. One of the many friend connections I made while actively opposing SB-5, was with John McNay, Professor at University of Cincinnati. John wrote, “Collective Bargaining and the Battle of Ohio”¹ - the only book written about this historic victory for the American Labor Movement. In his book, my friend and teammate John wrote, “It is often said that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, fail to take a stand. In this time of great moral crisis in our battle against Senate Bill 5, the people of Ohio stood up for the middle class and did what was right.”

Our team, led by the referendum group called “We Are Ohio”, won that big game. On November 8, 2011, SB-5 - listed as veto referendum Issue 2 on the general election ballot - was defeated by 22 points! So you see I would be spreading BS if I said that Facebook didn’t help in the fight. Facebook played a HUGE part in garnering attention for the referendum efforts and in getting out the vote for the repeal of SB-5.  

After SB-5, I continued to post things on my Facebook page, as I had always done. Then sometime in late 2013, I noticed a lot of BS was showing up in my news feed. If I had clicked “Like” on an article or meme and/or commented on a friend’s post; an ad containing a word I had used or a “like this page” suggestion would pop up. This annoyed me and, as Facebook settings are buried deep and not in the least intuitive, it took a bit of time to figure out how to stop the flow, or at least lessen the frequency of the unwelcomed marketing BS.

Changing my profile settings really didn’t help for long because Facebook was regularly adding features to their interface, making user settings even more difficult to navigate. It was frustrating and confusing, but I now know that it was not my imagination that Facebook was screwing around with its users’ news feeds.

In the insanity of the 2016 election cycle, which started well before the candidates had been nominated; BS posting on Facebook was amplified. And I noticed that a lot of my friends were posting verifiably false information and news articles. It appeared to me that most of the BS was being shared from - and believed by – those who fell on the far right side of the political divide. But if I would comment to the contrary, or post factual information and/or articles showing that what they were promoting was untruthful, some not-so-friendly FB friends would attack me personally, rather than explore the possibility that they were shoveling BS on their page.

We now know that a lot of fetid BS came from Russian troll farms during the run-up to the 2016 election. They engaged in a disinformation campaign that was disturbingly effective in creating political chaos that pitted Americans against other Americans. Arguing about whether any American candidate or campaign organization did or did not conspire with Russia is a BS distraction from the utmost concern:  Interference in our democracy by a foreign adversary is an American issue – not a partisan issue. The Russian meddling didn’t stop after the election; it continues to this day and any American that insists otherwise, regardless if the news helps or hinders their cause, needs to cut the BS, wake up, and start paying attention.

The proliferation of BS on social media stresses me out. And it is especially distressing to see people respond with vicious comments if challenged about the veracity of an article or meme they’ve shared. A lot has been learned since the 2016 election on how to spot fake news, but some people don’t bother to check their posts for BS if because it supports their way of thinking.

It is hard not to get caught up in all the political spin and nonsense on social media, and my stress levels often go through the roof when I see friends repeatedly posting BS. Lately, I’ve had to just stop; take a break and regroup. Writing is an outlet for me; friends who know me understand this about me.  I’ve sat on and been revising this article for weeks… many, many weeks. The reason I held back is that, regardless of their political bent, I love all my friends – even when they post BS.  I don’t want to - or mean to - hurt or embarrass anyone, especially those I care about. I care about my friends. I care and, therefore, will not let friends post BS. I hope they won’t let me, either.

Peace out, y’all.

*****

AUTHOR NOTE:  Credit to my longtime friend and sister from another mister, “Skinner”, for creating the graphic banner for this article; I love you, my friend. Thank you!

[1.] Professor McNay’s book, Collective Bargaining and the Battle of Ohio: The Defeat of Senate Bill 5 and the Struggle to Defend the Middle Class. New York, NY: Palgrave, is available for purchase on Amazon in Kindle, Hardcover, and Paperback.. ^