Archive | June, 2012

To Vote or Not To Vote…

27 Jun

To vote or not to vote…that is the question.

I think this November may just be the first time I’ll sit out an election. Or I’ll just fill in “YOUR MOM.”

I registered to vote as soon as I was 18. I grew up in a very nonconformist house. No groups of any kind were ever joined, no teams watched or sided with, no flags ever waved. My parents never voted, not once. It wasn’t because they were disinterested in politics; in fact, both my parents paid laser like attention to all local, national and world events. Three newspapers were delivered to our house, five if you include the adorable Norway Times and The Bar Harbor Times.

I foolishly thought that chipping my one lousy vote into the pot had some collective effect, that it was an honor to be a part of a political system.

Growing up in a house where rule-breaking was encouraged – but never in a cheesy or common smoke-pot-with-your-mom-and-get-a-tattoo-and-ride-a-motorcycle kind of way – made following rules my way of rebelling against my parents. So I registered to vote, maybe to spite them a little, although it wasn’t as if they told me not to vote. The first time I voted, it was for something local. I remember walking past my dad and telling him that I had just voted. He asked who for, I replied and he exclaimed “Marone!”, rolling the R. (Marone is a slang word often used by southern Italian-Americans to express disgust.) I felt very rebellious.

The sad thing is that, no matter for who I’ve voted, it has been a colossal let down. Half my life has passed since I came of voting age. It was always a letdown. Two words: Al Gore. That hurt. He’s so cute, so betalicious AND an environmentalist! OMG, he and I are both single now . . . I need to tap that. (Just kidding, I think it’s hysterical when people vote based on how attracted they are to the candidate.) Anyway, talk about pulling the rug out from under your Floridian feet.

Even with all the Bush/ Cheney hatred out there, I’m not a democrat nor a republican. I’m a registered non-affiliate. I have a hard enough time being called female. I’m not siding with either of these two camps. They both stink. And their shit is starting smell quite alike.

I thought Obama was cool. A lot of it was his smooth, doesn’t-get-his-feathers-ruffled demeanor. He fascinated me, much like a Quaker does. But then he dropped his pastor of 20 years, the guy who married him and baptized his two girls. This was too much for me. What sort of person publicly drops his pastor of 20 years? A dick, that’s who! So I decided he couldn’t be trusted and I set my half hearted sights on McCain. Then Sarah Palin and her creepy lipstick showed up! So I went back to Obama, with his slick, disgusting, billion dollar campaign and his zero loyalty to a man from whom he’d taken the title of his damn book. And his stickers. All of my hipster peers had their shallow eyes glued to them, never making a critical judgment about the guy; they’d just see those cool stickers. I knew he was a total liar, but Sarah Palin literally frightened me back into Obama’s camp. What a terrible way to vote.

I’m sick of being sickened by campaigns. Remember the trendy John Kerry tees on idiots like Paris Hilton? Tees that read “Anybody’s better than Bush!” And Kerry’s privileged kids dressed half-naked on red carpets? I HATED seeing moveon.org people on every corner of Philadelphia (most of them so sure, so condescending) and the endless celebrity endorsements for Kerry. As if I was going to be encouraged to vote on my fucking president by Limp Bizkit and P. Diddy on MTV! Kerry was just another rich asshole. I found that whole campaign to be the grossest display of branding. Until Obama…

So here’s the thing that I always liked about republicans (breathe, liberal reader, breathe! You will make it through the next sentence. It’s not very liberal to be just as closed-minded as the republicans you despise): they may be bonkers, fanatical Christians or plain nuts but at least, in some ways, it’s all out there. They aren’t trying to soothe you with some wannabe-humanitarian (I’m one of those), democrat, phony bullshit. Dick Cheney is SO ok with being an asshole; he even shoots his friends… in the face…with fucking birdshot! I feel a little more respect for a person who is a straight up asshole, and blatant about it, than one who is sneaky about it. The republicans have been taking it too far. I get that. But Obama is a corporation-loving war-lover too.

So, maybe I can add not voting to the paradigm shift I’m going through. Maybe it’s just me getting one step closer to calling it quits, packing up my thinking chair and heading for the woods; shutting down all modernity, growing my own tobacco and sitting in a canoe naked, reading the books my kids mail me; and laughing myself silly about the time I voted for YOUR MOM.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

Super Moon

23 Jun

The moon will be full in two days, a super moon for the month of May. I think about the moon when I notice a change in my mood, how I like that at least something is bold enough to fuck with me and also that I get to share something, one thing, with everyone in the world. I like that. When I travel I like to look up at it and think about friends, old lovers or some beautifully minded person I don’t know but will want to and how we share something, and it’s not even on Earth.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to climb in bed to read or sit on my porch and not give a shit if I got struck by the startling thunder and lightning. I wanted the show. Anyway, I’m not really afraid of magic.

Sitting on my front porch with a milk glass half full of red wine that didn’t taste like anything I’d buy from a bottle that didn’t look like one I’d pick out, I wondered if my children were asleep. And how many years would I do just this very thing. Sit and drink red wine alone on my porch, wrapping my black robe tight and wonder if they were sleeping pretty.

This was it. Their father and I are getting divorced. The first of every other weekend.

The rain sounded so beautiful, so gentle against the thunder and lightning. Those sounds, shifting my mind towards thoughts of romance. The kind I haven’t seen in many years. The dream of kissing someone just as gentle as the rain in the rain but feeling like thunder inside and not worrying in the least if the lightning strikes us.

I sat wishing, wishing so hard my ghost was real, the one I love in my mind. The first one to ever know me. The one who thinks not much else is as important as holding my hand. The ghost who asks me if I’m ok and let’s me smell his neck and linger there. My ghost who would never be dismissive, never throw my heart away.

Listening to the rain, a sound that makes sense in a world designed with no sense. One where I sit alone on a covered porch, in love with a ghost I designed in my head, my thoughts turned to my daughters and my hopes for them.

I hope they never compromise their hearts to fit in, to follow rules and order. That if and when the feeling of love shows up in them that they can have it. Have it without paying a heavy price. That they will never ever have to be pressured or pressure themselves to do the right thing with the wrong person. Or ever consider anyone else, especially me, when they fall in love.

Until true love shows up for me, to which I hope I am not permanently forsaken, I’ll wait, my heart hungry, sharing the moon with the whole world.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

Counter-Culture

20 Jun

Two Saturdays ago, an order of two yards of black mulch, dumped on my driveway, became one yard too many for me. So, I took a break from yard-work, found my phone, lay in the middle of my yard like a snow angel, and called my friend Kelly.

At some point, our conversation turned to counter-culture and I asked where it was. This feeling came over me, much like the one you have at around five when you realize your parents are going to die one day and everyone you know will as well. I shot straight up out of my snow angel position, my eyebrows knit tight together, my long arm clutching my mulch stained knees, I asked again “Where is our counter-culture? Do we have a counter-culture? Why can’t I see it, with my own eyes?”

We got off the phone and I started to think about when I was a little girl, how I often saw punks with huge, colorful, spiky Mohawks, and felt a sense of awe mixed with fear at this person who clearly didn’t follow the rules. Everyone knows what a hippie is, what a finger snapping beatnik is. Who will my kids identify as being part of the counter-culture? Who will they look at with fear and awe? Who will be that someone to make them question the rules, if even for a split second?

This realization may seem naive. The feeling to which it gave way certainly made it feel naive. Why hadn’t I realized this before? Why had I taken it for granted? It also seemed like what I feared lost was something shallow. It was like I wanted a visual counter-culture, one for the sake of visual balance. I wanted somebody to mess things up by sight alone so that, when I walk around town, I see somebody who I can identify as a bad-ass. Where are the rule-breakers?

I started to think that here in the US, we are so homogenized, even in how we look. When and where do you see the old, the disabled? They are here. We just hide them. We have huge signs on the highway that read “SILVER ALERT”, warning us of an escaped elder, the license plate number displayed so we catch them and put them back in their hiding place. Assumedly, this is so as to not upset the middle class by reminding them that they are working so hard, for so little, just to become old and regretful. Maybe the driver of the “SILVER ALERT” escaped car is the bad-ass I am looking for?

Ingrid for Prez.

So, I did what I always do when unsure about an idea brewing in my head. I started a poll. Since that Saturday, each day I’ve asked around five people “Where is our counter-culture? Do we have one?” These are some of the responses I got in return.

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You can’t see it, it is online.”

“You can’t see it, it’s hidden.”

“With 50% of the population ok with gay marriage, than what would people be counter against?”

“It’s not our time, you can see it elsewhere, i.e. Arab Spring.”

“Ingrid, life is good, stop thinking so much.”

“It’s the green movement.”

Anytime I mentioned OWS, I got “Who? Are they still around?”

I have a hard time accepting that things are really so much better than they once were and that we don’t have a counter-culture because we don’t need one. This vague reply, one I heard over and over again in my polling, sounded more to me like “Stop making me think so I can go back to having my head up Steve Jobs’ dead ass and obsess over a new gadget. People are fine, things are better.”

Maybe so. What do I know anyway? My own selfish need to question everything, keep my mind unpolluted, my language unpolished and my foot in the aisle to trip the jerk in the room may all be . . . shallow. Without a group, a counter-culture off which to bounce my wannabe, radical, self-taught ideas, how will I ever know?

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

A Groundhog Relocation Program

18 Jun IMG_6479

For as long as I can remember, my parents had a great dislike of the groundhogs who dug tunnels around their home. Every summer, my mother traps groundhogs around her house and then relocates them to a wooded area five miles away. This short film gets to the bottom of what’s behind her groundhog trapping habit.

 

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

My Soul, Sirens and Mr. Welles

14 Jun Orson Welles_1

Last night, my friend’s uncle told me a story about how, in 1973, he got fired from a job because the owner, his boss, didn’t like his birth chart or astrological makeup. It made them incompatible. That’s how he lost his employment.

I was, of course, envious that I didn’t have such a story. I wished that I could have lived in a time when the world (America at least) didn’t have its balls stapled to the wall by insurance companies and the fear of general liability and I could hear stories like that in real-time, not old-time. All the fun, weirdness and frank, looseness of speech have been swallowed up by the fear of being sued. Worse yet, people actually worry that others might think they are weird…for what they say! I sometimes feel I live in a homogenized, banal middle America; land of the blow-your-brains-out boring.

My Ob-Gyn is a classic case of an endangered species, someone who doesn’t know how NOT to have a personality. This guy has more personality than twelve people put together AND he is an excellent doctor. Once, when I was at his office for a visit in my eighth month of my first pregnancy, he opened the door, slammed it shut, rested his back against it, rolled his eyes and said “If I see one more fucking vagina today I am going to throw up!” “But I’m next!” I replied, laughing my head off. How many doctors would have the nerve to say such a thing? How many patients would laugh?

When I was pregnant with my second child, I asked my Ob-Gyn if he and I could consider a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). I respected him as a doctor, which I’m not and neither are the ladies with birth-plans. In return, he responded with a mixture of gratitude and respect for me, which he demonstrated in his own colorful way. He pointed his finger at me like the Uncle Sam “I want you” poster and said, “I’ll let you do it. You know why? Because you’re fucking cool. You don’t come in here with birth-plans, and I know you won’t sue me!” Of course, I was excited that, the first and only time anybody said I was cool, it was an Ob-Gyn; my own Ob-Gyn! I also felt his sentiment added to my dislike of my yoga-pant-wearing-self-absorbed peers, with their dumb birth-plans, who literally fuck everything up for the rest of us.

He went on to tell me that it’s not risk of complications that prevents VBACs, but liability. It looks like everyone, especially insurance companies, is afraid of the birth-plan-yoga-pant-wearing-dumb-ass-boring bitches who sue people who get in the way of their plans. It’s the case of the chicken and the egg; maybe we shouldn’t blame the rich insurance companies for putting us in this foggy fear of liability. Maybe we should, in fact, blame the jerks who sue anybody who gets in their way.

Now, I’m guessing my doc doesn’t get quite as chummy with every patient. I think what is important to recognize is that we formed a relationship, a foreign idea in this modern world. I’m sure he has a professional face he puts on for the birth-plan ladies and doesn’t drop the f-bomb around them either. (Incidentally, do you really think you can “plan” how your birth is going to happen? When exactly did you realize you had god-like qualities?) So what is it that made people so wounded, so uptight that they can no longer have nor admire big-ass personalities? When did this happen?

Even speaking voices used to be loud and filled with character. Pick any old movie, any one at all, and it has actors who speak in loud, explicit voices. People wanted to be heard. (Jeez, think of MLK, talk about a voice of power.) People competed, chests puffed, voices loud, to show who they were, what they had to say. This is the most amazing gift we have as humans, to be able to express how we feel with language, in words, words in combination. I don’t see or hear a lot of expression in my daily travels. I mostly hear inside voices.

Inside of me I hear Orson Welles. I think my soul has chosen to imitate him, or at least his bravado, sound and texture. He’s always yelling at me to take risks, not be a pussy; to tell people how I feel about them, not pretend I’m ok with how things are when I’m not; to not sell myself out, to love, LOVE, damn it!! To never say “Yes Dear” or expect someone to say “Yes Dear” to me. And Orson, my soul, hollers at me in that big voice all day long.

You think that’s weird? Get a load of this. . .

I even have this image that, inside me, Orson is sitting drunk in a gondola with six sirens, each standing forlorn, sexy as all hell, wearing a very long, sheer, white, muslin toga robe with a braided flax rope belt, barely concealing her dark bush and nipples. They control all my thoughts and sing dewy songs of longing, making Orson ever more drunk with sadness. The gondola never moves. It just rocks gently, back and forth, somewhere near my womb, while they sing, surrounded by my flesh.

I am in constant battle with the six sirens and Mr. Welles. I try to explain to them that I am not a coward and they can long all they want but, in the human world, the one that exists outside of my flesh, I have no control over what happens. None! Even if I say how I truly feel, express myself as plain as day. Then I tell them to knock it off so I can concentrate and not crash my truck into a telephone pole.

OMG! Do you think I’m weird because a gondola full of gorgeous sirens and a drunk heartbroken Orson Welles lives inside the lady-part part of my body?!?!?!

Guess what. It’s just like I told the fat girl at Best Buy, when she asked if I wanted this iPad in white or black; I couldn’t care fucking less!

I wish somebody would tell me about the voice inside of their head, the devil/angel on their shoulder, and say it in an outside voice.

If I ever had the kind of money that allows me to hire a pretty good realist painter, I’d commission a huge oil painting of my soul and the sirens. The whole thing would be a fleshy, pinkish-reddish-toned sepia color. I’d also get a painting done of my Ob-Gyn (something like Eakins’ Gross Clinic) of him rolling his eyes as he delivers a baby that actually comes out a lap dog (since all people really want is a pet not a human kid); next to him, the bloody birth-plan and soiled yoga pants folded over a hospital chair.

And one more, a painting of a left-over hippie, head down in shame, sulking out an office door, banished for having the wrong kind of astrological chart . . . and a crazy guy pointing towards the door, holding the damned birth-chart. . .

I could stare at these paintings, as consolation for having the lousy luck to live in a time when nobody gets fired for having the wrong astrological birth chart and doctors fear my peers with their birth-plans.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

Nonsense Letter Writer

11 Jun

In my life, I’ve had pen pals, many times. Every card, every letter is now stored in a heavy cardboard box with partially crushed corners, on it scribbled “Ingrid age 0 to 30.” My cousin Anita, pronounced with the T (ah-nee-Tah), not the American sounding D (ah-nee-Dah), lives in Norway. She and I have exchanged letters via post for our whole lives, since the age of 5. By the time she was 7, her letters were written in English. Mine were never in Norwegian. When my oldest sister was at art school in Milan and I was stuck being 10 years younger, I’d write her. I’d send her tapes of me talking too. I’d hit record on blank tapes, quickly whispering a breaking news report, reminding her of the violence she left behind in our childhood home. I also had a pen pal in my 20′s, the guitar player of an English punk band. We’d exchange letters, records.

Are letters written or notes passed in developed countries anymore? It seems so nostalgic, like paying cash, counting out exact change or having a signature that’s legible.

Back in the late 90′s, I started writing nonsense letters to companies whose products I liked. I liked this huge ice cream sign I kept seeing so I wrote Hershey’s and told the right person there that I’d like one of those four-foot double-sided signs, please; the one picturing a giant cone with one scoop strawberry and the second mint chocolate chip. That sign was delivered to a coffee shop in Society Hill (Philadelphia) bearing a white label with my name on it for me to collect it. The shop owner confused, me happily prancing down 4th street, proud that I got it for nothing more than a stamp and 75 words. It’s now in my attic, keeping the box of letters with the crushed corners company.

I wrote Heinz and informed them of this:

Dear Heinz Ketchup,

Me and my best friend Brooke, well… we love your ketchup. We love it so much, we will walk straight out of diners, flipping over tables as we leave if they do not serve the world’s greatest condiment. Viva la Heinz Ketchup!

Yours Truly,

Ingrid

Heinz sent me cookbook pamphlets, two each for me and Brooke, in which was probably the best meatloaf recipe of all time and an iron-on (with a 70s rather lewd image of ketchup being squeezed out of a bottle). Nonsense letter writing was simple, stupid fun.

During those years, I watched endless amounts of the Golden Girls. Was it some sort of security blanket for me in my early twenties, maybe because nobody that old ever cared about me? Who knows… I wrote them all, telling them why I thought they each played their character so flawlessly. I got a signed 8 x 10 from all, except Bea Arthur. Betty White wrote on hers “Ingrid, Thanks for watching, Love, Betty White.”

One morning, when I was 25, I was getting myself ready for work. As usual, I had the Golden Girls on as background company. I was working as a sales girl at the time, selling VERY expensive furniture. I was really just a giant dress-up doll for the store’s gay owners. I always had to wear “at least” three-inch high heels as part of the dress code, on concrete floors no less. I thought that was so bad-ass in its incorrectness, to enforce the wearing of high heels. I never really sold anything. I’m a terrible salesperson. But, I sat on very fine furniture and did what I do most of the time: think and daydream.

That morning, I was foolishly perfecting my look of the moment; something like Jane Russell meets Princess Diana’s infamous, see-through, librarian-ish skirt. My shoulder length hair, accidentally dyed jet black, was in hot rollers. I was smoking my first cigarette of the day, waiting for my morning breakfast ritual (two slices of the wonderful and pricy Petit Basque on crusty Metropolitan Bakery bread with half an apple) to assume perfect room temperature. My Mom called and asked if I was watching TV. My voice high, I laughed, surprised she knew. “How’d you know? I’m watching the Golden Girls.” She told me to turn on any other channel. It was the morning of 9/11.

I never watched the Golden Girls again. I stopped writing nonsense letters too.

I didn’t start writing today, with this day in mind. I wasn’t thinking about why I stopped watching that show or writing stupid letters before. I never saw that these events collided in my timeline. I just wanted to brag about my glossy 8 x 10′s and the giant ice cream sign which I don’t care about anymore. Upon writing this, I realize that not everything is huge and sobering in its after-effects, that sometimes it’s sobering how the little things change in a person. Maybe the stupid, novel fun stops? I wonder… how much, cumulatively, do all the little shifts in a nation’s people, after such an event, make them cold, fearful, afraid or shamed-sober out of having silly fun?

It’s a good question, one I am going to think about, and wonder how much of that day is responsible for the plain lack of lightness I see around me. There is a sterility, a stiffness sitting like a storm cloud that never rains over this country. I sense a great deal of resistance to any suggestion of merry-making, of silliness for silliness’ sake. Only recently have I been able to get back to my own goofiness, my own playfulness. Just like weeds that demand to be seen, my heart is begging me to play, telling me to go sit in a canoe in a bog I like very much in the Pine Barrens and stare at the sky while the kids are in school, play with my friends, with my kids, crack jokes with everyone I meet, WRITE STUPID LETTERS, stop worrying, stop living the American life du jour, obsessed with security in all forms. Mortgage, marriage, life insurance, health insurance, college plans, ADT, homeland security, TSA, extended warranties, safety, safety, safety!! It’s too much. I stick out my tongue to it all.

I am going to start writing nonsense letters again. I think I’ll start by inviting my bank, the holder of my mortgage, to tea, as we own this house together. I’ll write them, telling them about the roses I added this spring to our rose garden, how when I’m blue I have an odd reflex to get furniture upholstered and how the new leopard print club chair and ottoman, complete with nail heads, will be a perfect place for a round of tea with a nonsense letter writer.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

MQA’s Tips at Flea Markets

8 Jun

Brooke and Ingrid go shopping at Columbus Flea Market.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

Cherry Pie Day

7 Jun

Every spring, right around my birthday and a week after my peonies bloom, a sour cherry tree bares its fruit in my backyard. If the whole tree was picked, five pies, five great pies, could be baked.

Last year I waited and watched, thinking I could outsmart nature and the birds that live around me. I thought I could wait until almost every single cherry was ripe and then, BAM!, take them all at once. A cherry thief.

Nope. I learned a really valuable lesson, one to add to my life-long fascination with both timing and the greediness humans can’t help but possess. It seems like we are born with an instinct to want to outsmart and control whatever, whomever we can.

I waited too long. That tree was 90% full of perfect, red, ripe cherries, enough for five pies, but I wanted 100%. The next day…all the cherries were gone.

How could I compete with hundreds of birds that know more about how and when each cherry is perfectly ripe?

This year I didn’t take any chances. I was humbled by last year’s cherry greed. One of my favorite kids turned five on a Tuesday, and on that Tuesday two adults and four little kids picked enough for, and baked, three great birthday cherry pies.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

Miss & Miss 2012

5 Jun

MQA presents 2012′s Maybelline and Clementine. These very little girls showed up Friday night. I just had to show ‘em off. I’m taking them Sears next week to get their portrait done.

Baby Cows

Dear Mr. Black

4 Jun

I am still reading Edwin Black’s War Against the Weak – Eugenics and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race. Like everything worthwhile, there is a price to be paid. And for this book, it is so full of detail, so dense, wonderfully dense, it takes a while to read, that being the price. In the first paragraph, in the Acknowledgements, Black writes “More than fifty researchers in fifteen cities in four countries, assisted by scores of archivists and librarians at more than one hundred institutions, combined to ingather and organize some 50,000 documents, together with hundreds of pages of translation, as well as to review hundreds of books and journals, all to collectively tear away the thickets of mystery surrounding the eugenics movement around the world.”

                                      Dear Edwin Black,

The capacity your brain holds for information is incredible               and blows me away. I like your book. 

                                     Love, Ingrid

What most fascinates me about this is how very little the average person knows about Eugenics. (Eugenics was the racist pseudoscience determined to wipe away all human beings deemed “unfit,” preserving only those who conformed to a Nordic stereotype.) Little do most people know that it was the US that started sterilizing “defectives” before Hitler took it to the next level. The research and ideals of this movement were paid for and created here, in America. In fact, loads of people thought Eugenics was great. Even Teddy Roosevelt wrote in a letter to Davenport (VERY BAD GUY, the one behind the US movement), “I agree with you…that society has no business to permit degenerates to reproduce their kind….Some day, we will realize that the prime duty, the inescapable duty, of the good citizen of the right type, is to leave his or her blood behind him in the world: and that we have no business to permit the perpetuation of citizens of the wrong type.” When I read this, I can’t possibly grasp who has the right to deem any human the wrong or right type.

A hundred years ago The Carnegie Foundation, The Rockefellers, and Mrs. Harriman (railroad fortune, VIP lady) gave millions to fund the nationwide gathering and collection of information on US citizens to organize who would be sterilized. To not further burden the load on our nation with the dregs of society, Eugenics was ultimately a bunch of rich people deciding who was worthy of having children, and who was going to be sterilized. If you were Jewish, Italian, Baltic, Irish, black, if you had epilepsy (they really hated these people, seizures really made rich people grossed out), had generations of poor people in your family (they called this hereditary pauperism), were feeble-minded, had STDs or children out of marriage (i.e. looseness), among many other reasons, you would be deemed unfit.

So these rich assholes, for lack of a better word, put all this money into programs, some even funded by the US government, to sterilize the unfit. Black writes “Throughout the first six decades of the twentieth century, hundreds of thousands of Americans and untold numbers of others were not permitted to continue their families by reproducing. Selected because of their ancestry, national origin, race or religion, they were forcibly sterilized, wrongly committed to mental institutions where they died in great numbers, prohibited from marrying, and sometimes even unmarried by state bureaucrats. In America, this battle to wipe out whole ethnic groups was fought not by armies with guns nor by hate sects at the margins. Rather, this pernicious white-gloved war was prosecuted by esteemed professors, elite universities, wealthy industrialists and government officials colluding in a racist, pseudoscientific movement called eugenics. The purpose: create a superior Nordic race.”

Did you know this? I didn’t and that’s why I am taking my sweet old time to read every sentence carefully in this terrifying book. I don’t want to miss a single fact.

I have to share with you one of my favorite pages, because I don’t know about you, but I personally have never spent any time reading newspaper articles from a hundred years ago. But it may be the next thing that commands my attention.

Black writes and shares a newspaper article “Crusading journalists and commentators began to expose American eugenics as a war of the wealthy against the poor. On October 14, 1915, the Hearst newspapers syndicated a series of powerful editorials pulling no punches. Typical was an editorial in the San Francisco Daily News:

WHERE TO BEGIN

The millions of Mrs. Harriman, relict of the great railroad “promoter,” assisted by other millions of Rockefeller and Carnegie, are to be devoted to sterilization of several hundred thousands of American “defectives” annually, as a matter of eugenics.

It is true that we don’t yet know all that the millions of our plutocracy can do to the common folks. We see that our moneyed plutocrats can own the governments of whole states, override constitutions, maintain private armies to shoot down men, women, and children, and railroad innocent men to life imprisonment for murder, or lesser crimes. And IF WE SUBMIT TO SUCH THINGS, we ought not to be surprised if they undertake to sterilize all those who are obnoxious to them.

Of course, the proposition depends much on who are to be declared “defective.”

The old Spartans, with war always in view, used to destroy, at birth, boys born with decided physical weakness. Some of our present-day eugenists go farther and damn children before their birth because of parents criminal inclined. Then we have eugenic “defectives” in the insane and incurably diseased. The proposition is not wholly without justification. But isn’t there another sort of “defective,” who is quite as dangerous as any but whom discussion generally overlooks, especially discussion by the senile long-haired pathologists, and long-eared college professors involved in the Harriman-Rockefeller scheme to sterilize?

A boy is born to millions. He either doesn’t work, isn’t useful, doesn’t contribute to human happiness, is altogether a parasite, or else he works to add to his millions, with the brutal, insane greed for more and more that caused the accumulation of the inherited millions. Why isn’t such THE MOST DANGEROUS “DEFECTIVE” OF ALL? Why isn’t the prevention of more such progeny THE FIRST DUTY OF EUGENICS? Such “defectives” directly attack the rights, liberties, happiness, and lives of millions.

Talk about inheriting criminal tendencies. Is there a ranker case of such than the inheritance of Standard Oil criminality as evidenced in the slaughter of mothers and their babies at Ludlow?

Sterilization of hundreds of thousands of the masses, by the Harrimans and Rockefellers? LET’S FIRST TRY OUT THE “DEFECTIVENESS” OF THE SONS OF BILLIONAIRES!

Let’s first sterilize where sterilization will mean something immediate, far-reaching and thorough in the way of genuine eugenics!”

Holy cow! I never read anything like that, that gives me goose bumps, in anything I read in the news today. People had guts and were plain about what they said 100 years ago. I have read that article ten times over and each time I can’t get over the parts written in all caps. People shouted how they felt, what they thought. They didn’t use puny inside voices.

I would very much recommend reading this book. This movement of hate started here, in the land of the free. And it’s just weird how little us common “defectives” know about how we would have been treated 100 years ago. We should all know this, and nobody should think of the names Rockefeller, Carnegie and Harriman as philanthropic greats. Their money was dirty, filthy and used to harm so many for so long.

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

What Do You Do?

1 Jun

I was at a dinner party the other night and one of the guests asked me, “What do you do?” I replied, shoulders slightly shrugged, “Nothing.”

His reaction, as well as those of the various people around the table, was a mixture of shock and nervous laughter. My friend Donna, a really nice person, quickly tried to cover up for me and retorted “She’s a writer! Tell him about your blog!” Now that made me really embarrassed, enough to blush, because, although it’s nice for somebody to give me a title, I have only written a couple of posts in less than two months on a blog that I never meant to have. I am not a writer.

I have always had a tough time with the question “What do you do?” especially when it is asked within 10 minutes of meeting someone. As if finding out what someone does for a living will give insight into who they are! Most people have jobs in order to make money; few have jobs they want or are passionate about. In fact, almost every girl I know who went to college for something, photography or fashion design for example, ended up a teacher. People do what they have to do to make money or, worse, get health insurance. So asking what they do isn’t going to tell you much about who they are.

Now, ask me what I’ve been thinking about all day or week. That’ll indicate who I am. Ask me what I think about any current event; or how, when I hear on a news report that 109 Syrian people were shot to death in their homes while I’m making my kid’s school lunch, it makes me pause, my heart breaking in 109 pieces, and silently cry as I squeeze the edge of kitchen counter. That’ll tell you who I am. I think and I feel. And mostly wish I could take the whole world into my home and teach people how to be good to each other, to forgive. And make them all lunch too, even the creeps.

I never ask people what they do. I just don’t care. Now that I think about it, just as when the doctor makes me sit and wait over an hour and I plot to get him back by turning off the lights, jumping out from behind a chair and shouting “surprise” when he finally opens the door (I’ve yet to have the guts to do this), maybe the next time somebody asks me what I do, I’ll make something up. Like “Oh, I am a professional compassionate lazy prankster.” But maybe that’d get the same nervous laughter reaction as saying “Nothing.”

© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved

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