The mountain finally came to Muhammad. For the past couple of weeks, my wife and I have tried to take part in various marches and gatherings to protest, but somehow we have not been able to sync up our calendars with those of the organizers. We had a near miss last weekend when we hustled down to Lake Merritt where we were certain that we would find a gathering of some sort. We did encounter a great many people there, many of whom were carrying signs, but mostly seemed to be carrying on in a way befitting a warm weekend just before summer. Then, on our hike back to our car, we came across a rolling flotilla of cars, passengers hanging out of the windows, standing up through sunroofs, horns honking and banners waving. It was a mini parade for Black Lives Matter. We stood and hollered our assent and raised our fists in the air. And then they were gone.
Which is why, a few nights later, we heard a rumbling coming from outside. It started in low, and started to grow. There was a march headed our way. We gathered ourselves, my wife taking the time to cut a piece of cardboard large enough to support her slogan: "Defund the Police - Refund People." Hustling just a block over, we found the street filled with a sea of people all headed in the same direction.
Our march was here.
We jumped in the line and made our way, quite consciously, down the middle of the street. It was a big enough group that there were a number of different chants, led by those with the most impressive "outside voices." As we traveled through the heart of what we know as our neighborhood, my wife and I took in the sights and sounds, pleased to be out of the house and on our feet, voices raised.
And then, it was time to drop out. Not because we changed our mind. Not because the problem was miraculously solved, but because we both became aware of our proximity to other humans. Social distancing was not a luxury that could be afforded by this mass. Our county has become a COVID-19 hotspot over the past couple of weeks. Right about the same time that my wife and I have been anxious to head out and join in the marches. So, with some shame in our hearts, we peeled off and headed home.
Somewhere along the way, we saw a guy waving from a passing car. I looked over and couldn't recognize him, but he was asking, "Are you going home?" This only added to our guilt.
"Yes." I was going to staple an excuse on the end of it, but it wasn't there.
"Can I take your sign?" he asked.
"Sure," my wife raced out hand off her carefully lettered message. The march had begun to climb the hill in the distance. These cars were the last of a group that would eventually and up in front of the mayor's house. That's where they lit candles and asked for the mayor to come out and speak with them as darkness fell. That didn't happen. So most of the protesters left their signs on her lawn.
I would imagine that's where my wife's sign landed.
These are strange days indeed.
Sunday, June 14, 2020
Saturday, June 13, 2020
Patronizing
I used to work late night at an Arby's in Boulder, Colorado. This provided me with money to subsidize my parent's generous gift of putting me through school as well as a series of life experiences that have put me in good stead for lo these past forty-ish years. Hungry drunk boys who came in looking for "food" who could barely speak the words "Beef 'n'Cheddar." Lost pilgrims looking for A) Mork's House or B) The Boulder Dam. But one of the Arby's moments that sticks with me the most did not occur on one of those hazy late nights. Sometimes I worked the lunch shift. An entirely different beast.
Working the counter at a fast food restaurant during the hours of eleven in the morning to one in the afternoon is no sprint. It's a marathon, and you have to pace yourself. Most days, it was hard to see the five booths we had for seating in our lobby because the crowd was so thick, lined up for their meaty treats. Two to three customers in two to three minutes was our expectation, and the best of us could do even more if we were in our best form. And eventually, the siege was over, and it was time to wipe things down. "Dave, go grab a lobby," came the order from my manager behind the slicer. I grabbed a sponge on my way through the back room, out and around to the lobby where the debris was piling up. Wipe this, that, and check the trash bins, making sure that there were no large chunks of "roast beef" left beneath the tables. Nope. Good.
What's this? A business card? Some IBMer left his credentials as a lopsided thank you for that speedy service? No.
"You have been patronized by the KKK," read the card. I stopped my hustle and bustle and read the card again. This was Boulder after all, recently described by Newsweek magazine as the place "Where the hip meet to trip." This was not something I expected to find while scouring a fast food lobby and scooping waste in the direction of the trash.
Trash. The Invisible Empire. I carried the card with me into the back room, set down my sponge and made a point to pin the card to the bulletin board above the manager's desk. It stayed there for a week or two, inviting a good deal of comment from my fellow employees. It also stayed on my mind each time I found myself on the other side of the counter, trying to imagine the face or faces of the person or persons who dropped that ugly reminder. I had heard stories from old-timers about how they had been held up and how their initial terror had become a story to tell young Tuna like myself. I wasn't terrified, but I told the story to anyone who would listen way back then.
And I'm telling it again here because the Ku Klux Klan continues to exist. Announced appearances of this hate group continue to draw many times the number of counter-protesters than those in the bed sheets and pointy hats. Those are the ones we can see. The frightening thing is that they continue to exist at all, and continue to spout their racist screed to anyone who will listen. And there are much worse groups showing up in their wake. Imperial Wizards and Grand Dragons have given way to Proud Boys and Boogaloos. These idjits don't want to be invisible. They want to be the news.
That's scary.
Working the counter at a fast food restaurant during the hours of eleven in the morning to one in the afternoon is no sprint. It's a marathon, and you have to pace yourself. Most days, it was hard to see the five booths we had for seating in our lobby because the crowd was so thick, lined up for their meaty treats. Two to three customers in two to three minutes was our expectation, and the best of us could do even more if we were in our best form. And eventually, the siege was over, and it was time to wipe things down. "Dave, go grab a lobby," came the order from my manager behind the slicer. I grabbed a sponge on my way through the back room, out and around to the lobby where the debris was piling up. Wipe this, that, and check the trash bins, making sure that there were no large chunks of "roast beef" left beneath the tables. Nope. Good.
What's this? A business card? Some IBMer left his credentials as a lopsided thank you for that speedy service? No.
"You have been patronized by the KKK," read the card. I stopped my hustle and bustle and read the card again. This was Boulder after all, recently described by Newsweek magazine as the place "Where the hip meet to trip." This was not something I expected to find while scouring a fast food lobby and scooping waste in the direction of the trash.
Trash. The Invisible Empire. I carried the card with me into the back room, set down my sponge and made a point to pin the card to the bulletin board above the manager's desk. It stayed there for a week or two, inviting a good deal of comment from my fellow employees. It also stayed on my mind each time I found myself on the other side of the counter, trying to imagine the face or faces of the person or persons who dropped that ugly reminder. I had heard stories from old-timers about how they had been held up and how their initial terror had become a story to tell young Tuna like myself. I wasn't terrified, but I told the story to anyone who would listen way back then.
And I'm telling it again here because the Ku Klux Klan continues to exist. Announced appearances of this hate group continue to draw many times the number of counter-protesters than those in the bed sheets and pointy hats. Those are the ones we can see. The frightening thing is that they continue to exist at all, and continue to spout their racist screed to anyone who will listen. And there are much worse groups showing up in their wake. Imperial Wizards and Grand Dragons have given way to Proud Boys and Boogaloos. These idjits don't want to be invisible. They want to be the news.
That's scary.
Friday, June 12, 2020
Safe And Sane?
A few days ago I was wondering if I cold be funny anymore. Now I'm not sure if anything will be funny anymore.
There has recently been a fuss stirred up by a new series of Bugs Bunny cartoons. While it has often occurred to me that Bugs and his sexual identity may have something to rankle the conservative masses, I have not spent a lot of time worrying about the way mayhem is meted out in his adventures. This sort of thing falls solidly and definitively in the category of "cartoon violence." People and associated mammals tend to get mashed, squashed, boiled, blown up or shot in ways engineered by the friendly folks at ACME, eviscerators of Roadrunners since 1949. It is part of the cathartic joy of watching those bits of animation.
Well, it's 2020. Elmer Fudd has been defunded. He will no longer be carrying his trusty shotgun while hunting that wascawy wabbit. He will chase him with a scythe. Or some other means of dispatch that won't fall under the category of gun. “We’re not doing guns,” said Peter Browngardt, executive producers of the series, “But we can do cartoony violence – TNT, the Acme stuff.”
Executives at ACME breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Does anyone remember that one scene where Elmer Fudd ends up with a sucking chest wound, or blows half his face off with the now discarded shotgun? Did Bugs ever bleed out as a result of a gunshot wound? The effects of dynamite and anvils are generally more consequential to the momentary health of the Looney Tunes gang. They are quite resilient in fact.
And before the outcry of desecrating the memory of our childhood favorites begins, let's remember for whom these cartoons were originally created: Adults. These were short films intended to run before Warner Brothers films in theaters. Gangster films and westerns that included a whole lot of actual humans shooting other actual humans. It was only in the sixties and seventies that they found their way to the small screen and in many cases were trimmed for their excessive violence and unsavory references. Like the horrifying racial stereotypes found in so many films made seventy years ago.
So, will it be funny to see Elmer Fudd chase Bugs around with an ax, or a pointed stick? I suppose it depends a little about on how you feel about rodents tormenting humans. Like Wile E. Coyote and that Roadrunner, it sure makes you worry about priorities, since they are obviously in it for the sport, and not the meat.
And isn't that funny?
There has recently been a fuss stirred up by a new series of Bugs Bunny cartoons. While it has often occurred to me that Bugs and his sexual identity may have something to rankle the conservative masses, I have not spent a lot of time worrying about the way mayhem is meted out in his adventures. This sort of thing falls solidly and definitively in the category of "cartoon violence." People and associated mammals tend to get mashed, squashed, boiled, blown up or shot in ways engineered by the friendly folks at ACME, eviscerators of Roadrunners since 1949. It is part of the cathartic joy of watching those bits of animation.
Well, it's 2020. Elmer Fudd has been defunded. He will no longer be carrying his trusty shotgun while hunting that wascawy wabbit. He will chase him with a scythe. Or some other means of dispatch that won't fall under the category of gun. “We’re not doing guns,” said Peter Browngardt, executive producers of the series, “But we can do cartoony violence – TNT, the Acme stuff.”
Executives at ACME breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Does anyone remember that one scene where Elmer Fudd ends up with a sucking chest wound, or blows half his face off with the now discarded shotgun? Did Bugs ever bleed out as a result of a gunshot wound? The effects of dynamite and anvils are generally more consequential to the momentary health of the Looney Tunes gang. They are quite resilient in fact.
And before the outcry of desecrating the memory of our childhood favorites begins, let's remember for whom these cartoons were originally created: Adults. These were short films intended to run before Warner Brothers films in theaters. Gangster films and westerns that included a whole lot of actual humans shooting other actual humans. It was only in the sixties and seventies that they found their way to the small screen and in many cases were trimmed for their excessive violence and unsavory references. Like the horrifying racial stereotypes found in so many films made seventy years ago.
So, will it be funny to see Elmer Fudd chase Bugs around with an ax, or a pointed stick? I suppose it depends a little about on how you feel about rodents tormenting humans. Like Wile E. Coyote and that Roadrunner, it sure makes you worry about priorities, since they are obviously in it for the sport, and not the meat.
And isn't that funny?
Thursday, June 11, 2020
Mother Knows
How do you know that you're doing the right thing?
Robin Williams once said, "What's right is what's left after you do everything else wrong." If that seems a little trite, consider where we are now. All those people who threw caution to the wind four years ago and voted for Donald Trump saying, "Well, what could go wrong?"
Briefly? Everything.
Even the billionaires aided by tax cuts lost some slim percentage of their ridiculous fortunes. The National Rifle Association is currently on lockdown, and CNN beat Fox in cable news ratings for the first in nineteen years.
My mother, who has lived long enough to see a few twists and turns on the road of life found herself once again surprised at just how awful things had become in such a relatively short period of time. Even though she is my voice of reasonable doom, she continues to marvel at just how many days have trended anywhere but up. Hers is the so-called "silent generation," but I don't recall a time when my mother lived up to that label. She was the one who was ready to climb on the back of my older brother's motorcycle with him to ride to Canada if the draft board ever came looking for him.
They never did, so she came in on the first wave of the women's liberation movement. It was my father who used to fuss about "Equal Rights." He would insist that he would be fine if there was a constitutional amendment that ensured equal rights for bald-headed printing salesmen. Dad didn't always get it.
My mom did. Does. Always has. Incredibly patient, but not willing to take any serious malarkey. Well, from her sons periodically, but certainly not from anybody in elected office. She raised us to be conscientious members of our community. Do not litter. Do vote. Do not act like a sheep. Do question authority.
Do the right thing.
The good news is this: Right now, figuring out what the right thing to do is easier than ever. If you see a bunch of red baseball hats all headed one way, go in the opposite direction. Over the past few weeks we have seen characters such as George W. Bush and Mitt Romney make choices that made them appear clever or courageous. It's pretty absurd company to be keeping, but as I mentioned earlier, these times are curious, and getting curiouser. But when it comes to mom, don't bet against the house.
Robin Williams once said, "What's right is what's left after you do everything else wrong." If that seems a little trite, consider where we are now. All those people who threw caution to the wind four years ago and voted for Donald Trump saying, "Well, what could go wrong?"
Briefly? Everything.
Even the billionaires aided by tax cuts lost some slim percentage of their ridiculous fortunes. The National Rifle Association is currently on lockdown, and CNN beat Fox in cable news ratings for the first in nineteen years.
My mother, who has lived long enough to see a few twists and turns on the road of life found herself once again surprised at just how awful things had become in such a relatively short period of time. Even though she is my voice of reasonable doom, she continues to marvel at just how many days have trended anywhere but up. Hers is the so-called "silent generation," but I don't recall a time when my mother lived up to that label. She was the one who was ready to climb on the back of my older brother's motorcycle with him to ride to Canada if the draft board ever came looking for him.
They never did, so she came in on the first wave of the women's liberation movement. It was my father who used to fuss about "Equal Rights." He would insist that he would be fine if there was a constitutional amendment that ensured equal rights for bald-headed printing salesmen. Dad didn't always get it.
My mom did. Does. Always has. Incredibly patient, but not willing to take any serious malarkey. Well, from her sons periodically, but certainly not from anybody in elected office. She raised us to be conscientious members of our community. Do not litter. Do vote. Do not act like a sheep. Do question authority.
Do the right thing.
The good news is this: Right now, figuring out what the right thing to do is easier than ever. If you see a bunch of red baseball hats all headed one way, go in the opposite direction. Over the past few weeks we have seen characters such as George W. Bush and Mitt Romney make choices that made them appear clever or courageous. It's pretty absurd company to be keeping, but as I mentioned earlier, these times are curious, and getting curiouser. But when it comes to mom, don't bet against the house.
Wednesday, June 10, 2020
Funny
September 29, 2001, Saturday Night Live came back on the air after a three week hiatus brought about by the terrorist attacks three weeks earlier. The episode was introduced by New York City's mayor, Rudy Guliani. At one point, producer Lorne Michaels came out and asked The Mayor, "Can we be funny?"
Guliani replied, "Why start now?"
Nineteen years later, things are about as awful as they have ever been. The folks at Saturday Night Live were doing a Zoom variation on their "live" show for three weeks during late April until the first week of May. Were they funny? Opinions vary. They were, at the very least, a distraction from the moribund sameness of the first month of quarantine. The May ninth episode was the season finale, with the cast and crew released to go about their summertime plans which probably didn't include the standard vacation or movie production. My guess is that they are all at home feeling much the same way their counterparts from two decades ago. Cane we be funny?
I feel that too. I know precisely how dark and troubled my writing has been over the past few weeks. Even my always reliable nostalgia machine has left me high and dry. I have drifted past the point of satire and cynicism to full-on troubled. I wake up in the night feeling despair that I cannot push into the corner of my mind. The focus of my waking hours seems to be the ongoing pain and suffering felt everywhere. Unrelenting.
There are still folks recovering from COVID-19. There are still birthday parties taking place. There are moments of joy, not the least of which was experienced on the streets of Oakland last week when protesters danced on past the curfew. Only one arrest was reported that night. Which is happy, but it's not funny.
There is a sea of angry comments out there being directed at the powers that be, some of which could be described as "funny." Not "funny ha-ha," but "funny sad." A contradiction in terms, it seems to me. But contradictions seem to be playing a big part of our collective lives these days. What we are told and what we see are two very different things. "Things are fine, go back to work!" No thanks. Not until people aren't dying by the thousands. "There is no systematic racism problem in law enforcement."
Um. No.
It's not funny.
I miss funny.
I miss a lot of things right now, but funny is right up there at the top.
Guliani replied, "Why start now?"
Nineteen years later, things are about as awful as they have ever been. The folks at Saturday Night Live were doing a Zoom variation on their "live" show for three weeks during late April until the first week of May. Were they funny? Opinions vary. They were, at the very least, a distraction from the moribund sameness of the first month of quarantine. The May ninth episode was the season finale, with the cast and crew released to go about their summertime plans which probably didn't include the standard vacation or movie production. My guess is that they are all at home feeling much the same way their counterparts from two decades ago. Cane we be funny?
I feel that too. I know precisely how dark and troubled my writing has been over the past few weeks. Even my always reliable nostalgia machine has left me high and dry. I have drifted past the point of satire and cynicism to full-on troubled. I wake up in the night feeling despair that I cannot push into the corner of my mind. The focus of my waking hours seems to be the ongoing pain and suffering felt everywhere. Unrelenting.
There are still folks recovering from COVID-19. There are still birthday parties taking place. There are moments of joy, not the least of which was experienced on the streets of Oakland last week when protesters danced on past the curfew. Only one arrest was reported that night. Which is happy, but it's not funny.
There is a sea of angry comments out there being directed at the powers that be, some of which could be described as "funny." Not "funny ha-ha," but "funny sad." A contradiction in terms, it seems to me. But contradictions seem to be playing a big part of our collective lives these days. What we are told and what we see are two very different things. "Things are fine, go back to work!" No thanks. Not until people aren't dying by the thousands. "There is no systematic racism problem in law enforcement."
Um. No.
It's not funny.
I miss funny.
I miss a lot of things right now, but funny is right up there at the top.
Tuesday, June 09, 2020
All Apologies
I don't know about your inbox, but mine has been littered over the past week with companies with whom I am either directly or indirectly connected telling me how they are going to deal with the institutionalized racism in our world. My son highlighted and sent an article to me about what LEGO is doing: A four million dollar contribution to “organizations dedicated to supporting black children and educating all children about racial equality.” It may not have come as any kind of surprise to anyone that Ben &Jerry's had their own statement to make: We Must Dismantle White Supremacy. Great. Ice cream and building blocks.
Now what else?
Amazon put a big banner on their web site that read, "Black Lives Matter," and billionaire Jeff Bezos defended that choice to an angry customer thus: “‘Black lives matter’ doesn’t mean other lives don’t matter. I have a 20-year-old son, and I simply don’t worry that he might be choked to death while being detained one day. It’s not something I worry about. Black parents can’t say the same.”
Okay. Next?
How about the video posted by a group of NFL players telling their fans and owners that Black Lives Matter? These voices were being heard at about the same instant that New Orleans Saints quarterback Drew Brees was having his own reckoning with the voices in his head and his heart. After initially coming out stridently against those who might kneel during the National Anthem, he reversed course and apologized, saying "I stand with the black community in the fight against systemic racial injustice and police brutality and support the creation of real policy change that will make a difference." The "president," no fan of kneeling or apologizing, tweeted "I am a big fan of Drew Brees. I think he’s truly one of the greatest quarterbacks, but he should not have taken back his original stance on honoring our magnificent American Flag."
To which Brees replied, "Through my ongoing conversations with friends, teammates, and leaders in the black community, I realize this is not an issue about the American flag. It has never been. We can no longer use the flag to turn people away or distract them from the real issues that face our black communities."
Something was in the wind, because later that same day, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell issued his own apology. “We, the National Football League, admit we were wrong for not listening to NFL players earlier and encourage all to speak out and peacefully protest. It has been a difficult time for our country. In particular, black people in our country. First, my condolences to the families of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and all the families who have endured police brutality.”
"We were wrong."
Meanwhile, the "president" retweeted one of his minions who insisted "Leaders lead. Cowards kneel." These folks seem to believe that tear gas and rubber bullets are a sign of strength.
And though they will most likely never apologize, they were wrong.
There will be a lot more of that before this is all over.
More apologies.
All apologies.
Now what else?
Amazon put a big banner on their web site that read, "Black Lives Matter," and billionaire Jeff Bezos defended that choice to an angry customer thus: “‘Black lives matter’ doesn’t mean other lives don’t matter. I have a 20-year-old son, and I simply don’t worry that he might be choked to death while being detained one day. It’s not something I worry about. Black parents can’t say the same.”
Okay. Next?
How about the video posted by a group of NFL players telling their fans and owners that Black Lives Matter? These voices were being heard at about the same instant that New Orleans Saints quarterback Drew Brees was having his own reckoning with the voices in his head and his heart. After initially coming out stridently against those who might kneel during the National Anthem, he reversed course and apologized, saying "I stand with the black community in the fight against systemic racial injustice and police brutality and support the creation of real policy change that will make a difference." The "president," no fan of kneeling or apologizing, tweeted "I am a big fan of Drew Brees. I think he’s truly one of the greatest quarterbacks, but he should not have taken back his original stance on honoring our magnificent American Flag."
To which Brees replied, "Through my ongoing conversations with friends, teammates, and leaders in the black community, I realize this is not an issue about the American flag. It has never been. We can no longer use the flag to turn people away or distract them from the real issues that face our black communities."
Something was in the wind, because later that same day, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell issued his own apology. “We, the National Football League, admit we were wrong for not listening to NFL players earlier and encourage all to speak out and peacefully protest. It has been a difficult time for our country. In particular, black people in our country. First, my condolences to the families of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and all the families who have endured police brutality.”
"We were wrong."
Meanwhile, the "president" retweeted one of his minions who insisted "Leaders lead. Cowards kneel." These folks seem to believe that tear gas and rubber bullets are a sign of strength.
And though they will most likely never apologize, they were wrong.
There will be a lot more of that before this is all over.
More apologies.
All apologies.
Monday, June 08, 2020
Stop. Police.
The past few days I have spent what feels like far too many hours staring down into the abyss. Millions of Americans, equipped with high definition video cameras are posting ugly encounters with police. Some of them are given the tag "viral."
Which is funny, since we're still in the midst of a global pandemic. A hundred thousand plus Americans have died from a virus.
Okay. Maybe it's not funny.
Maybe it's tragic.
The image of a seventy-five year old man being shoved to the ground by Buffalo police in riot gear is one that won't go away. The officer who pushed him just kept walking. Just. Kept. Walking. Another officer paused as if to check on the fallen man was urged to keep moving. Two medics walking with the group of officers stopped to attend to the man who made the mistake of being in front of this unstoppable blue wave.
All of this was captured, not by cell phones or security cameras, but by a local news crew who was on the scene.
Now it's time to get to the ugliest part: This old man was white. He wasn't carrying a sign, or screaming epithets. This old man was standing directly in front of a local news camera crew. Additional footage was taken by others across the street. Not in Selma, Los Angeles, or Minneapolis. This happened on the mean streets of Buffalo, New York. So if the police will do this in Buffalo in front of TV cameras, what makes anyone believe that their behavior is any better in any other city when the cameras are not present? How many black men, women and children have been pushed to the ground and left behind by police who just kept walking? How many black men, women and children have been killed by police who just kept walking?
The answer to the question about what about all those cops taking a knee and fist bumping protesters would be this: The exception that proves the rule. This realization comes as a great shock to me, as I have known a great many law enforcement officers and I have never considered any of them to be bad people. Exceptions do not make a rule untrue. Which shakes the foundations of my life. Visions of cops and robbers as distinct groups and how we used to know who the good guys were fade away. How could this have happened? When and where did it all begin?
I do not know.
But I do know it's time for it to end. Now.
Which is funny, since we're still in the midst of a global pandemic. A hundred thousand plus Americans have died from a virus.
Okay. Maybe it's not funny.
Maybe it's tragic.
The image of a seventy-five year old man being shoved to the ground by Buffalo police in riot gear is one that won't go away. The officer who pushed him just kept walking. Just. Kept. Walking. Another officer paused as if to check on the fallen man was urged to keep moving. Two medics walking with the group of officers stopped to attend to the man who made the mistake of being in front of this unstoppable blue wave.
All of this was captured, not by cell phones or security cameras, but by a local news crew who was on the scene.
Now it's time to get to the ugliest part: This old man was white. He wasn't carrying a sign, or screaming epithets. This old man was standing directly in front of a local news camera crew. Additional footage was taken by others across the street. Not in Selma, Los Angeles, or Minneapolis. This happened on the mean streets of Buffalo, New York. So if the police will do this in Buffalo in front of TV cameras, what makes anyone believe that their behavior is any better in any other city when the cameras are not present? How many black men, women and children have been pushed to the ground and left behind by police who just kept walking? How many black men, women and children have been killed by police who just kept walking?
The answer to the question about what about all those cops taking a knee and fist bumping protesters would be this: The exception that proves the rule. This realization comes as a great shock to me, as I have known a great many law enforcement officers and I have never considered any of them to be bad people. Exceptions do not make a rule untrue. Which shakes the foundations of my life. Visions of cops and robbers as distinct groups and how we used to know who the good guys were fade away. How could this have happened? When and where did it all begin?
I do not know.
But I do know it's time for it to end. Now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
