Old habits die slowly and painfully
I have a bumper sticker slogan on my Facebook page: WORK HARDER! Rich white people want more tax cuts. Unfortunately, this is neither hyperbolic nor sarcastic, it's become the new norm. Along with a growing number of Americans and fellow citizens of the world, I've grown increasingly frustrated and tired watching my tax dollars support the very few who set out to inflict distress and harm on others. The slices of pie have gotten thinner and thinner with each pay check.
Yesterday, commondreams.org reported that the top 10 percent of the wealthiest Americans own 80 percent of all stock shares. That's just the beginning of this looming myth that if we work hard and harder than the average person, we can live the "American Dream" and live a life of luxury. Well, then again these are stocks they're talking about. Isn't it well known rich people have always been the ones to invest? That's not all.
Data across the board from Congressional records to thinktanks to academic institutions tell us the top 2 percent of America's wealthiest earn more than the bottom 95 percent of us combined. WTF? So, isn't this something we see from those other dirt poor third world countries? Not anymore. The status quo has been accepted.
The average person may look at the tone of this article and say, "He's got a negative attitude. Why is he so down on everything?" No, I'm by nature an optimistic and passionate person. There's nothing wrong with putting passion out there with pragmatic solutions. So, here's a parting thought.
My Grandmother passed away late Monday evening after a difficult 23 months where she had little to no appetite and dementia progressed. She was one of the most selfless human beings I knew. If I could be half as selfless in my daily life, I know I can deliver more love and joy to others.
You or I can't force someone to be a nice person. There are many factors that contribute to someone's worldly view or lack thereof: socioeconomic status, nurturing, and environment, to name a few. People also get inundated with crazy, corporate-controlled ideas like ones guised by The Tea Party to blame their problems on minorities. My father said it best, "The data will lead the way." Right now, we need to collect this data and steer it in an entirely different path than the one it's on.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Grandma's Gifts
Grandma's home was open to everyone. A small, quaint two-story blue wood panel home with white trim, oak tree limbs looming next to it, an old, rusty swing set used by my father, his siblings, and their children in the backyard next to a wooded area, and a white barn with orange painted bars for fences where different livestock roamed -- pigs, horses, and cows were a staple of this woman's selfless life. All of us would enter the house with hands, feet, and ears frozen from the stinging cold to the warmth of a black iron coal furnace and sweet smells of desserts cooking in the oven for the evening meal. While our feet pounded the wood flooring and voices carried through the home, Grandma continued preparing the meal. She would rarely raise her voice or reprimand us for simply behaving like kids. Grandma symbolized that Midwestern unpretentious woman who was inviting to anyone of all shapes, sizes, color, and socioeconomic status.
Today, my Grandma's life is about to come to an end. We tend to all selfishly want that loved one to survive and never leave us. However, this post is dedicated as a celebration of a long, full life one tremendous woman lived.
My Grandmother was born and raised in Lower Manhattan, New York City. It was a time when those who didn't have much money did what they could to survive. She was an outstanding student and someone who was a voracious reader throughout her life. In her later adolescent and young adult years, a beautiful thick and wavy dark-haired woman would attend many social events. She was a bit of a partying woman with that Gaffney rebellious streak to her. Many women viewed it improper to drink a Manhattan, but not Grandma. She ended up meeting a tall, slender Irish-American man who worked at the time as a playwright critic for what is now known as Q Magazine.
Approaching an imminent threat by psychopathic dictators, particularly Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin, my grandfather enlisted in the U.S. Army as a foot soldier. Along with many brave young men, he stormed Omaha Beach on D-Day. This turned out to be a life changing event.
While facing gun and mortar fire, a piece of shrapnel sliced through my Grandfather's leg. He was carried a few miles to a camp by his fellow infantryman. At this camp, there was mass confusion on who my Grandfather was. His dog tags were broken, he was barely conscious and incoherent, and medical staff on hand initially identified him as a German soldier. At one point, a priest walked by where the wounded men lied. My Grandfather asked if his Last Rites could be cited to him. The priest replied: "I'm sorry. I only have time for the living," and continued his hasty walk past the camp.
Eventually, my Grandfather was airlifted to a nearby Air Force Base. Doctors inserted a prosthetic wooden leg. This would lead to a life where he would always feel shame and embarassment "as a cripple." However, he still managed to attend my father's academic and athletic events.
After the war, my Grandmother inherited farmland out in central Nebraska from an Italian-American relative, Angelo. They agreed and moved to Nebraska where neither knew anything about farming. Eventually, both worked to understand more and more. They raised cattle, chickens, and crops. Children came along and helped with the day-to-day chores, often waking up around 4 a.m. before school started.
My Grandfather was diabetic and suffered from bouts of depression. After moving to Nebraska and the horror still lingering from WWII, he became a heavy smoker and drinker. When my father was a sophomore in college, assistance provided by the G.I. bill, my Grandfather died suddenly from a heartattack. With one older sibling and two younger ones still in primary school, my Grandmother was left to raise her children on her own.
All four children graduated from college. They went on to have successful careers and great parents. The values my Grandmother instilled were never forgotten: always remain humble, love and respect all those you meet, forgive those who have done you harm, and respect and love all. Those values were passed down to me. I'll never forget two talks I had with Grandma.
One day, I cackled and mocked a grungy garbage man who used to pick up trash at our home in Niles, Michigan. She reminded me every job out there is important and added if we didn't have someone picking up garbage, think of the messes left behind. My attitude quickly changed. She finished by telling me all jobs out there are important and people work hard to provide for everyone. It was on this day I had a respect for all of our workers.
There was another occasion when my Grandma was discussing major American historical events. I asked an innocent question at the time about people of different color. She responded, "I see no color." This reminded me how the color of someone's skin by no means makes up what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once famously said, "the content of one's character." Even though to this day, we see ugly racial divisions in certain areas of our country, I hold those values Grandma instilled in me to respect everyone with mutual love and respect.
It was just a few years ago my Grandmother attended her first caucus meeting. She probably didn't think in her lifetime a woman had a real viable chance to be elected President of the United States. Her second youngest and only daughter who was a delegate at the time brought my Grandmother along. At one point, my Grandmother, quiet and reserved mainly among strangers, proudly stood up and voiced her support for Hillary Clinton.
She still has a Hillary Clinton sticker on her door at the nursing home and probably is the only Democrat in the building. Her selfless life she lived will always be remembered. Before responding in conversation, you would see her take a pause before speaking. Her gifts to teach us how to provide joy and love for others will always be remembered.
Grandma's home was open to everyone. A small, quaint two-story blue wood panel home with white trim, oak tree limbs looming next to it, an old, rusty swing set used by my father, his siblings, and their children in the backyard next to a wooded area, and a white barn with orange painted bars for fences where different livestock roamed -- pigs, horses, and cows were a staple of this woman's selfless life. All of us would enter the house with hands, feet, and ears frozen from the stinging cold to the warmth of a black iron coal furnace and sweet smells of desserts cooking in the oven for the evening meal. While our feet pounded the wood flooring and voices carried through the home, Grandma continued preparing the meal. She would rarely raise her voice or reprimand us for simply behaving like kids. Grandma symbolized that Midwestern unpretentious woman who was inviting to anyone of all shapes, sizes, color, and socioeconomic status.
Today, my Grandma's life is about to come to an end. We tend to all selfishly want that loved one to survive and never leave us. However, this post is dedicated as a celebration of a long, full life one tremendous woman lived.
My Grandmother was born and raised in Lower Manhattan, New York City. It was a time when those who didn't have much money did what they could to survive. She was an outstanding student and someone who was a voracious reader throughout her life. In her later adolescent and young adult years, a beautiful thick and wavy dark-haired woman would attend many social events. She was a bit of a partying woman with that Gaffney rebellious streak to her. Many women viewed it improper to drink a Manhattan, but not Grandma. She ended up meeting a tall, slender Irish-American man who worked at the time as a playwright critic for what is now known as Q Magazine.
Approaching an imminent threat by psychopathic dictators, particularly Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin, my grandfather enlisted in the U.S. Army as a foot soldier. Along with many brave young men, he stormed Omaha Beach on D-Day. This turned out to be a life changing event.
While facing gun and mortar fire, a piece of shrapnel sliced through my Grandfather's leg. He was carried a few miles to a camp by his fellow infantryman. At this camp, there was mass confusion on who my Grandfather was. His dog tags were broken, he was barely conscious and incoherent, and medical staff on hand initially identified him as a German soldier. At one point, a priest walked by where the wounded men lied. My Grandfather asked if his Last Rites could be cited to him. The priest replied: "I'm sorry. I only have time for the living," and continued his hasty walk past the camp.
Eventually, my Grandfather was airlifted to a nearby Air Force Base. Doctors inserted a prosthetic wooden leg. This would lead to a life where he would always feel shame and embarassment "as a cripple." However, he still managed to attend my father's academic and athletic events.
After the war, my Grandmother inherited farmland out in central Nebraska from an Italian-American relative, Angelo. They agreed and moved to Nebraska where neither knew anything about farming. Eventually, both worked to understand more and more. They raised cattle, chickens, and crops. Children came along and helped with the day-to-day chores, often waking up around 4 a.m. before school started.
My Grandfather was diabetic and suffered from bouts of depression. After moving to Nebraska and the horror still lingering from WWII, he became a heavy smoker and drinker. When my father was a sophomore in college, assistance provided by the G.I. bill, my Grandfather died suddenly from a heartattack. With one older sibling and two younger ones still in primary school, my Grandmother was left to raise her children on her own.
All four children graduated from college. They went on to have successful careers and great parents. The values my Grandmother instilled were never forgotten: always remain humble, love and respect all those you meet, forgive those who have done you harm, and respect and love all. Those values were passed down to me. I'll never forget two talks I had with Grandma.
One day, I cackled and mocked a grungy garbage man who used to pick up trash at our home in Niles, Michigan. She reminded me every job out there is important and added if we didn't have someone picking up garbage, think of the messes left behind. My attitude quickly changed. She finished by telling me all jobs out there are important and people work hard to provide for everyone. It was on this day I had a respect for all of our workers.
There was another occasion when my Grandma was discussing major American historical events. I asked an innocent question at the time about people of different color. She responded, "I see no color." This reminded me how the color of someone's skin by no means makes up what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once famously said, "the content of one's character." Even though to this day, we see ugly racial divisions in certain areas of our country, I hold those values Grandma instilled in me to respect everyone with mutual love and respect.
It was just a few years ago my Grandmother attended her first caucus meeting. She probably didn't think in her lifetime a woman had a real viable chance to be elected President of the United States. Her second youngest and only daughter who was a delegate at the time brought my Grandmother along. At one point, my Grandmother, quiet and reserved mainly among strangers, proudly stood up and voiced her support for Hillary Clinton.
She still has a Hillary Clinton sticker on her door at the nursing home and probably is the only Democrat in the building. Her selfless life she lived will always be remembered. Before responding in conversation, you would see her take a pause before speaking. Her gifts to teach us how to provide joy and love for others will always be remembered.
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