What is she saying NOW?
“History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.” – Dr. Martin Luther King
Continue reading “Message to Friends Who Voted for Trump But Believe They Aren’t Bigots”
I landed the starring role in the McGuffey Center Pre-School Easter Pageant. I was to be Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail, the bunny trail lined with my classmates holding their Easter baskets for me to plop eggs and candy in along the way.
I was going to be an awesome Peter Cottontail. I had ears and whiskers and, of course, a tail o’cotton.
Primed for my big night, but maybe a little too primed. There I was, dressed for my big debut when Grammy noticed that I looked a little flushed. You had to have eagle eyes to notice a four-year-old black kid is flushed – first of all, her face is pretty far away from yours when you’re 6 and half feet tall (or at least that’s how tall Grammy seemed back then) and besides, how can you tell I was flushed under all that brown skin?
Anyway, a couple of Grammy’s many eyes noticed that I was flushed and her cool hands confirmed it. So before I could say “THANKS, Easter Bunny!” my ears, whiskers and tail got snatched off, and adhered to my understudy and my basket of treats also disappeared. She then took my place at the head of the bunny trail, and I was mingled in with the other children patiently waiting her largesse.
Of course, it made no sense that, if I was too sick to be Peter Cottontail, why wasn’t I too sick to stand in the line of children? That actually seemed to be MORE dangerous to me and the others. What if I passed out and knocked everyone else down like dominoes? What if I was contagious and gave all the other children whatever it was that I had? It just didn’t make any sense.
But it didn’t matter. Life is sometimes really unfair.
And then Grammy got me home and inflicted the Vicks VapoRub torture.
If you’ve never been subjected to VVR torture, thank God. Really. It’s like waterboarding, but with ointment instead of water. They should have sent Grammy and her supply of Vicks VapoRub to Guantanamo and she would have had folks talking within minutes.
In case any of our intelligence community is reading this, here are the instructions for the VVR torture – I mean, Vicks VapoRub Extraordinary Interrogation Method:
On September 11, 2001, the U.S. Capitol and House and Senate office buildings were evacuated. As we stood on New Jersey Avenue, wondering what to do or where to go next, Capitol Police suddenly ordered us to “MOVE BACK!!!” We were confused and disorderly. I went up to an officer to find out what was going on. He looked me dead in the eye and yelled, “This is NOT a DRILL. MOVE!!!”
And we moved, farther away from the Capitol. And then, farther away again, for good measure. I looked back up toward the Capitol and saw that, unlike the rest of us, the Capitol Police officers did NOT move. They stayed put, right where they had been. I thought, “Oh, my God. These guys must be scared to death!” But they still stayed right there.
Since then, I have always appreciated those men and women who stood their ground and protected us when the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart, when they didn’t know if a plane was coming for us, when they had no idea what danger they may have been in.
Today reminded me of that long-ago, but not so far-away day on the Hill. After news of the shooting at the Republican team baseball practice came through, our Capitol Police officers stayed at their posts, doing their jobs, despite knowing that two of their own had been shot while doing theirs.
And I thought of how fortunate we all are that Officers David Bailey and Crystal Griner stayed on their posts, doing their jobs, likely saving dozens of lives with their quick thinking and courage.
Griner, Bailey and their fellow officers probably haven’t created any jobs or built up great stores of wealth. But today, the Congressmen and their staffs on that field didn’t need wealthy “job creators.” They needed well-trained government employees – REAL “good guys with guns.” And, fortunately, that’s exactly what they got.
That’s why today, I thanked every Capitol Police Officer I encountered – and hope that time’s tendency to erode such feelings does not dilute my gratitude and appreciation for the men and woman who stand their posts every day just to keep us safe.
Today, I rented a pickup truck at Home Depot to haul 40 bags of mulch back to my house. When I go into the truck, I had an immediate, visceral, throwback feeling to when I was a tiny girl, riding with my Uncle Frank in his truck.
I loved riding with Uncle Frank. All of us kids did. But sometimes I got to go by myself because my cousins Francine, Vivien and Candy were busy in school. Francine was in the third grade, Candy in the first, Vivien was in “kinnygarden” (as she frequently reminded me, as if she were in college or something), and Alicia was still just a twinkle in Uncle Frank’s eye, so she hadn’t yet usurped my position as the baby cousin. But since I was in the half-day program at McGuffey Center pre-school, my afternoons were free and sometimes that meant I got to hang out with Uncle Frank.
There was no one like my Uncle Frank. He was sweet (but pretended to be gruff), smart and funny and he loved me like one of his own. He constantly teased me and always greeted me with “How ya doin’ “Stephanie Joyce WOOTEN Jones?” He could built or fix anything. New baby? Bam! The house would spring another room. Grammy needs a bathroom on the first floor? Voila! Grammy has a new bathroom on the first floor.
When I told him I didn’t like that my feet couldn’t touch the floor when I sat on the grownup furniture, he built me my very own little wooden bench so I could sit with my feet firmly on the ground (or that I could prop my feet on when I sat on the sofa). He painted it a soft pink with a glossy black top and made sure everyone knew “that’s Steffie’s bench.” I watched the Beatles’ Ed Sullivan debut and President Kennedy’s funeral on that bench …
So, I loved it when I got to spend time with Uncle Frank, especially when that meant going anywhere with him in his truck. I’d scramble in and park myself in the passenger seat, Uncle Frank would start the motor, which was really loud. Then we’d back out the driveway of the house he had built, the tires making a crunchy sound as soon as we hit the street, and off we’d go! Uncle Frank drove and I talked. And talked. And talked. And he pretended to listen.
I don’t remember where Uncle Frank and I went (other than the time he drove me to Cleveland and we stopped at McDonald’s on the way back – he said the only time I stopped talking was when I was chewing and even then I still had something to say), but I’ll never forget how it felt riding with him at that truck.
All of that came back today when I climbed into my rented pickup truck in the Home Depot parking lot. There was no crunchy sound when I pulled onto the street, but driving that truck brought back such a happy memory and filled my heart with such joy that I burst out laughing and called out, “Look, Uncle Frank! I’m driving a truck!”
And I swear I could hear him laughing right along with me.
I’m sick of repeating Rev. Niemoller’s “First they came for the Socialists but I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Socialist …” quote because it’s been quoted ad nauseum in the past year and no one seems to give a damn. Well, they SAID they give one, but then they stood by and are standing by as “they” come after Muslims, gays, women, minorities, etc. and even elected, encouraged the election and/or allowed to be elected the demagogue who promised to go after the “others” in spades. It’s a great quote, but it doesn’t seem to be changing anyone’s heart or behavior?
Instead, we need to put faces on “those people” so folks can see that this is not an abstract concept. The kind of policies 45 pushed on us in the last two days – policies he told us he was going to enact and people STILL let him come to power – are not new. They’ve been tried before and innocent people suffered and died.
Little Joachim Hirsch was one of them. He was one of 937 passengers on the St. Louis, a ship carrying Jewish refugees trying to escape the Nazis in 1939. The ship was turned away at many ports of entry – including Miami. The ship eventually had no place else to go and returned to Germany.
Joachim was later sent to Auschwitz where he was murdered.
Joachim was a little boy. He was someone’s child. He could have grown up and become someone’s husband and father and had an interesting life and fulfilling job and fun hobbies. But the Nazis murdered him because we turned our backs on him and turned him away.
That was wrong then. It is wrong now.
Today more than one little boy and little girl had their chance at a life slip away – no, SNATCHED away – by a cruel, callous and unstable demagogue, his henchpeople, his callous enablers, and his silent, frightened bitter supporters.
Joachim was not a number or a statistic or one of the nameless, faceless Jews that they came for and no one spoke up. He had a name and a family and a future that was taken away from him.
Look at this little boy’s face. Think about what “they” did to him. And then remember that “they” were US. WE turned him away. And today, WE are turning away little boys and girls just like him. WE, not THEY.
WE can stop this madness. WE must stop it. WE are better than this.
We really are.
By Stephanie Jones, NNPA Columnist
In the midst of the anger and disappointment at the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin, I sought a glimmer of hope and first found it, paradoxically, in the reaction to the verdict among people of all races. That glimmer was brightened ever-so-slightly later that week when two members of Congress – one Black, one White, one a Democrat, one a Republican – stood together in an effort to salvage the Voting Rights Act.
And then the president of the United States took to his bully pulpit and laid it on the line.
When President Obama waded into the swirl of pain and frustration unleashed by the not guilty verdict in the killing of the unarmed Black teenager, he folded his own personal experience into the mix, and then helped chart a course for moving forward together through our nation’s churning racial waters. And he reminded us that, despite the obstacles, hurdles and stumbles, despite the outrageous injustices that threaten to drag us backward, we are making progress in our journey toward racial equality and understanding . . . Read the full column at BlackPressUSA.com
Today’s New York Times features an excellent analysis by the always insightful and thorough Linda Greenhouse of Chief Justice John Roberts’ judicial activism. http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/opinionator/2013/06/29/the-real-john-roberts-emerges/?post_id=100000494110066_689159031110561#_=_
While its headline – “The Real John Roberts Emerges” – suggests that the Chief Justice has only recently revealed himself, the fact is that we’ve known the “real” John Roberts all along.
“The chief justice’s antipathy toward the Voting Rights Act itself was well known, and was a significant reason that major civil rights groups opposed his confirmation to the court in 2005. Following his nomination, memos came to light that he had written more than 20 years earlier as a young lawyer in the Reagan.administration
…
“Questioned at his confirmation hearing by Senator Edward M. Kennedy about his views on the Voting Rights Act, Mr. Roberts, then a judge, asserted that he had been acting at the time as a staff lawyer advising a cle he had an open mind.”
As executive director of the National Urban League Policy Institute, I fought Robert’s nomination tooth and nail, knowing that he would take his anti-voting rights and anti-civil rights agenda to the high court.
So, I was flabbergasted when several senators who should have known better swallowed Roberts’ “I was just a partisan functionary then but I promise to be fair now,” ignored his record, and then voted to confirm him, slapping in the face the very people who depend on them to do the right thing.
And now that Chief Justice Roberts has shredded the Voting Rights Act with the very sword they handed him, these senators owe it to the nation to stop acting as if they didn’t see this coming and then do whatever it takes to repair the damage.
And, while they’re doing that, they need to apologize to us for helping to give such power to a man who last week demonstrated what many of us already knew.
I’m delighted about today’s Supreme Court rulings on Defense Against Marriage Act and California Proposition 8 and celebrate the vindication of human rights with my friends, gay and straight.
But while we celebrate this victory, we must remember that we have much work to do to protect the rights of all people.
I urge all of my friends, including those who may not feel personally affected by yesterday’s Shelby decision, to work to ensure that the Voting Rights Act continues to protect the ballot for all Americans.
Remember – Justices Roberts, Scalia, Thomas and Alito needed only one more vote for today’s cases to go the other way. And without the protections afforded by the Voting Rights Act, the very people most likely to vote for legislators, governors and presidents who can stand between us and that fifth vote are in danger of being disenfanchised.
So, let’s all join together to cheer today’s decisions and then work together to restore the voting rights protections that yesterday’s decision put at risk.
As we celebrate Rosa Parks’ 100th birthday with a beautiful new stamp, two distinct memories about hercome to mind. One makes me smile. The other makes me proud.
The first memory takes me back many years to my days at Smith College when I had the opportunity to spend time with Mrs. Parks during her visit to the school. The Black Students Alliancehosted an event for Mrs. Parks and, as BSA president, I met her and her companion, Elaine Steele, at the airport, drove them back to campus and helped Mrs. Parks get settled in her room. When I returned to fetch her for the dinner and program that evening, Mrs. Parks was dressed and ready to go but asked me to help her pin her long hair back into a bun. She watched in the mirror, handed me the hairpins one by one and gently gave me direction as I tried not to fumble or poke her scalp or do anything else stupid (all the while thinking “I cannot believe I’m doing Rosa Parks’ hair!”). When we were done, she patted her hair approvingly and said I had done it “just right.”
The rest of the evening, I prayed that her hair would not tumble out of that bun, but it stayed put.
After the event that night, Mrs. Parks sat with my classmates and me for several hours, although she must have been very tired, answering our questions and asking us about ourselves, our families and our studies. The next day, I took her and Mrs. Steele back to the airport. As we waited for the flight, Mrs. Steele and I were appalled that some young adults, noting that she was getting the VIP treatment, wanted to know who Mrs. Parks was. I wanted to scold them, but Mrs. Parks smiled gently and said it didn’t matter. Before she headed for the gate, she gave me hug, let me kiss her on the cheek and thanked me for “being so kind to an old lady.”
When she died 25 years later, I attended the service in the Capitol Rotunda that preceded her lying in honor. President and Mrs. Bush arrived and quietly waited with the rest of us for about 20 minutes. There was something strange about the scene – and then I realized what was so odd. As an old presidential advance person I know that the President rarely ever waits for anyone. Yet here stood the President of the United States – in an act of extraordinary grace and tribute – waiting for Rosa Parks, nearly 50 years to the day that she was hauled off of that bus for refusing to give up her seat.
“To some, the quiet tributes in the Rotunda seemed like a long way from that December day in Montgomery,” I wrote in the State of Black America 2006. “But it was America, not Rosa Parks, that had traversed history’s long and rocky road. Throughout her life, she remained what she was in 1955—a quiet, dignified, respected and respectful woman …
“Rosa Parks was a truly remarkable woman. But she was remarkable not because she was bigger than life. Rosa Parks was a quiet woman who had the courage to say “no” to injustice. When she said ‘no’ to the bus driver, she said, ‘yes’ we can and must all be treated with decency and fairness. When she said no to degradation, humiliation and second-class treatment, Rosa Parks helped America save itself. That’s reason enough to honor her.”
And now, seven years after the President stood in silent tribute to her, 57 years after her arrest, and 100 years after her birth, America is honoring Rosa Parks with a beautiful postage stamp that captures this lovely, soft-spoken, sweet, courageous woman who stood up to injustice and sat down with young people who wanted to make a difference. She showed us all what it means to stand tall, even when just sitting still.
Happy Birthday, Rosa Parks.
Not one of the Sandy Hook teachers was a “job creator.” Probably none of the Newtown first responders measure their “success” by how much money they manage to earn, sock away and shield from taxes. Yet it was the first responders who ran into, not away from, the gunfire that once again shattered a community, and it was teachers who stood between a madman and other people’s children.
So, when we go back to arguing about who is and isn’t contributing to society, and why and how we should invest our resources, let’s remember Victoria Sota, Dawn Hochsprung, Mary Sherlack, Lauren Rousseau, and the other teachers, police officers, firefighters, and paramedics to whom we entrust our children, our families, our communities, our safety, and our lives.
It is time for politicians to call a halt on the ugly and cynical attacks on public workers. I don’t want to see you wringing your hands at memorial services for the Sandy Hook victims and then, the next day, hear you call their colleagues thugs and leeches. The workers you besmirch and belittle are the same people who protect our beloved ones when we’re not with them and step into the line of fire while we’re running as far as we can in the other direction.
They aren’t job creators. But on Friday morning, we didn’t need job creators. We needed public servants to charge into the bullets, to throw themselves on top of our babies, to keep their cool and soothe our terrified children until other public servants could ensure they were once again safe. And, thank God, they were there.
I’m not going to forget that. And I won’t let you forget that, either.