"Refrain"

My Girl Scout troop sang in public a lot.  We went to the mall when that was new, and a pretty woman gave us hot cider and candy.  I liked singing, and liked it even more when I got candy.  I’m sure we were adorable.  People smiled a lot.  The newspaper printed our performances and names.  It’s too bad the media doesn’t do more of that kind of feel-good stuff these days.

I was feeling semi-professional by the time we were sent to the nursing home.  We knew our song list and had it down pat.  I happily went off to “cheer up the old people”.  I liked old people, so cheering them up was fine with me.  Besides, old people were usually good for some cookies.

The nursing home was a low, dark building.  It was hidden behind trees because nobody really wants to look at old people or to be reminded that we’re all going to get old someday.  Once you’re sent there, you’re just waiting to die.  I knew that.  My great grandpa got sent to one when he was really old and he didn’t last very long after that.

Inside was dark too.  It took me a minute for my eyes to dilate and see my surroundings, and I gasped when I did.  Old men were lined up in wheelchairs in the dark, ratty lap afghans were clutched by arthritic hands – if they had hands.  Crippled feet were tied to footrests – if they had feet.  Their heads hung listlessly and slobber dripped on their shoulders.  Their eyes were blank, or ashamed, or missing.

It was a nursing home for WWI vets.  I knew about war because Viet Nam was going on.  I knew people could die, but I didn’t know about this.  I tried to tame my sick stomach while we were arranged in front of the broken men.  I tried not to cry.  I didn’t want them to know they made me sick, that I was glad the nursing home was hidden from regular people having regular lives.

One old man sat in his chair and watched us.  He and another man seemed like the only ones actually living in reality.  He gave a little smile, and I sang just to him.  I couldn’t bear to look at the others.

WWI is so much ancient history now, and it was back then too.  Was it worth wrecking those men’s lives?  Was Viet Nam worth it?  Afghanistan?  WWI created the circumstances that created WWII.  WWII victors drew arbitrary borders in the Middle East, which created ongoing wars there.  Nothing good comes from wars except making the rich richer, and in my opinion, they’re already rich enough.  My life experiences made me a life-long, non-apologetic pacifist.

I’m upset Congress plans to wreck Obama’s deal with Iran, just because it’s a deal that Obama arranged.  They hate him beyond any kind of reasonable discussion.  Idiots like John McCain want to live in a constant state of war and don’t want to negotiate with anyone, but there’s no reason to have another war in Iran.

Iran will develop nuclear energy whether we like it or not.  Making a deal with Iran to oversee and limit that development is only good.  War is stupid and the price is too high.  Maybe we should send all those old men in Congress to the nursing home?

The refrain from The Ballad of Billy Jack…

Go ahead and hate your neighbor
Go ahead and cheat a friend
Do it in the name of Heaven
You can justify it in the end
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgment day
On the bloody morning after...
One tin soldier rides away.

I know this is isn’t a great video, and if you’re too young to remember Billy Jack it probably looks stupid, but I’ll admit that watching it made me cry.  Same things then are the same things now.  “Give peace a chance.”

"Protest"

I was a little kid in the 60s when hippies were protesting the Viet Nam war and everything else their bourgeoisie parents represented.  I told my dad that I couldn’t see how he could argue against “make love not war”, but I was too young to know that making love was an actual act little kids aren’t supposed to know about, and the hippies were doing it all over the place.

I sat on the floor and played with my blocks and felt rather torn about whether the hippies were dirty and lazy or doing something really inspirational.  Having no real understanding what a draft card was and never worn a bra, I didn’t see any point to burning them, and I didn’t get what was the point of burning flags either other than all this burning stuff made my dad really, really mad.

“It’s just a thing, Dad.  They aren’t hurting anybody.”  “It’s what it represents!” Dad shouted, but that didn’t explain anything to me either.

A young man with long hair and cutoff jeans played guitar at church one week.  I was in love.  He was handsome and played beautifully.  Dad sputtered “How dare he come to church like that!”, and I thought the young man’s long hair was pretty and clean, unlike all those hippies on tv.  “But you like guitars Dad!”  After all, Dad leaned forward to watch the tube anytime Charo played blazing fast flamenco music.  I hate double standards – well unless the double standard is working in my favor and lets me look at handsome young men.

I admired Charo’s musical skills.  I didn’t like that she dressed like a porn star and shook her ample chest to get recognized for her abilities.  I wanted the equality that I started to recognize in the barrels of burning bras.

Sometimes I wonder how much all these major events of my childhood formed me.  Sometimes I wonder if the sanitized wars we’ve been having in later years robs young people of passions that make their lives more meaningful?

“Passion rebuilds the world for the youth.  It makes all things alive and significant.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

“It is a fact often observed, that men have written good verse under the inspiration of passion, who cannot write well under other circumstances.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

“There is no passion to be found in playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.” Nelson Mandela

“Passion is energy.  Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you.” Oprah Winfrey

“If you don’t have a passion, you’ll give up.” Steve Jobs

First they came for the communists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the socialists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.

~ Martin Niemoller