After Class

 There are moments when my teaching momentum gets waylaid by some little thing. Then there was this moment last Friday. 

Some fifth grade boys were taunting one another, as fifth grade boys will, as turns were being taken during a PE challenge. As one of them was getting up, I heard another say this to his friend: "Dirty Jew."

Suddenly, the rest of the class disappeared and I could only see this eleven year old sitting in front of me. Just as abruptly, he was aware that I was staring directly at him. The disjoint was as powerful as the feelings that rushed through me. I had become familiar with the overly casual use of the "N word" by students at our school. I had a prepared speech for such occurrences. But this one? I didn't have a quick response. 

Which is when the rest of the class came back into focus. The boy to whom the epithet was delivered didn't seem to have noticed or cared what his pal had called him. So I made a choice to move on, but not without taking this young man aside and letting him know that we would speak. After class. Not enough of a gesture so that the rest of his classmates would get all Jerry Springer about it, but the message was sent: After class. 

When I sent the rest of the fifth graders off to recess, I was glad to see that one didn't need to be reminded to stay behind. I started by double checking, "Did you say 'dirty Jew?'" I wanted to be sure.

I was relieved when there was no wide-eyed denial of what was said. Instead, there was a sad shrug of the shoulders, as his gaze turned to the ground between us. 

"Do you know what that means?" 

He looked up for a moment. "Yeah." Then a pause. Then, "No." 

"You know it's not nice." His eyes went back down. "It's a mean thing. A very mean thing." I went on to deliver the quickest version of the Holocaust I could, reminding him that hate of any kind was not okay. Muslim. Christian. Jew. Boys. Girls. Black. White. Brown. Rich. Poor. Fourth grade. Fifth grade. I wanted him to get that his casual diss of his friend had roots that were historical. And tragic. 

I have known this kid since Kindergarten. I know that he had no understanding of what was coming out of his mouth beyond the fact that he was repeating something he had heard one of his buddies say. So I asked him. "Where did you hear that?"

"Jason." Still looking at the ground.

Jason made sense. Jason was a kid who could assimilate that kind of put down in a school full of Latino, African-American and Yemeni students with scarcely a Jew on site. It would be a page of the scrapbook of hate that Jason was assembling for purposes that no one could fully understand. 

I waited for my young charge to meet my eye. "Let that go. There's no good in it." He nodded. "Go to recess." 

He left, leaving me with the question of how to deal with Jason. That would take a little longer than "after class." 

Your Song

 Phil Collins used to refer to "that song," the one that he performed on both sides of the Atlantic during the day-long Live Aid concert back in 1985. If you don't have a recollection of Mister Collins or his music, be assured that the term ubiquitous was coined for his presence on the music scene in the mid eighties. He was the only performer to appear both in London and in Philadelphia that day. And in case there should be any mistake, he played his signature song, "In The Air Tonight," on both sides of the pond. Phil was Elvis two years before Mojo Nixon decided it was Mister Presley that was everywhere. 

But I didn't drag you here to talk about Phil Collins. Instead, this is about a song that was endemic for me and the mix tapes I made. It started out simply enough. My high school girlfriend mentioned that a song by Jimmy Buffett from his Volcano album reminded her of one of the stories she wrote. That song was Chanson Pour Les Petits Enfants. It was a departure for Mister Buffett, known primarily for his odes to mixed drinks and the challenges of dealing with their after-effects. "Chanson" was a lullaby of sorts, and I began to slide it in to most every mix tape that I made for her, along with whatever new music I happened to be sharing at the moment. At one point, that song callously got left out of the playlist and I was asked why it was omitted. I made a point of squeezing it in from then on. On every tape. 

And there were a lot of them. 

Ninety minutes of a potpourri of the tunes of the day, with that familiar refrain just to keep it personal. 

But like so many things good, I may have overdone it. Now, in another century, listening to those tapes and converting them to digital files for posterity, it became apparent that that poor little song had suffered and withered from overexposure. With all the songs available to us in this world full of sounds and rhythms, how had I managed to crush the life out of this happy little ditty? 

I am guilty of the crime of death by repetition. It shows up in my writing, my comedy, and yes in my music tastes. I will drag out "that song" until someone says "stop." And all these years later, that request came oh-so-politely from my high school girlfriend from our past to our present, where we stay in touch and sometimes reflect on the what things used to be. Just a little embarrassed, I made note of the way I simply could not let a good thing go. 

Of course, the magic here is that I don't have to. It's always there, if I want to hear it. If I want to share it. If I want to remember that time. 

I can also push the fast forward button. There's got to be a Phil Collins song on there somewhere. 

Contemptible

 Once again, the twice-impeached former game show host is being hauled in front of a judge on charges of contempt. 

Specifically, this is the second time he is being held accountable for his statements about the judge, jury and witnesses connected to his trial in New York City. The first time he was fined one thousand dollars for each of the nine posts he made on his social media site, the always deathly ironic "Truth Social." How much truth is roughly comparable to the amount of actual socialization to be found there. Mostly this is a dumping ground for whatever rambling invective his tiny hands can muster between naps and tee times. The "really good stuff" he saves for his rallies, where he injects the faithful with his own personal brand of reality. 

The trouble is this: This is a guy who can and will continue to spread whatever bits of false wisdom he chooses to, even at one thousand dollars a pop, because he is certain that his minions will fully fund this enterprise. 

And they will come back for more. 

Instead I believe that Mister Multiple Indictments should be fined for every instance of his contempt. The way he drapes himself in the First Amendment is as repugnant as the way he embraces the American Flag. 

And the crowd cries out for more. How about the time he called for shoplifters to be shot on sight? “Very simply, if you rob a store, you can fully expect to be shot as you are leaving that store, shot.” In his own personal brand of justice, he has called for release of those who have been convicted and jailed for their part in the insurrection of January 6, 2021. "Some people call them prisoners. I call them hostages. Release the J6 hostages, Joe. Release them, Joe. You can do it real easy, Joe." HIs tawdry complaints about the witnesses, prosecutors and jury of his initial criminal trial are just more of the same. 

Contempt. 

And the crowd cries out for more. 

Once More Unto The Breach

 Hello dear readers. It seems like weeks since we gathered together here to discuss gun violence. 

Well, let me toss another log on that fire: shootout with police.

And if that doesn't pique your interest, let's just go ahead and say four dead on the heap. Five if you count the shooter. 

How's that for conflagration? 

While attempting to serve warrants on a suspect, officers were fired upon by the now deceased suspect. Four of them were killed. Another four were injured. I don't know how this fits into the "good guys with guns" narrative, but it seems to me that the score at the end of the volley was four to one. 

Let's try this angle: The "suspect" had a rap sheet that went back more than twenty years, having spent time in prison as well as being in and out of jail during that time. His time in prison came after he was sentenced as as a felon in possession of a firearm. 

In what might feel like irony this was the same charge for which the warrant was being served when the felon with the firearm shot and killed four law enforcement officers. 

We'll just call him guilty on that last one to save on paperwork. 

Since the convicted felon is dead, it may be difficult to figure out how he came to possess a high powered rifle, a handgun, and more than five hundred rounds of ammunition. The next dance that will be interesting to watch is how gun-rights advocates choose to spin this story. For those keen on the "god-given" right to keep and bear arms may be left making excuses for the way this played out. Do those "stand your ground" laws apply to convicted felons? 

There are four families left wondering how things could have been different. Five if there were any questions from the family of the guy doing the shooting. 

And why wouldn't there be? 

Seeing Is Believing

 You might think that having all this access to information would make us smarter.

You might think that having security cameras at every corner of our planet would make us safer. 

You might think this. 

You'd be wrong. 

Let's address that first issue: With all the different and varied sources at our disposal, we should be the most well-educated monkeys on earth. Streaming this, clicking on that, flipping up and down the list of available news sources, we should certainly be able to find an objective truth into which we can sink our inquisitive teeth. Unless we simply take that first easy bit and consume it whole, never mind the tasty bits of news right next door. Which is why we now have whole articles generated to remind us just how easy it is to take whatever comes down the pike as "news."

A case in point: USA Today felt compelled to run an article letting us all know that the picture of Michelle Obama, the former first lady, wearing an anti-Trump T-shirt was "altered." Certainly the use of photoshop and other digital tools make such fakes easy enough to slip by the casual observer. Enough so that it might incite those of smaller minds to get all up in Michelle's kitchen wondering how the lady who once said, "When they go low, we go high," could trot out such a demeaning image. Well, just a click away from the denial from USA Today is another "Fact Check." This one is dated not from just a week or so ago, but from November 2023. In this one, the full journalistic power of Reuters News Agency was brought to bear on an incident involving a (checks notes) T-shirt pasted onto a photo of Michelle Obama that was passed of as "real." Do we need to reminded every six months of the existence of photo-editing software? 

And now the issue of security. if you're like me (and for the leventy-seventh time, why aren't you?) then you have noticed a proliferation of those eyes affixed or dangling from walls and lampposts on most every corner of every city. And if you happen to be the clever sort that I continue to believe that I am, you have probably surmised that we are only seeing a fraction of the devices set about for the purposes of keeping an eye on our behavior. For some this is a comfort. For others, it would seem, this is a challenge. 

Then there's the third group who have no reason to doubt that there is always someone watching but they have chosen to ignore the existence of surveillance and have gone ahead with whatever idiot schemes they have in store for an already suspecting public. 

Which presents us with a bit of a double bind: Should we believe everything we see and hear or should we assume that someone or something is altering our perception with the intent of confusing our already tumultuous reality? 

That reminds me: Did you see the video of Michelle Obama breaking into a Cybertruck? You could tell it was her because she was wearing a "Nope, Not Again" T-shirt. 

Final Exam

 Go ahead and try. I dare you. Come up with a middle of the road position for the Israel-Gaza mess.

I'll wait. 

While we're all waiting for those common sense  propositions to come flooding in, I will relate an observation made I heard over the weekend: Wait until summer vacation. In a couple weeks, campuses will empty out on their own, and the "trouble" presented by protesters at U.S.  colleges will wither on the vine all by themselves. Not that these folks won't carry their idealism wherever they go, but hanging around an empty quad when the Jamba Juice across the street is closed for renovations and your girlfriend has left for her internship at Goldman Sachs may put a damper on one's commitment to tent city. 

Again, this is not to say that there is still plenty that needs to be resolved here. My wife has pointed out to me on numerous occasions that divestment is a strategy that can be used to force governments to make changes they might not feel like making. Money, or lack thereof, has a way of changing policy when public opinion is roundly ignored. Initial calls for divestment in South Africa began as early as the 1960s but it wasn't until 1986 that the United States went all in, or all out, in response to dismantle Apartheid. 

How many years do you suppose it will take to rearrange the power structure of the Middle East? 

As I have mentioned in this space before, I appreciate all the effort that goes into finding solutions. Meaningful solutions. Not just making signs and screaming at the top of your collective lungs. While I have been typing away here I have yet to see anyone making those kind of suggestions. "Death to Zion" is not probably the best way to go about freeing Palestine. That particular crossroads of humanity has been up for grabs since civilization began, and finding a way for everyone to have a home and to live in peace will not be a quick fix. 

So take your time. This is not a timed examination. We've got all summer. But for now let's agree that killing people in the name of freedom is a pretty weak thesis. 

Darkness

 About a week ago, I wrote about Max Azzarello, the gentleman who set himself on fire outside of the courtroom where the twice-impeached former "president" was on trial for misuse of funds to pay hush money to the adult film actress with whom he had a clandestine affair while his third wife was at home with their new son. I prefaced this story with that of my father's untimely accidental death. 

I compared the ends of my father with Mister Azzerelo's and expressed my distinct lack of sympathy for this guy who set himself on fire. On purpose. At that time, I was struck more by the tragic waste of life than I was trying to imagine what must have driven a thirty-seven year old man to do such a thing. I was angry at the void left by this act of self-violence and the way it rubbed up against the pain I still feel about the way my father passed. 

It was not, as a friend and constant reader pointed out, my most graceful moment. Specifically my penultimate line: Good riddance. 

That was uncharacteristic of me in general, but not completely out of character. I continue to own that sentiment, and have not bothered to go back and edit or reframe it. It was my reaction to the moment in time. Upon further reflection, I can understand how this might have raised an eyebrow or two. Especially since I spend so much time making sense out of so many other's failings or moments of weakness. There certainly might have been a time when I can imagine that I would have made the case for this guy going out in a literal blaze of glory. I might have pointed out that this kind of high profile failure of our mental health system is the kind of thing that could bring much-needed attention to the plight of those suffering from similar afflictions. 

I might have extended my heart. 

In many ways, I failed myself and you readers out there who may be looking to me for wisdom and insight into some of the darker corners of the human psyche. Instead, I opened up the id box and let my own conflicted feelings fly without much, if any, explanation. There it was: my misanthropic snark on display for anyone to see. 

Anyone who stops by here with any frequency, anyway. This is not an apology so much as a check on what I must be thinking. I must be thinking about what happens next. So much of what I see and hear lately puts me on a path where laughter and forgetting is not the easy one to take. I appreciate the reminder that I can be better. 

Sometimes it takes a little more effort.