A TURNING POINT . . . AND TRUMP NEVER SAW IT COMING

A TURNING POINT . . . AND TRUMP NEVER SAW IT COMING

Who would have thought this would finally happen? In such a seemingly innocent way? 

Like most egotists unable to see themselves for what they are, Trump finally made a fatal mistake. In his quest for a new target he chose somebody he perceived as  vulnerable and weak, an individual whose wife he could mock, a foreign victim unlikely to fight back. (Never a Michael Bloomberg or a Leon Panetta, you notice).   

And he chose wrong.

Until Trump zeroed in on him, Khizr Kahn was a relative unknown, a Muslim immigrant with an accent and no national name recognition. Nobody had yet heard from his wife. But in the Democratic convention the couple played a brief role, honored as parents of a Captain in Iraq who died in the act of saving others. In spite of their loss, the parents were so in love with America that Mr. Kahn kept copies of the Constitution in his home for the express purpose of giving it to others.   

The night of his speech, Mr. Kahn’s finding the Constitution in his coat pocket caught him by surprise. He hadn’t intended to bring it. But mid-oratory, he was so caught up in his message that he drew out the tattered booklet and challenged Trump to read it. Khizr Kahn’s unexpected moment turned into a highlight of the convention.

Two days later, Trump unleashed his venom. With the instincts of a jackal, he went for the couple’s weak spot: as a Muslim woman, Mrs. Kahn was forced to remain silent.  Trump said, “Maybe she wasn’t allowed to have anything to say.” In one dumb moment he disparaged both Kahns and all Muslim women.  

This time Donald stepped on a land mine.

Calmly, in elegant prose and with only the slightest rancor, Mr. Kahn fought back. Given a slot on all the major news channels, he explained that Mrs. Kahn was too distressed at the thought of her son to summon a speaker’s composure. Furthermore, Kahn added,  Trump lacked the empathy to be president. The media encouraged him to keep talking, and Kahn did, at times more eloquently than anyone else.               

By then a wise candidate would have offered a brief, sympathetic message and abandoned that line of attack. Not Trump. As usual, he doubled down, making the point that he, too, had “sacrificed”—by creating thousands of jobs. For days, to the media’s delight, Trump kept the fires lit, until it fell to Vice-presidential candidate Mike Pence to make apologies and try to soothe the masses.  But even he couldn’t make up for Trump’s nasty comment in a recent rally, “Get that baby out of here.” 

This was the week the tide turned. Important members of his own party, like Meg Whitman, publicly renounced the man. Unusually blunt, President Obama called on other prominent Republicans to withdraw their backing, saying in effect, You don’t condone what he says. How can you support him? The newspapers added a chorus of harsh comments.

This was the week I stopped worrying. 

Like others, I imagined Trump’s downfall would surely happen, except I thought it would take place before 2016. As far back as last August he reminded me of Hitler. Not anymore. Lately he has lost his menace and is simply an out-of-control buffoon. From now on, my plan is to remain calm and watch the man as he slowly but relentlessly drowns in his own words.     

A MAGICAL NIGHT IN AMERICA

A MAGICAL NIGHT IN AMERICA

The evening promised to be pleasant, but hardly spectacular.  

As she often does, our daughter invited Rob and me for a Sunday night barbecue in her tropical backyard. “And we’ll play games afterward,” she said.  “Oh, and I need a couple of things from Costco.”  On impulse, I bought some extras, like a huge package of already-shucked sweet corn.   

I never take such invitations for granted. For me, a dinner with either of our grown kids-- or grandkids—and their families, is the absolute best way to spend an evening.  Lucky for us, three such families live close.

Late afternoon Tracy called back.  “A Norwegian family just moved in across the street. I’m inviting them over for drinks, so come at six.”    

Great, I thought . . . which is how it turned out. A handsome family, the Norwegian  couple, the Glittenbergs, had four kids, two teen-age girls and two youngish boys, all with faces so lively you’d expect to see them in a magazine.  Just as we were getting acquainted, Tracy invited the couple next door—Andrew and Grace Yen, two charmers who long ago emigrated from Taipei. Rounding out the party, she abruptly phoned her neighbor on the other side. “Come on over, Shannon, and bring the kids.”

Shannon is Hispanic—and her four children variously excel in dancing, gymnastics, and baseball—with the oldest girl a singer. In fact, two years ago, then 13-year-old Elizabeth sang “Love Changes Everything,” at Tracy’s daughter’s wedding.  Mature and composed, she dazzled the 300 guests. (Rob assured everyone that “A star is born.”)         

Considering the way the four teenage girls from two families instantly bonded, crossing every international barrier, you’d think they’d known each other for years. The four girls and oldest Norwegian boy retreated to another part of the yard.

Our drinks and canapés on the patio were hardly underway when Tracy came up with a startling idea. She’d heard, vaguely, that one of the Norwegian girls was also a singer. So she took Mathea-Mari Glittenberg and Shannon’s Elizabeth Bower aside, and said, “Why don’t you girls sing for us?”

The two looked startled, but Tracy persisted.  At our daughter’s urging, the two girls disappeared inside—presumably to practice. Ten minutes later they were back. As it turned out, neither practiced anything.  Instead, the two had run through their individual repertories until they landed on a popular song both of them knew. With a total absence of preparation, the two faced all of us, now hushed, and began singing together . . . their phrasing so polished,  every note so perfectly in sync, it was as if they’d practiced for months.

In two areas, the Norwegian girl added a lilting harmony. The adults all sat there, transfixed. None of us could believe this had happened. “And you didn’t practice?” someone asked, and they both smiled and said no. “We just picked a song.”   

“Drinks” quickly became dinner . . . and thank goodness for the extra corn. To everyone’s delight, Tracy’s Paul barbecued chicken, corn, and asparagus—enough for everyone.  The new Norwegian family had now met three existing neighbors, with the father eventually explaining that they’d chosen this neighborhood specifically for its safety, climate, and proximity to good schools—but also partly because it is fairly close to John Wayne airport.  “Mathea-Mari needs to travel to Europe six times before Christmas.” 

Interesting information, though none of us were sure why.

All I knew was that my evening had been perfect—besides watching the quick friendships springing up between the young people, I’d been sitting next to Andrew Yen, who laughed at every funny thing I said. 

Before the Glittenbergs left, Mathea-Mari played a charming piece on Tracy’s piano. Once more, we were all dazzled. As a last gesture, Tracy’s Dane loaned the oldest sister his guitar.   

After everyone had gone, Dane looked up Mathea-Mari Glittenberg on the Internet and found that at age 13 she’d been the winner of the Norwegian Melody Grand Prix, the equivalent of American Idol.  In fact, she’d personally written one of her songs. Since then she’d become internationally famous. Dane said, “She even has her own Wikipedia Page.” Clearly, the girl’s flights home were for professional appearances. (In fact we’ve just learned from Dane’s sister in Amsterdam that Mathea-Mari sells out arenas all over Europe.)   

Bowled over by this astonishing revelation, all of us were glad that nobody among us knew any of this in advance.  Instead, we appreciated the Norwegian family for their ready graciousness . . . and found the duet from the two girls a wonderful, but wholly unexpected surprise.

LET THE COPS GO TO CONGRESS

LET THE COPS GO TO CONGRESS

When it comes to gun control on a national basis, maybe the right people have never approached Congress.

Clearly, Republicans have chosen to ignore endless grief-stricken citizens: Mothers and Fathers of Newtown children; Relatives of San Bernardino victims; Friends of the gun-downed souls in Orlando; Buddies of Students killed in three Universities—in Oregon, Virginia, and California; Fellow Congregants of parishioners in Charleston, South Carolina; even a wounded ex-Congresswoman . . . the list goes on.

Over and over, ordinary citizens beg Congress for new gun laws, and fully half of our representatives ignore them, simply tune them out. What our desperate citizens get is a “moment of silence,” . . . because the callous half of Congress listens to only one voice: The National Rifle Association.  

While we’re at it, those same representatives seem not to care that the streets of Chicago, rife with guns and ammunition, have become a literal war zone.

How will this ever change? 

Now that a murderer has employed an AR-15 . . . and sprayed enough bullets to kill five innocent police officers and injure a dozen others, perhaps America’s cops can finally make a difference. 

It has to happen.

Representatives from police units across the country need to appear in Congress and tell it like it is. Though I’ve never seen this in print, my guess is,  America’s policemen are aghast that this nation is full of ordinary citizens who possess, and occasionally use, military armament--not to mention armor-piercing bullets.  What chance does a policeman have to restore order when confronted with weaponry that may exceed his own? 

All these citizen buyers of military weapons do NOT constitute “a well-armed militia,” as described by the 2^nd Amendment. Nobody needs an AR-15 for hunting, for personal protection, or for anything—except to kill the greatest number of people in the least amount of time.   

Surely others like me will finally demand this: our cops are needed in Congress.

A final question: Since when does the NRA own more than half of our fifty states in America?   

A STORY WORTH TELLING

A STORY WORTH TELLING

The man came into the ER at St. Joseph Hospital that afternoon with a painful red streak that started at his wrist and was rapidly working its way up his arm.

The staff immediately recognized his problem as necrotizing fasciitis, (commonly called “flesh eating bacteria”), which had started with a small hand wound. Knowing this was a serious condition, the staff understood the patient needed surgery, and he needed it fast. They contacted a doctor who happened to be on call, an orthopedic surgeon,  alerting him to the need for speed.

When Dr. X arrived, the agonizing streak had already reached the patient’s elbow. Joaquin Garcia (not his real name), was in trouble, and the hastily-gathered surgical staff recognized this as well.  Aware that many of Garcia’s relatives had gathered in the waiting room, the hospital sent somebody out to warn next-of-kin that the patient’s prognosis was not good. The relatives were advised to go home and wait, but they wouldn’t. They chose to stay. 

Meanwhile, the operating team began assembling instruments. After giving Garcia an injection of a powerful antibiotic, the team went to work. Because the infection was moving so rapidly up the fascia (connective bands of tissue that surround muscles, nerves, fat, and blood vessels), the anesthesiologist had to get him down fast, and then the surgeon was forced to lay open the man’s entire arm, starting at the wrist and ending at the chest wall. The only way to stop the bacteria’s progress was to get ahead of the bacteria’s onslaught and expose the man’s fascia to the outside, making it available for direct contact with the air. The operating team, collected randomly from professionals on call, worked fast and in perfect harmony.

Even so, the patient clearly hovered near death.  After four or five hours, the surgical team had done all it could, and were forced to leave their patient to the hospital staff, painfully aware that he had a 95% chance against him and might not last the night.

The next morning, to Dr. X’s relief, Joaquin Garcia was still alive. And slowly, making inch-by-inch progress, the man came back to life. At last the surgeon was able to offer an announcement to the still-collected relatives. “We believe Joaquin will now recover and probably be okay.” The entire waiting room, it seemed, burst into applause.

It was only in retrospect that the surgeon, a Caucasian, began thinking about the collection of people who had worked so hard to save Joaquin’s life. Besides their efforts directed toward a Hispanic patient, the anesthesiologist had been African American. The scrub nurse was Arabic, and the circulating nurse was Asian. That day, it seemed, no two people in the operating theater had been from the same ethnic background. 

To the surgeon, the most interesting feature of the event was that nobody seemed to notice their diversity. Even better, had any of them noticed, none would have cared.   

This is a story I’ve always loved, a tale I heard long ago and firsthand from the surgeon. From time to time, in the intervening years, it's come back to me as a moment of pleasure.

But now, with so much inflammatory talk suddenly making headlines, the event seems more relevant than it’s ever been before. I find myself thinking about it often . . . this moment that proves what my grandchildren have demonstrated they already know—that ultimately, for good or for bad, people are just people and race is merely a bit of history.        

I AM THE SHOOTER!! I'M HERE TO KILL YOU!

I AM THE SHOOTER !!  I’M HERE TO KILL YOU!

Killers don’t wear signs.

Killers don’t broadcast their agenda. 

Mass shooters don’t give you time to prepare—to pull out your gun and warn others to stand back.   

Nobody alerts the police:  “Some guys with guns are good guys.” 

The police finally arrive on the scene and find several people shooting. 

Guess who gets killed? 

Everyone.  

Everyone using a gun.   

Too bad.  Decent, armed citizens don’t wear signs either. “DON’T KILL ME!  I AM THE GOOD GUY!”     

So why does it make sense, as the NRA claims, for ordinary Americans to be out in public packing heat?

TRUMPISM--A REVERSION TO PAST HORRORS

TRUMPISM—A REVERSION TO PAST HORRORS

All it took was Orlando, America’s worst possible event, to bring out the vile calumny from the scariest man of our time.   A man who would “take us back,” all right, but not to historical moments that any sane person would welcome.

One of those times I happen to remember well.   

World War II was well underway (and I was about 14),  when two elderly Japanese couples appeared in our Denver home.  I recall how little Mom said about them, and how they never spoke, and how ghost-like they seemed when they wandered our house, so quiet we barely felt their presence. I remember being mesmerized by the way they sat in our kitchen sucking in rice, magically causing it to rise from rice pot to mouth as though on a conveyor belt. Eventually Mom got around to explaining that she’d rescued these couples so they’d never have to go to the nearby internment camps. It was the kind of thing Mom did, with little or no explanation to anyone, including my brother or me. For this alone I will always be grateful that she was, at that time, who she was.  

For more than half a century America has felt shame that it imprisoned the Japanese within its borders . . . even knowing back then that some 62%s were American citizens.    

With enough pressure from people like Trump and yes, Ted Cruz, Americans might be persuaded to “patrol Islamic neighborhoods.” (Here, the imagination falters). Or worse.     

When I first read parts of Trump’s speech today, and how he not-so-subtly besmirched Obama, it reminded me of another bygone era, and someone else’s evil words.  Finally it came to me: the early Fifties and Senator Joe McCarthy.

McCarthyism, defined by Wikipedia, perfectly describes Trump’s behavior: “Demagogic, reckless, and unsubstantiated accusations, as well as public attacks on the character or patriotism of political opponents.” With sly hints and innuendo, this was Trump blaming our president for the events of Orlando. Even suggesting that Obama “knew more than he’s saying,” that he somehow brought them on.    

So Trump wants to take us back to a different world. To the 1940’s, perhaps, with its internment camps for “public enemies?” To Joe McCarthy and his libelous, personal accusations?  To the investigations of the House Un-American Activities Committee, with all the careers and lives they destroyed?

Or does he want to establish his own signature, a personal, “get even” milieu--to inflict on America his distinctive brand of hate, ignorance, and revenge?   

Think about it: Trump isn’t “just another bad man.”  With the millions of followers he’s generated among Americans, he’s a force to take seriously. Meaning he’s downright dangerous.

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For more about those days: My memoir, The Tail on my Mother’s Kite, evokes an era viewed with an equal sense of abandonment, perplexity, and excitement, overlaid by a child’s determination to become a writer. 

A WHOLE COUNTRY GONE MAD

A WHOLE COUNTRY GONE MAD

It’s terrifying, really. 

That an entire nation, including me, is paying rapt attention to the rantings of a carnival barker. 

I admit it, I’m as bad as anyone. I see Trump’s picture, Trump’s name, on the TV or in the newspapers, and I’m instantly alert and immediately reading or watching . . . because he’s so outrageous he’s mesmerizing. What shocking thing will he do next? How has he managed to “out reality” reality TV?   (Which has never been visible in this household. Until now.) 

I’ve practically memorized the man’s evil mouthings: the reporter insulted to his face—in front of other reporters, called “a sleaze”.  The judge, born in Indiana, who happens to be mediating the Trump University lawsuits. Reflexively, our man called him “A Mexican,” as though that was the worst epithet you could drop on anyone.

The outrage goes on, day after day, and scariest of all, a huge chunk of the country takes him seriously, as though he’s actually qualified to be president.  And here comes the part most of us will never understand. What act of his, what statement, what viewpoint emerges from his rants that makes anyone picture him for one minute delivering a State of the Union to Congress, negotiating with world leaders, or holding a thoughtful press conference at a podium outside the White House?   

Honestly, folks, this emperor has no clothes.

I hold myself partly to blame. Unlike Rob, who’s so fed up with the whole process he no longer wants to discuss it, I’m still fixated by the spectacle.  Since when have any of us seen someone like Trump running for the highest office in the land? Maybe in the world? Since when have we viewed such a carnival . . . a series of podiums dominated by what is essentially a naked man?

So what good has come from the huge majority of us—the skeptics? I can think of only two things: more avidly than ever we’ve watched The National News. And we’ve bought a lot of newspapers.