Glenn Beck Has A Problem: He's An Idiot

I had a dream last night based on one of my favorite horror movies, The Fly. Not the sexy remake with Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, but the original 1950s film. In the dream, I am sitting in the garden sipping a mint julep when I hear a tinny little voice crying, "Help me! Help me!"

I whip out my magnifying glass and search for the source. There on the rose bush I spot an unusual fly with the head of Glenn Beck. Compassionate soul that I am, I whip out my eyebrow tweezers, carefully place them around Beck's little head, squeeze them shut, and pinch his tiny head off. Then I wake up. The best dreams always end too soon.

Glenn Beck's most recent anti-Obama comments are in character with his ongoing Obama-is-the-Antichrist rants. I don't watch his "news" show often, a small dose of Beck gives me the vapors. However, his recent pronouncements regarding President Obama weren't made on his own show but while he was a guest on the Fox and Friends morning show.

Beck and the rest of the Fox friends were discussing Professor Henry Gates, Jr.'s recent encounter with the Cambridge police and the president's comments about the incident. According to Beck, President Obama has exposed himself as a person with "a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture."

Beck's assertion was challenged on the air by Fox host Brian Kilmeade, who noted that most of the people who work for the nation's first black president are white. However, Beck was ready with a quick response. "I'm not saying he doesn't like white people," Beck said. "He has a problem. This guy is, I believe, a racist."

I know that Beck is just one guy, but he's one guy with a national television show that masquerades as a news show, grounded in objective, factual information. He has quite a following; the message boards are filled with comments from the amen chorus praising Beck for exposing the truth.

Beck's comments really pissed me off and I've thought about why, as a person with a lifelong commitment to resolution through discourse and an absolute opposition to the use of violence as a solution to anything, I'd really like to kick his ass.

I've concluded that I am bone-weary of the proliferation of voices in white America who continue to scream about reverse racism or black racism. It is such an insult to the real racism endured by black Americans.

When young black men gather on a summer's night, kidnap a young white man, tie him to a truck, and drag him down the highway until he is nothing but a bloodied mass of bone and flesh, speak to me of black racism. When grown black men plant a bomb in a church and murder young white children in their Sunday best, speak to me of black racism. When a crowd of black mothers gather in Boston to hurl obscenities, racial epithets, and bricks at school buses filled with little white children, speak to me of black racism.

When white bodies dangle from tree limbs and black families, children included, mill about below, smiling as if they have just witnessed some form of pleasant entertainment, speak to me of black racism. When black entrepreneurs, realizing that there is money to be made, make and sell postcards memorializing these lynchings, speak to me of black racism.

When grown black men kidnap, torture, and murder a 14-year-old white boy because he allegedly showed too much familiarity towards a black woman, speak to me of black racism. When black men--business leaders, legislators, governors, law enforcement, and state militias--gather together and march into white communities, burning, looting, and murdering to intimidate white people from trying to exercise their rights newly granted under the federal Constitution, successfully taking away the most fundamental right of a free people, the right to vote, speak to me of black racism.

When white soldiers who return from defending their country find themselves being told that they must sit at the back of the bus, speak to me of black racism. When white people have to enter business establishments through the back door, or are barred from entry by signs reading, "No Whites Allowed," speak to me of black racism. But until these things come to pass, don't insult me or my people by calling us racists. (BTW, all of the examples that I reference are real and occurred long after the official end of slavery)

On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the pinnacle of racism, we're not even a one. It's rather surprising that we haven't become obsessed with revenge. Instead all that we have ever demanded is equality. Why does that frighten so many people so much?

Do Biscuits Have Holes?

One of my colleagues came across the biscuit holes commercial. Naturally she shared it with the rest of our office.

It's important to understand that we North Carolinians have our standards and we don't appreciate a dose of double entendre served with our biscuits, whether they be holes or whole. The largest Hardee's franchise , Boddie Noell Enterprises (BNE), headquartered in Rocky Mount, NC, is not pleased with Hardee's racy biscuit hole ads. You may wonder exactly how an ad about biscuit holes can be racy. According to BNE, the ad campaign for the biscuit holes is tasteless and inappropriate for family viewing. So far, Hardee's has said that it will not pull the ad campaign. According to the parent company, "(Hardee's) adopts a creative approach to our advertising. It is intended to communicate the core message of our premium quality food to our target audience of Young, Hungry Guys."

As we were having a brief lull in our work, my colleagues and I discussed the pros and cons of the ad that we watched, after we were done laughing. Of course we were also horrified at its tastelessness! Then our conversation segued into the origins of biscuit holes. Donut holes come from donuts, but where do biscuit holes come from? Are there biscuits running around with a hole in the center? I think that my colleague, Debra, summed it up most succinctly, "Biscuits don’t have holes . They shouldn’t go putting holes where they don’t belong."

What do you think? Is this commercial too racy or just sort of stupid, or maybe stupid and racy? Does it make you want to run right out and buy some biscuit holes?

Locate the music player in the left column and hit the pause button to stop the music and watch the video..


The text (note how they cleverly labeled the holes A and B):

Today we’re out finding out what kind of holes people prefer, donut holes or Hardee's new biscuit holes.

B-hole.

B-hole has it over the A-hole for sure.

Why? What do you like about it?

A-hole seems kind of small.

Great.

I just don’t like the A-hole.

B-holes are tasty and flavorful.

The A-hole is nasty.

The A-hole tastes funny.

I guess I’m just a B-hole kind of guy.

Introducing biscuit holes with icing. The best kind of holes money can buy.

Your Momma!

I hadn't planned to weigh in on Professor Gates' encounter with the Cambridge police. However, today my sister sent me a link to a Huffington Post article that confirmed my suspicions about the substantive legal issues in the case. I'd like to think that this information will be in the headlines as much as Gates' initial unfortunate encounter with the Cambridge police officers but I'm not counting on that happening, so I figure that I'll do my part in blog land.

Just in case you've been without access to the news for the last week, a brief recap of the facts. African-American Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. (aka Skip) was arrested for disorderly conduct by the Cambridge police because he verbally reprimanded a police officer investigating an allegation that Gates was attempting a break-in at a residence. Turns out the residence was Gates' own and according to officer James Crowley's police report, he ascertained that it was Gates' home before making the arrest. However, Crowley heard Gates making a phone call and asking to speak to the police chief about a racist officer. Then Gates allegedly made a series of comments to Crowley, accusing the officer of racial profiling, loudly and in disparaging terms. The entire police report is available on The Smoking Gun.

When I first heard the story, the one thing I couldn't figure out was how Gates' behavior could be construed as disorderly conduct under Massachusetts' state law. Guess what, it isn't. Talking back to a police officer, raising your voice, even talking about his or her momma, is not a crime. It seems that there is a body of Massachusetts' case law that establishes that yelling at a police officer, even while being arrested is not a crime and doesn't constitute disorderly conduct. Which brings me to all the brouhaha about President Obama's observation (solicited by a reporter's question as to his opinion on the Gates arrest) that the police "behaved stupidly." They did. Arresting someone who hasn't done anything illegal is behaving stupidly.

The message boards have been barraged with the usual nonsense from dittoheads and other mentally deficient folks. They insist that there is "reverse racism" at work and that's why the DA's office dropped the charges against Gates. Can we all say, "Nonsense!" The DA dropped the charges because there was no crime committed.

Maybe Professor Gates would have been wise to refrain from getting into a verbal dispute with Officer Crowley; however, I understand his frustration. Gates is four years older than I am. I feel confident that this was not his first encounter with what he perceived to be racial profiling; besides, the man was in his own house. There was no break-in taking place. The officer doesn't dispute that he became aware of this fact pretty early on in his interaction with Gates. Why didn't the officer just apologize to Professor Gates and move on?

Gates is a renown scholar, has hosted documentaries on PBS, published several books, and is known as a public intellectual. His biography on the Harvard faculty site is impressive. If you don't know who he is; you should. He's one of the leading voices in African-American history and culture. If you want to be enlightened and fair in race relations, one of the first steps is to learn who we are.

However, there is a larger issue here than one black scholar. If this were an isolated incident, a rare occurrence, it would just be an unpleasant incident. Racial profiling is a real issue in America. If you aren't aware of it, perhaps it's because you're not a racial or ethnic minority, or a practitioner of a faith other than Christianity. A 2004 report released by Amnesty International USA (AIUSA) found that racial profiling impacted 32 million people. This is far too complex a subject to deal with in a blog entry. If you are interested and want to learn more, the AIUSA report is a good place to start. There is a link to the executive summary and the full report on the site.

Icons, Race, and Listening

I'm feeling a bit guilty because I didn't intervene more directly back in 2007 when Bill O'Reilly was suffering from foot-in-mouth disease. I did suggest in a blog entry that he should refrain from trying to help black people by making inane observations marveling at our ability to drink ice tea and eat in a restaurant without break dancing and spouting profanity; however, I didn't send Mr. O'Reilly a personal note cautioning him to never again discuss the affairs of black folks. My bad.

Last week, O'Reilly took issue with Rev. Al Sharpton's declaration that Michael Jackson was an African-American icon. Sharpton asserted that Jackson's use of his status as an entertainer to knock down doors in the music industry such as breaking the color barrier on MTV, and landing on the cover of Rolling Stone was another step in the same journey towards racial equality as evidenced by Rosa Parks decision to sit down on that bus. Sharpton also noted Jackson's considerable charitable contributions to organizations and individuals, including his bringing together the star power to produce We Are the World long before there was a Live-Aid. I agree with Sharpton's assessment; however, I don't know that all African-Americans do, but I feel confident in saying that a significant majority view MJ as an African-American icon. However, I digress; this really is not about MJ.

Let me try and explain. A few years back I was attending a birthday party for a friend who is a white male. Another guest, also a white male, whom I had never met, attempted to engage me in a conversation about what he perceived to be the problems of black folks. I attempted to dissuade him from taking this path. I was the only black guest at the party (it was very small, maybe a dozen people) and I was in no mood for a serious discussion about race. He persisted and made the fatal error of proceeding to speak of, "You people...." I really don't recall what he said after that; it's difficult to think clearly when your head is revolving and you're trying to control your impulse to do a windmill on somebody's head. My friend, the birthday boy, observed that, "White people should have more sense than to ever attempt to tell black people how to be black." I love this man. This is why we are friends.

So, Bill O'Reilly, this is an open letter to you. If you would like to be friends with black people, you must understand that neither you nor any white person gets to tell us who our icons are. You do not get to measure our blackness. You do not get to sling accusations that any of us want to be white. You don't know or understand any of us that well. If we tell you how we feel, then you need to listen and try to understand our feelings, not tell us that our feelings are invalid.

Once and for all, understand that there is no such thing as reverse racism. You made that up to soothe your conscience. Racism is unfounded hatred for a group that you perceive as being inferior to your group. Any anger that we have towards white people is not unfounded; it's based on more than 400 years of discrimination in this country, much of it legalized. We don't hate you; we just want you to acknowledge that our shared history is based on an unconscionable system of discrimination and to recognize that our anger is righteous. We don't believe that you are inferior; we never have. We have tried to blend your cultural norms and values with ours. We ask that you respect ours and recognize that they too have shaped this culture. When we express distrust of institutions that have traditionally been exclusively white and that have intentionally excluded us by starting our own institutions, that's not reverse racism; it's called survival. Understand that just because you have begun to allow everyone to play in the sandbox, it's still going to take some time before we fully believe that you really mean it. Perhaps when we get to build more of the sandboxes, we'll feel more comfortable entering them.

Please stop interjecting, "I never owned slaves!" into every discussion of race. We know that. However, do acknowledge that as a member of the majority group, you benefited from white privilege, the biggest element of which is that you didn't have to notice race. Slavery was certainly an evil, but the real horror in this country is the generations of Jim Crow, of legalized discrimination that lasted well into the 20th century. The civil rights movement wasn't about slavery; it was about the system of legalized discrimination put into place after slavery was legally outlawed to ensure that black people continued to be placed in a position of servitude and exclusion in the United States of America. This isn't ancient history; it's my life.

I know that you are tired of talking about race; so am I. Perhaps the day will come when such discussions are no longer necessary. I dream of a day when I will not turn on my television to hear a little black child trying to hold back his tears as he recounts the racial hatred that he heard from white adults who feared that the Black and Hispanic children in his summer camp group would contaminate their swimming pool. When that day comes, I'll be the first person to stop talking about race. In the meantime, Mr. O'Reilly, please feel free to speak with us, but don't presume that you can tell us who we are, or how we should feel.

It's A Family Reunion

I have a lot of first cousins on my mother's side of the family. My grandmother birthed 17 children, four died in infancy. I never knew my Aunt Helen, she died before I was born but I knew the rest of mother's siblings. There are only four of my mother's siblings still living.

Over the years, we've gathered for a lot of funerals, often in clusters. My mother died two weeks after her oldest sister, my Aunt Mabel. After my mother's funerals we (a group of first cousins) gathered and mused as to why we had never held a family reunion. We decided to rectify this oversight and give ourselves a reason to come together other than to bury someone. The Hall (my mother's maiden name) family reunion committee was formed, consisting of my sister Rhonda, my brother James (aka Jimmy), and my cousins, Michelle, Jennifer, Betty Rose, and Laura Ann. By the third planning call the group had reduced to me, Michelle, Jennifer, and Betty Rose. The others had succumbed to the dreaded family reunion planning committee dropout syndrome.

After months of the family reunion planning committee meeting via bi-weekly conference calls, we held our first Hall Family reunion from July 3-July 5. It was well attended with 80+ family members joining in the festivities. We talked, we ate, we sang and we danced. Members of my grandmother's family, the Flemings, also participated in the reunion and I got to meet people whose names I had only heard in family stories told by my grandmother. Then there were those of us who knew each other but had not been together other than for a funeral in years and it was a delight to reconnect in an atmosphere that didn't involve sorrow. In an email to my friend Mark, I summed it up thus: "Our family reunion went well. Only one relative drank too much and she wasn't a mean drunk. There were no fights, and only a few minor insults. We may do it again in two years."

I neglected to add that I did The Twist with my cousin Betty Rose in front of a room full of people, laughed loudly and often, hugged a lot and was hugged a lot in return, and that a good time was had by all.

Why Are All Those People Crying?

This post has been rattling around in my head since yesterday; however, in the spirit of full disclosure, I must reveal that my blogami, Mark, also addressed this topic in a post, The Death of Strangers, that I read before writing my own. Any plagiarism on my part is totally unintended. BTW, Mark's post includes a really great piece of photoart.


I've watched a lot of television in the last two days. I've felt a little sorry for Farrah Fawcett. She had the misfortune to die on the same day as Michael Jackson. Farrah was a star but MJ was a superstar, a cultural icon, a bit tarnished, but nonetheless, a shining star. MJ has excited the sort of tear-streaming, "I can't believe he's gone," drama that followed Princess Diana's untimely demise.

Good and grown men and women are holding vigils, mourning the death of Michael Jackson. I don't get it. There is something overdone and fake about it all. A lot of crocodile tears, offered more for the display of grief than any real feelings of mourning. I take it back; maybe Farrah was the lucky one, her family and friends allowed a bit more privacy as MJ's fans make a display of expressions of grief.

I grew up listening to MJ and his brothers. I was far more into the Jackson Five than I was into the Beatles. They were young black boys with cool clothes, big afros, and a soulful sound ; and they made a young black girl growing up in a southern town believe that there was a world for her outside of her own backyard. I suspect that I wasn't alone in feeling that the five brothers from Indiana spoke to me of hope and opportunity. I sang along with their songs and tried to copy their dance steps. When Michael went solo, I continued to be a fan. I still sing along with the radio, Billie Jean was not my lover, she's just a girl who says that I am the one, but the kid is not my son. Every time that I hear Beat It I start shaking my hips and tapping my feet. I cry over She's Out of My Life..

Of course, I am saddened by Michael's death, but I'm not in mourning. I'm saddened because his death reminds me of my own mortality. I'm saddened because he was a young man, who died early. I'm saddened because he struck me as a troubled person, who in spite of his success and fame, never found any lasting happiness. I think that he was a musical genius and I am saddened to see his creative force extinguished.

However, I just can't join the teary-eyed masses who engage in wailing and gnashing of teeth as if they've lost a family member. I confess that I am fascinated by this outpouring of what I dub pseudo-grief. I empathize with the Jackson family; I can imagine how overwhelmed they must feel, especially as total strangers try to claim the family's private grief as their own. Michael Jackson has left a legacy of music and memories that belongs to the ages, but the enormous sorrow of his passing is the rightful property of those who knew him and loved him as a person, not as an icon.

In the Absence of Profundity...WTF

After such a long absence from these pages, I feel an obligation to say something profound. Hmm...well...um...sorry, nothing comes to mind. I've been working a lot of 10 to 12 hour days and that kind of work schedule sort of saps your profundity gene.

There have been so many things that have caught my attention during this month of blog-silence, things that have made me mutter WTF as if it were some ritual chant. Regrettably, most of them have faded from my memory, although there are a few standouts.

There is the young woman who went to school without her underwear on the day that pictures for the yearbook were being taken. Sitting on the front row of the bleachers for a shot with her fellow members of some club, she became upset when the yearbook was published, feeling that she had inadvertently flashed the camera. The young woman and her mother made much ado about the photograph, demanding that the school recall all of the yearbooks. The school declined to do so, insisting that the picture didn't reveal anything and much ado was being made about what was no more than an innocent shadow on the image. The mother and the daughter were all over the news, making certain that those of us who didn't have access to the yearbook knew all about the daughter's faulty memory. Why else would you put on a short skirt and neglect to add underwear, except you forgot?

Then there is the husband who decided to fulfill his sexual fantasy of watching his wife with another man, but neglected to include his wife in the planning of the event. Instead, he hired some guy to pretend to break into his home and pretend to rape his wife. Oh wait, if she wasn't in on the plan, maybe pretend isn't the right word. The wife called the police and her husband was placed in a non-pretend jail cell. I hope that the next stop will be divorce court.

These stories are just small potatoes in the WTF competition compared to the ongoing attack on Supreme Court nominee, Sonia Sotomayor. Among the nonsense spouted by conservative pundits has been comparing her membership in the National Council of La Raza to membership in the KKK. La Raza is a private, non-profit, and non-partisan organization focused on reducing poverty and discrimination, and improving opportunities, for Hispanic Americans. It's difficult to believe that any rational, thinking individual could equate an organization like La Raza with the KKK. Until La Raza starts burning crosses in the yards of non-Hispanic people, not allowing them to live in their neighborhoods, bombing their churches, and advocating for a complete denial of rights based on skin color, then it equals the Klan about as much as night equals day. Don't waste my time or yours sputtering about why do Hispanic people or other ethnic and/or racial minorities in this country need special organizations. It's really very simple. No, I'm not going to explain it to you. I've written about racial discrimination way too many times in this blog. If you don't get it by now, you're hopeless. Besides, I've reached a place in my beliefs where I no longer consider it my responsibility or the responsibility of any person of color to explain to the majority about racism, discrimination or prejudice. Work it out amongst yourselves. I'm in a tough love phase.

There are countless advocacy groups in this country that La Raza parallels: the League of Women Voters, the NAACP, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, AARP, The ARC of the United States, etc. I don't believe that the spouters of this garbage about Judge Sotomayor or La Raza believe it. They speak out of fear. This country is actually moving forward on matters of race, beginning to recognize that the bigotry of the past has no place in the 21st century. My message to Limbaugh and his dittoheads: get over it and find some real issues to focus on, like homelessness, poverty, genocide, famine, war....

Laugh Loudly and Often

Mama had a well developed sense of humor and I'm pretty certain that she would appreciate the WTF Awards. She conferred quite a few such awards in her time. Her favorite time to share her nominees was usually at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning. The telephone would ring very loudly, (Ever noticed how the phone rings much louder than usual before 10:00 am?) causing me to flail about in an effort to locate the phone and extricate myself from the bed covers.

"Helloooo..."

"Good morning baby girl, were you asleep?"

No, I'm up planting a vegetable garden to feed all the starving children in the world and when I get done, I'm going to bring about world peace. Okay, I never said that, instead I'd say, "Hey mama, I was just about to get up." We both knew I was lying but it didn't really matter.

Mama's favorite candidate for a WTF award was her sister, my Aunt Nellie Ruth. I could judge just how extreme my Aunt Ruth's behavior had been based on whether my mother simply called her Ruth or Nellie Ruth. Calling her by both of her given names was a good sign that whatever event my mother wished to relate was a real doozy.

My Aunt Ruth is in her 80's now, but she has been behaving with all the entitlement of someone who has reached the age of 100+ since she was in her early 50's. My mother swore that Aunt Ruth just decided to be old one day because she felt that entitled her to demand that everyone wait on her. Perhaps that's why Aunt Ruth had such a predilection for calling the rescue squad. She never had her "attacks" in the daytime; it was always in the wee hours of the morning. Around 4:00 am, Aunt Ruth would awaken and determine that her head felt hot, and that she felt dizzy. Certain that she was having hot flashes as a precursor to some major attack that involved her heart, she'd dial 911, get dressed while waiting for them to come, and be waiting when the rescue squad arrived, fully dressed and carrying her pocketbook. Once she got settled at the hospital, she would call my mother and announce, "I'm in the hospital. You need to come see about me and notify my church members that I'm in the hospital."

At first, my mother would hurry to get to the hospital, but after several years of multiple emergency room visits, mama would turn over and go back to sleep, confident that she could wait until the sun rose to check on Aunt Ruth at the hospital. Mama also began to question the hot flashes that always preceded the 911 call.

"Nellie Ruth, you can't be having hot flashes at your age! You're in your 70's, you don't have anything to have hot flashes with!"

"I am too having hot flashes all about my face and head. I've had three heart attacks!

Aunt Ruth doesn't call the rescue squad any more. She has settled into regular visits to her doctor in the daytime. She has never been diagnosed with any heart trouble of any significance, but she still insists that she has had more than one major heart attack. Indeed, her heart is so weak that the doctors didn't tell her directly that she has had the heart attacks, but she knows from the way they look at her and whisper in front of her.

Mama's youngest brother, my Uncle David calls me often just to talk. He used to talk with Mama several times a week from his home in Dallas. We find ourselves cracking up over how my mother would relate one of Aunt Ruth's 911 adventures.

Mama wasn't perfect and neither was our relationship. She was fully human, like the rest of us. We had our disagreements, our confrontations over things that I can't really recall any more. What I remember was her laughter, her ability to do all the voices when she was telling a story, the way she remembered the smallest details of the events that she related.

Thank you for all of the loving comments. I really am okay; I wouldn't trade the occasional tears for anything. They just remind me of how much I loved her and how much I was loved.

Doing Okay: Living and Grieving

Mama died eight months ago today, on September 15. I didn't have to work today; as of 8:00 pm yesterday, I had already put in 47 hours. Today I got to stay home. I planned to do so many things today--weed my rose bed, clean my house, and do the laundry. However, the best laid plans...let's just say mine went astray and I spent my day in far less productive pursuits.

I decided to catch up on my favorite television shows. I worship at the altar of the DVR. It allows me to keep up with shows that I like even though I haven't been home on average until after 10:00 pm for the last month. This was season finale week for a lot of shows, definitely must see television. It was while I was watching CSI: NY that I had my meltdown. A member of the CSI team died. Her boyfriend, also a team member, was on the phone with her when the bad guys shot her. At first I was just misty-eyed but then I realized that the ragged sobs echoing in my living room weren't coming from the television. I didn't cry for long, maybe five minutes. That's how it is now, I go from normal to falling apart and back again in a matter of minutes.

It's unpredictable. I'll be sitting at my desk, analyzing a bill that allows some municipality to license golf carts to drive on city streets, and without warning my world just tilts off its axis and I feel as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. For a moment I want to wail out loud, but I press my fist against my lips and muffle my sobs, and it passes. Sometimes I'm driving, singing along with the radio and something--the words, the melody, or maybe it's the memory the song evokes--pushes me over the edge. It's not so bad in my car. I don't have to stifle the sounds and I can cry loudly.

We don't talk about grief in this culture. When someone dies, we offer our sympathies to the family but then we politely move on. We use euphemisms for death--she passed away; he moved on. Anything to avoid saying that someone died.

No one ever tells you about grief. Logic tells me that all of us are touched by death and therefore we all experience grief. Perhaps if we shared more of our pain, we could help each other cope with it. Instead, we barely speak of it and offer useless platitudes: she's in a better place or you have to get on with your life. Or the all comforting, "Death is a part of living."

Here's my truth. Grief is a living thing. It inhabits you like a virus and flares up when you least expect it. You can and will go on with the business of living, but there will be times when the grief will engulf you, a dark force squeezing you so tightly that you are certain that you will not survive it. That's when it is important to let the tears come, to cry as hard as you can, great heaving sobs that turn you inside out; it's your salvation, your release.

My ache for my mother is constant. Death changes those who are left behind. I see the same ache in my sister, my brother, my father, all of us who knew and loved her. I don't think that my pain is unique; that's the rub. It's as if society has made some pact to just not talk about grief.

So if you ask me how I'm doing, you'll get an honest answer, "I'm not fine, but I'm doing okay."

If It Quacks Like A Duck, It's Torture

I began writing this blog entry on Monday, April 20, but wouldn't you know it, my boss actually expected me to do some work. The week progressed from busy to busier, so I'm just finishing it up today. Hey, this idea was fresh on Monday.

My sister likes to tease me by pointing out when I state the obvious. Well here I go, I'm about to state the obvious--waterboarding is torture. According to the headlines in the news, the CIA used waterboarding 266 times in interrogating two (2) suspects. That's right folks, just two suspects.

According to a 2005 Justice Department legal memorandum, Abu Zubaydah, an alleged Al Qaeda operative, was subjected to waterboarding 83 times, and the C.I.A. used waterboarding 183 times in March 2003 against Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, the self-described planner of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.

Before anyone gets all excited and starts screaming, "They were terrorists! Don't you love your country! They don't deserve any better!" Yes, they are human beings that may have committed acts of terrorism. Yes, I love my country, but that doesn't mean that I'm blind to its flaws. Because I love my country, I believe that we deserve better.

I grew up in the 1950s, during the Cold War. I vaguely recall discussion in the news of the Gulag and Siberia and Russians. I didn't understand what any of it was about but I do remember when I was older, watching some movie that was about brave men who escaped from some prison in Siberia where they had been subjected to torture. The escapees were the heroes; the torturers were the bad guys.

I remember when this country wore the white hats and aspired to be the good guys. We weren't always perfect, but we tried to uphold ideas of right and of justice, sort of like Camelot, without the king or the round table. What happened to us? It's easy enough to blame George W. Bush, but that's not fair or accurate. He didn't elect himself--twice. I understood our anger after 9/11 but anger is like acid, it eats away at your reason until you are consumed with notions of do unto others before they do unto you, a total corruption of the tenets of the God that everyone from Miss America to Grammy award winners thanks for making it all possible.

Our new attorney general, Eric Holder, stated definitively that waterboarding is torture and President Obama has put an end to its use as an acceptable interrogation technique. However, some of my fellow Americans are upset that the president released the memos that confirmed what we already knew, that the CIA used torture to interrogate prisoners. Republican Congressman Peter Hoekstra wrote in the Wall Street Journal that the Obama Administration should be investigated for releasing the torture memos, joining the chorus of Republicans accusing the president of putting the nation at risk by releasing the torture memos.

The funny thing about having ethical standards and applying the principles of justice is that it's easy to do when everything is going well. It's no real test of your ethical nature to do the right thing when there are no challenges to be overcome. Let's take a simple example. You are an ethical person who believes that stealing is wrong. However, you've recently lost your job. You're facing foreclosure and you have a family to care for. On your way back from a job interview that didn't go very well. you witness an accident. A Wells Fargo truck loaded with cash crashes into a guard rail, flips, and there is money all over the highway. It's not your money, but other people are leaping out of their cars and gathering up piles of bills. What do you do? Is stealing suddenly acceptable? Should you grab your share? Or do you uphold your principles and not participate in all the money grabbing fun?

When this country was attacked on 9/11, adhering to our principles, to our ethical standards was our biggest test and I think that we failed miserably. We had an opportunity to rise above the hurt and anger and demonstrate that we would not abandon our struggles to maintain justice, to uphold right, even in the face of this devastating attack. I'm no Pollyanna, and I don't believe that pre-9/11 America was a paragon of virtue, but I do think that we aspired to be better than our baser impulses, tried to walk the high road even though we sometimes failed. After 9/11, we quit even trying. We not only tortured people, we justified it and now, we'd rather pretend that it didn't even happen. The motto for a lot of people is, "Let's not talk about it."

That's stupid. The past cannot be unwritten by pretending that it didn't happen. I'm glad that President Obama has dragged our nasty behavior out into the light; however, now he faces quite a dilemma. People were tortured in violation of our own laws and the Geneva Convention; shouldn't somebody be punished?

There's the rub, who do we punish? The CIA agents were told by then Attorney General John Ashcroft that their interrogation techniques were within the law. Former national Security Adviser Condoleeza Rice gave approval for CIA operatives to use waterboarding on prisoners. President Bush apparently believed that we were acting within the law. He was fully aware of the techniques being used to gain information, as was Dick Cheney. Can we hold the CIA agents accountable without also holding the lawyers, Bush, and Cheney responsible? What precedent will it set if the current administration were to prosecute CIA operatives who acted with the full approval of the previous administration? Is it fair to hold the foot soldiers responsible for carrying out policy that was set at the top level. What about Congress? There were memos , meetings, and presentations about what was being done to detainees. Are there members of Congress who should be indicted?

Sorry, but I don't have any answers, just a whole bunch of questions, annoying isn't it? I do have a prediction. There will be no trials of anyone because to pursue charges against anyone would require pursing charges against them all and that's not going to happen. I'm not even sure if it should, because I think that ultimately the guilt is shared by all the people in America who turned their backs on justice in pursuit of vengeance. Perhaps the best that we can do is to acknowledge our collective fall from grace and commit to regaining that high road again where we strive to "...hold these truths to be self-evident..." that all humankind is created equal.