tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31297216499265087952024-03-05T07:18:31.226-08:00Sakki Selznick.comSakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-68492846572421243242021-07-09T19:16:00.000-07:002021-07-09T19:16:21.662-07:00Enid Bagnold and the Origins of National Velvet; How Close is Too Close For a Writer--Part Two. <h2 class="date-header" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">Saturday, March 19, 2016</h2><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a name="7067719078430422722"></a></span><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 20px 0px 0px; position: relative;">National Velvet, Enid Bagnold and the Butchers of Rottingdean--How Close Is Too Close When You're Writing From Life</h3><div class="post-header" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHkr2CWS5wwirvcW9Y10UCwKf3BWj2kx5daI7Hctmfz6-CJZ0MeRPUdV5gSDRCNdez6K4pDbqVS1Lc4FwDulTkfzitLAju3kBUOiZ-0SEKutvVMjfYWhJsaie7aBBx3z26JOR_9jbVTvr/s1600/National+Velvet+first+edition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHkr2CWS5wwirvcW9Y10UCwKf3BWj2kx5daI7Hctmfz6-CJZ0MeRPUdV5gSDRCNdez6K4pDbqVS1Lc4FwDulTkfzitLAju3kBUOiZ-0SEKutvVMjfYWhJsaie7aBBx3z26JOR_9jbVTvr/s640/National+Velvet+first+edition.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="497" /></span></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nobody grownup seems to read National Velvet. Take my word for it. This is not a children's book. It's a fairy tale, yes, but it's also a brilliant and deeply observed book about a very real family: that of Araminty and her husband, Mr. Brown (the parents call one another Mr. and Mrs. Brown even in moments of great tenderness) and their five children. The three older girls are, "Like golden greyhounds," Velvet, at fourteen, is described as "a sapling Dante," while their four-year-old son, Donald, carts around his "spit bottle," and worries about "Stinking ants." </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">The family also includes their dogs--the nameless "black barking dog on a string," that nobody in the house hears anymore, and who occasionally lunging himself senseless; the three yard spaniels, thin and golden like the three older daughters, leaning against the "groaning" door, longing to get in; and Jacob, the fox terrier, growing stout in middle age, obsequious and fawning, and who trots from person to person at the table. "The Browns loved Jacob as they loved each other, deeply, from the back of the soul, with intolerance in daily life." </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">And then there's Mi, the son of the only man who knows what Araminty is really made of, "embedded in fat, her keen, hooded eyes hardly lifting the rolls above them." For Araminty once swam the channel and Mi's father was the man who trained her to do so. </span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN99p5t9zCQUjSDLFZ8VwBaFXg9CmK-XNi2lkuQcPSALkcR92Isua-EeSw6umUFisnoNNJHJJsBKKL-e5Fqzzv2NbsRzuW_ox4vKK032m8eQBa1qTNphia1shbFQNEQHrLVTDlMw9_QGyB/s1600/enid+bagnold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><br /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Father is the butcher, with a shop and slaughterhouse (the latter sharing a wall with the house.) Mother does the books and cooks the remnants left over when the fancy meat is sold. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">And here's where we get into the "How close is too close?"</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN99p5t9zCQUjSDLFZ8VwBaFXg9CmK-XNi2lkuQcPSALkcR92Isua-EeSw6umUFisnoNNJHJJsBKKL-e5Fqzzv2NbsRzuW_ox4vKK032m8eQBa1qTNphia1shbFQNEQHrLVTDlMw9_QGyB/s400/enid+bagnold.jpg" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; position: relative;" width="361" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enid Bagnold. </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN99p5t9zCQUjSDLFZ8VwBaFXg9CmK-XNi2lkuQcPSALkcR92Isua-EeSw6umUFisnoNNJHJJsBKKL-e5Fqzzv2NbsRzuW_ox4vKK032m8eQBa1qTNphia1shbFQNEQHrLVTDlMw9_QGyB/s1600/enid+bagnold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); clear: left; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); float: left; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 4px; position: relative;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.399999618530273px; text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="color: white;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">According to Michael Thornton, the film and theatrical reviewer who was befriended by Bagnold when he was seven and she in her fifties, </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.4em; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">National Velvet's publication in 1937, "created an uproar in Rottingdean. The village butchers, the Hilders, contended that they were cruelly caricatured as the Brown family in the novel. Their daughter Winnie and her three siblings had clearly served as models for the characters of the heroine, Velvet Brown, and her sisters. Everyone in Rottingdean knew that the family’s matriarch, Mrs Hilder, had been an exceptional swimmer in her day. She was incensed to find herself portrayed as Mrs Brown, who she saw as a bossy, over-large matron rather than the powerful woman Bagnold wrote. </span></span></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>To add insult to injury, Enid did not even buy her meat from them, but got her joints at Sainsbury’s in Brighton. The Hollywood film nine years later, which elevated Elizabeth Taylor to stardom, made Enid’s success international and the Hilders even more resentful.</span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">I adore the Browns, especially Araminty. She "cooked admirably, ran the accounts, watched the shop, looked after the till, spoke seldom, interfered hardly ever, sighed sometimes, (because it would have taken a war on her home soil, the birth of a colony, or a great cataclysm to have dug from her what she was born for,) moved about the house, brought up her four taut daughters under her </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">heavy eye and thought about death occasionally with a kind of sardonic shrug. Ed(wina) Malvina and Meredith behaved themselves at the wink of one of her heavy eyes. Velvet would have laid down her stringy life for her." </span><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); float: right; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFX8gWoOEdFiwyeeHRAbv8apmpHgO2NB6ii2658R5ibJZg_g1wqexSXjjgsH65FbTRHR_kSIjNOMnHDPSVe9-wWPEh4hWWcR62-MvS588OlOwXCuPmJPcQDpCWvAJnHjLzNFKnPpRcAshG/s1600/Unknown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: white;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFX8gWoOEdFiwyeeHRAbv8apmpHgO2NB6ii2658R5ibJZg_g1wqexSXjjgsH65FbTRHR_kSIjNOMnHDPSVe9-wWPEh4hWWcR62-MvS588OlOwXCuPmJPcQDpCWvAJnHjLzNFKnPpRcAshG/s320/Unknown.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="226" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.399999618530273px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">Enid Bagnold in WWI</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: white;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">I would, too. </span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">And yes, Mrs. Hilders hated the way she was presented. Should Enid Bagnold have changed the family, made them unrecognizable? The girls in the novel are Edwina, Malvolia and Meredith. In real life, the girls, born in 1897, 1899 and 1900, were (I believe) named Winnie, Minnie and Matilda. </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Should Enid have turned these the three older daughters, "all alike, like golden greyhounds," into three boys, thus losing the dynamic of four girls in a row, not to mention, "their golden hair was sleek, their fine faces like antelopes, their shoulders still and steady, like Zulu women carrying water, and their bodies beneath the shoulders rippling when they moved." Personally, I'd be hard put to say she should have. </span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187);">Bagnold married Sir Roderick Jones, the head of Reuters, and a wealthy man. They had four children and a large household with several servants to manage, or try to manage. Mi Taylor is likely based on McHardy, a former jockey with a mysterious past, who taught the four youngsters to ride. </span></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Bagnold's</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"> daughter, now "Laurian, Countess of Harcourt," was the horse mad girl who inspired the novel and who also provided the line drawings of horses that illustrate the original book. “I was able to practise my riding so much because I had a governess and a lot of time.’’ And because she had</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"> McHardy. </span></span></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span style="color: white;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7067719078430422722" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187);">McHardy slept, by choice, in a loose box and, according to Bagnold, reinvented the Joneses as a “horsebox family”, so they toured gymkhanas countrywide. Bagnold once claimed that for the 10 years McHardy was with the family he was “more important than a governess: more important than a mother”. It was his racing background that informed the book’s narrative. (His character, Mi Taylor, was played by Mickey Rooney in the film, with no </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187);">attempt</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187);"> at an accent. At least McHardy never seems to have objected to his character, in either novel or film. </span></span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">fouhttp://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/may/31/biography.theatre</span><br /></span><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); color: #bbbbbb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">http://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/apr/06/national-velvet-enid-bagnold-rereading</span></div></div></div></div>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-13699818470432110122021-07-09T18:55:00.003-07:002021-07-09T18:55:30.295-07:00Reposting from obsolete blog. How Close Is Too Close In Writing. Part One. <p> Welp, I can't get into an old blog, so I'm going to repost what I liked best: </p><h2 class="date-header" style="color: #bbbbbb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">Thursday, March 10, 2016</h2><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer" style="caret-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); color: #bbbbbb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><a name="3177374581977980915"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="margin: 20px 0px 0px; position: relative;">How Close Is Too Close In Writing? Haven Kimmel</h3><div class="post-header" style="line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-3177374581977980915" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 540px;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4zo3FCtOfw1hGSCX3mhW6j59StnYzMK1WhdbM-TJC2SHYkO6dcRhQXA5xCZdMde3pxypJ01KZq-22BYkZGHHLtMrqOvInXwLctvLOpZORwKmL_V3Uyl04LXZHdq10XZ-0SluXdmugdqs/s1600/zippy3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #b87209; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4zo3FCtOfw1hGSCX3mhW6j59StnYzMK1WhdbM-TJC2SHYkO6dcRhQXA5xCZdMde3pxypJ01KZq-22BYkZGHHLtMrqOvInXwLctvLOpZORwKmL_V3Uyl04LXZHdq10XZ-0SluXdmugdqs/s400/zippy3.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="252" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">When novelist and poet, Haven Kimmel wrote her first memoir, <i>A Girl Named Zippy</i>, the granddaughters of her ex-third grade teacher, were not happy. Perhaps it was because she referred to their still-living grandmother as "the meanest woman in the history of Mooreland Elementary School.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYsjkPL4zb9Unn1gjD67QU6lNBt7t6dkjjGXRP7g4mPoUsqQOeJ3bVzGaPs8p-_6-NqUBE2x12zBwNwzmP9sFqTydfJr91DmBrz2NkIRg7ns4nU-L4PjA3Dsj-dkspkj1ocsF50phpP7L/s1600/Mooreland_School-495x315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #b87209; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYsjkPL4zb9Unn1gjD67QU6lNBt7t6dkjjGXRP7g4mPoUsqQOeJ3bVzGaPs8p-_6-NqUBE2x12zBwNwzmP9sFqTydfJr91DmBrz2NkIRg7ns4nU-L4PjA3Dsj-dkspkj1ocsF50phpP7L/s640/Mooreland_School-495x315.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">At any rate, they sued. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Kimmel, undaunted, collected depositions from 50 other former third-graders, who, it seems, agreed with the description. She faxed these to Doubleday, who sent them on to the granddaughters.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">They dropped the suit. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Good thing the</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> crazy neighbor who wore the same dress 23 days in a row and "clacked her false teeth together like a castanet," had already died. No surviving relatives took offense. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="line-height: 1.6; margin: 0.5em 0px;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 1em;">Posted by <span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="g-profile" data-gapiattached="true" data-gapiscan="true" data-onload="true" href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799" rel="author" style="color: #b87209; text-decoration: none;" title="author profile"><span itemprop="name">Sakki Selznick</span> </a></span></span><span class="post-timestamp" style="margin-left: -1em; margin-right: 1em;">at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://sakkiselznick123.blogspot.com/2016/03/how-close-is-too-close-in-writing-haven.html" rel="bookmark" style="color: #b87209; text-decoration: none;" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" style="border: none;" title="2016-03-10T14:52:00-08:00">2:52 PM</abbr></a> </span><span class="post-comment-link" style="margin-right: 1em;"></span><span class="post-icons" style="margin-right: 1em;"></span><div class="post-share-buttons goog-inline-block" style="display: inline-block; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; position: relative; vertical-align: middle;"><a class="goog-inline-block share-button sb-email" href="https://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3129721649926508795&postID=3177374581977980915&target=email" style="background-image: url("https://www.blogger.com/img/share_buttons_20_3.png") !important; background-position: 0px 0px !important; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat !important; color: #b87209; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: -1px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 20px;" target="_blank" title="Email This"><span class="share-button-link-text" style="display: block; text-indent: -9999px;">Email This</span></a><a class="goog-inline-block share-button sb-blog" href="https://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3129721649926508795&postID=3177374581977980915&target=blog" style="background-image: url("https://www.blogger.com/img/share_buttons_20_3.png") !important; background-position: -20px 0px !important; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat !important; color: #b87209; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: -1px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 20px;" target="_blank" title="BlogThis!"><span class="share-button-link-text" style="display: block; text-indent: -9999px;">BlogThis!</span></a><a class="goog-inline-block share-button sb-twitter" href="https://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3129721649926508795&postID=3177374581977980915&target=twitter" style="background-image: url("https://www.blogger.com/img/share_buttons_20_3.png") !important; background-position: -40px 0px !important; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat !important; color: #b87209; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: -1px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 20px;" target="_blank" title="Share to Twitter"><span class="share-button-link-text" style="display: block; text-indent: -9999px;">Share to Twitter</span></a><a class="goog-inline-block share-button sb-facebook" href="https://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3129721649926508795&postID=3177374581977980915&target=facebook" style="background-image: url("https://www.blogger.com/img/share_buttons_20_3.png") !important; background-position: -60px 0px !important; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat !important; color: #b87209; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: -1px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 20px;" target="_blank" title="Share to Facebook"><span class="share-button-link-text" style="display: block; text-indent: -9999px;">Share to Facebook</span></a><a class="goog-inline-block share-button sb-pinterest" href="https://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3129721649926508795&postID=3177374581977980915&target=pinterest" style="background-image: url("https://www.blogger.com/img/share_buttons_20_3.png") !important; background-position: -100px 0px !important; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat !important; color: #b87209; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: -1px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 20px;" target="_blank" title="Share to Pinterest"><span class="share-button-link-text" style="display: block; text-indent: -9999px;">Share to Pinterest</span></a></div></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;">Labels: <a href="http://sakkiselznick123.blogspot.com/search/label/Haven%20Kimmel.%20A%20Girl%20Called%20Zippy.%20Mooreland" rel="tag" style="color: #b87209; text-decoration: none;">Haven Kimmel. A Girl Called Zippy. Mooreland</a>, <a href="http://sakkiselznick123.blogspot.com/search/label/Indiana.%20Lawsuits%20against%20authors.%20How%20Close%20Is%20Too%20Close%20in%20Writing%3F%20Sakki%20Selznick" rel="tag" style="color: #b87209; text-decoration: none;">Indiana. Lawsuits against authors. How Close Is Too Close in Writing? Sakki Selznick</a></span></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-3"><span class="post-location" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;"></span></div></div></div><div class="comments" id="comments" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: url("http://blogblog.com/1kt/travel/bg_black_50.png"); background-position: center top; background-repeat: repeat repeat; clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 10px; min-height: 0px; padding: 15px; position: relative;"><a name="comments" style="color: white;"></a></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div><p><br /></p>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-72338968580366323092019-04-04T22:03:00.000-07:002019-04-04T22:03:29.255-07:00Presidents, Strokes, Wishful Thinking, and the movie "Dave." With the U.S. President slurring words, calling origins "oranges," and looking more and more like someone who continues to have a series of small ischemia or mini-strokes, I felt profoundly sad. Clearly, there is no one--no Republican, no one in power--willing to state the truth about the clear deterioration of Donald Trump's physical and mental health. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That led us to "Dave," a film where the president has a stroke and evil counselors replace him with a look-alike lightweight. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<img class="detail__media__img-thumbnail js-detail-img js-detail-img-thumb" src="https://proxy.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.qqLfHzCISkOUPjExJ5hsywAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1" style="height: 475px; width: 351px;" /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But since this is a fairytale, that lightweight, played by Kevin Kline, grows in gravitas, gaining allies through sheer kindness, while reminding his staff that the president works for the people, and should care far more about their needs than his/her own. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And yet, we weren't really able to escape into this charming film, written by David Ross and directed by Ivan Reitman, this Frank Capra vision of ethical people facing down villains, while inspiring others to regain their lost ethics. The shadow of our nation's current politics stretched over the fantasy movie. If only. . .</div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-55009506609275207532018-09-09T13:10:00.000-07:002018-09-09T13:10:38.359-07:00Empty Nesting, Mallard-style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYJcQxjblukNLX57cOlqrVozGtfkU_QIX8vBAxq-_1MrwwOaTY3mHI8DLwQklaMTa-ZkXRRfqboYcsoS5Mz-Y8-xT-odKystSTDaLsYXg1syjbvkj2ZHPnFj7znKrC0qsmrRWbwns70IQ/s1600/lonely+female+duck.image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="1200" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYJcQxjblukNLX57cOlqrVozGtfkU_QIX8vBAxq-_1MrwwOaTY3mHI8DLwQklaMTa-ZkXRRfqboYcsoS5Mz-Y8-xT-odKystSTDaLsYXg1syjbvkj2ZHPnFj7znKrC0qsmrRWbwns70IQ/s320/lonely+female+duck.image.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBrN2x-_UJNkTLNKNGkAwlmfpzEfqD6GxtB0skjkdN6a86-TSkzMMfJOeSQR_07D6MkDR6EDpvjq7sKIqamLRw-P-J8qitxY2SlUNkeuvhmgBjYhtBkzv3XM9jtMDHb336-YLvEoz5Xe86/s1600/single+duck+empty+nest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBrN2x-_UJNkTLNKNGkAwlmfpzEfqD6GxtB0skjkdN6a86-TSkzMMfJOeSQR_07D6MkDR6EDpvjq7sKIqamLRw-P-J8qitxY2SlUNkeuvhmgBjYhtBkzv3XM9jtMDHb336-YLvEoz5Xe86/s320/single+duck+empty+nest.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">It's early autumn, the days growing shorter, the nights cooler. School has started for everyone. I stopped my bike ride around the lake to watch this lonely female, brooding. Clearly, she has Empty Nest syndrome. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-59318376466186883872018-08-07T07:34:00.001-07:002018-08-07T08:05:16.461-07:00After the verdict, Officer Geronimo Yanez. <blockquote cite="" class="cite" type="cite">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><i>I wrote this blog post a year ago. I'm not certain why I didn't post it. It's late, but I'm going to post it today. </i></span></span></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote cite="" class="cite" type="cite">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Yesterday morning, I had to tackle a complex cat box problem involving a dog, a closed litter box, coats and scrubbing the front hall floor on my hands and knees. It haven't been able to watch the video yet, the video where Philando is shot within four seconds of the interaction beginning.</span></span>I have the luxury of not watching it happen, of refusing to witness, of sweeping up kitty litter and wiping the floor. Diamond Reynolds doesn't. She must see it happening again and again. Her little girl doesn't. she must wake from nightmares of seeing that "pretty good guy who cared about us" get bullets in the heart, because somebody was terrified of his skin. </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">I put it off as long as I could. I folded laundry and watched a sit com. I took the kids swimming. I made mashed potatoes from scratch. Finally, though, I sat down and watched the video </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Diamond Reynolds sits handcuffed in the back of the car, stunned, wailing, numb, horrified, while her little daughter tries to comfort her--and keep her calm, "so you won't get shotted, too." </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I made grilled cheese sandwiches. I swept the kitchen floor. I pickled some watermelon rind--an experiment with a recipe from 1870. Then, </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">I watched, very tiny on my phone, a small section of Diamond Reynolds being questioned by police--the part where they told her that her boyfriend, Philando Castile was dead, the part where she wailed, that hoarse, painful wail with all its overtones, the one you make when everything is lost, when you have nothing, when you feel once again a helpless child--like the helpless child her daughter was in the police car. I quickly hit the side button that switched my phone to darkness. </span></span><br />
<blockquote cite="" class="cite" type="cite">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">In the afternoon, I heard the interview on NPR--the one where the juror </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">explains how they reached their not-guilty decision. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I was slicing apples for the kids, a steady chop, chop chop. "We took the emotion of out it," the juror said, before explaining that once they deadlocked, once that judge sent them back, they figured he wouldn't let them go before they reached an agreement.</span></span> </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So they found the officer not guilty. They didn't want to be stuck in the deliberating room for any more days. </span><br />
<blockquote cite="" class="cite" type="cite">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">The juror said, "Well, he seemed like a pretty honest guy." </span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Wait," said the interviewer, startled. "You mean Philando Castile?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No." The white juror's flat Midwestern accent sounded ordinary and calm. "The officer."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">He meant Jeronimo Yanez, the police officer with the puffy, young face, the one who changed his story from "I couldn't see it" (the gun) to "He was pulling it out," to "He had a c-grip." The officer who cried during his testimony, saying he feared for his life. The officer who, he testified, thought he had to shoot Philando because there was "second-hand smoke" in the car, and if Phil would smoke around a child, he was dangerous. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">But the juror's take from all that confusion, from watching the video of Yanez panic, tell Philando contradictory things and kill him within seven seconds of the mention of Phil's concealed carry, was that Yanez "seemed a pretty honest guy." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">My child came in and turned off the radio. I kept slicing apples, and sobbing. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I had the luxury of sobbing in the kitchen over apple slices. My child could come in and turn off the radio mid-interview. My kids didn't see their dad shot because of the color of his skin. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> My husband doesn't have to worry, as the father of the adorable baby we met at a protest does, "Now that I have a baby, it's not safe for me to drive anymore. I can't afford to have a cop shoot me because of a broken tail light." We are white, and in this country, we are (mostly) safe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A reporter that I much admire wrote today, "I can't take all this depressing news. I'm only looking at images of cute cats and adorable puppies." I can relate. I'm certain that during WWII, many in Poland, in France, in Germany turned their backs on the news and decided to look, instead, at cute cats and adorable puppies. Jews didn't have that luxury there. People of color don't have it here. Why should the rest of us?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">We have to watch the dash cam. We have to turn the radio back on. And more--we have to leave our comfort zone, let the anger when we hear the phrase "All white people" roll off our backs. We have to remind ourselves there's abundant reasons for it. We have to stay in the room. We have to hit the protests, join the organizations, we have to make absolutely certain that every family, brown or white, has the luxury of driving their cars, slicing their apples, folding their laundry, without fearing that one phone call or one broken tail light or one bad interaction with a police officer will leave us--or someone we love--dead. </span></span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-51398577053915889252018-03-06T08:58:00.000-08:002018-08-07T07:26:30.192-07:00Christian Martyrs? <div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="8p8kr-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8p8kr-0-0" style="color: #1d2129; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8p8kr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx5DDu1m3j1FatRLTtWQ1VJ956fKyDhrvaBUZ5zTAJMo-1XTAHEgLwvtJ0WgmAtkG9PeH2XrZcaZg8vQAZG0AgyafFFcIf8hePRusG3jXTvuYvAsgoJUeLPBbOBrICDRoVsuzviI9I4Qz/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-03-06+at+10.45.53+AM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx5DDu1m3j1FatRLTtWQ1VJ956fKyDhrvaBUZ5zTAJMo-1XTAHEgLwvtJ0WgmAtkG9PeH2XrZcaZg8vQAZG0AgyafFFcIf8hePRusG3jXTvuYvAsgoJUeLPBbOBrICDRoVsuzviI9I4Qz/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-03-06+at+10.45.53+AM.png" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8p8kr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8p8kr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>About forteen years ago, a white, Middle-class woman told me that whites were on the run and Christians were terribly persecuted. We were both in the gym at a nice hotel in the major city of our state--I, visiting for a family celebration, she for a football game and to see her son off to the military. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="fg5cm-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="8gpf9-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8gpf9-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8gpf9-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"Christians in this country, we're all being persecuted," she said as we plodded away on the stair master. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="37b4p-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="epcde-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="epcde-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="epcde-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I listened, my face carefully wide-eyed. "Wow. That's terrible. What was it like? You were refused a job because of your religion? Or forced out because you're Christian?"</b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="fb11f-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="10d6t-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="10d6t-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="10d6t-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"Oh, no," she said. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="b817s-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="5be8g-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5be8g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5be8g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I tried again. "Then--somebody wouldn't rent you an apartment? Or sell you a house?" </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="apstb-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="9b4av-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9b4av-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9b4av-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"No, no no," she said. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="cenii-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="577ej-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="577ej-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="577ej-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I was pretty sure this wasn't the case, but. . ."Then, they called you names and threatened you?" </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="6ah12-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="e208u-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="e208u-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="e208u-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"No. Of course not," she said. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="ebv1j-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="d768h-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d768h-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="d768h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"Well then how have you been persecuted?" </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="4c0vv-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="buh4t-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="buh4t-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="buh4t-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She leaped on it, her face redder than ever, and not from the exercise. "It's these judges.. These activist judges. Telling us we can't say Merry Christmas, taking away prayer in school. It's terrible. It's a sin." </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="di1go-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="el234-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="el234-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="el234-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I took a deep breath so I could reply without audible sarcasm. "Oh. You mean they won't let you tell other people how *they* have to live?" </b></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="3jm5e-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e7d45" data-offset-key="aj9tr-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aj9tr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="aj9tr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"Yes." She was so relieved. Finally somebody understood. "Yes. Absolutely. These activist judges are persecuting us." </b></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aj9tr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="aj9tr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Just like Saint Euphemia, (above) supposedly thrown to the lions for refusing to sacrifice at the altar of Ares, this woman is being forbidden to throw others to the lions. Persecution. Right? </b></span></div>
</div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-22904364776756526782017-08-03T16:25:00.000-07:002017-08-03T16:26:46.589-07:00Trump's Negotiating Tactics Per Prime Minister Trumball Phone Call<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumvSPqkGHFGtJs3_ugddwzk7fiZDJrjfbnVu8V0mnHdYqNqhXOxrmf8ikOwxzjrY4ldxSQ-B07KElqjiw8xv1VelqfOw0binLYW4IY-_3Uc30XbHjKq8xnW_UgETZ-RRO5LRrs2PVn5kt/s1600/Trump+Trumball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumvSPqkGHFGtJs3_ugddwzk7fiZDJrjfbnVu8V0mnHdYqNqhXOxrmf8ikOwxzjrY4ldxSQ-B07KElqjiw8xv1VelqfOw0binLYW4IY-_3Uc30XbHjKq8xnW_UgETZ-RRO5LRrs2PVn5kt/s640/Trump+Trumball.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now that someone has leaked the transcript of Trump's first phone conversation with Australian Prime Minister </span><span style="font-size: large;">Malcolm </span><span style="font-size: large;">Turnbull, I thought I'd let you hear the unredacted version--see above. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-12834200872507436662017-03-18T21:09:00.001-07:002017-03-18T21:10:29.734-07:00“I’ve always heard a tax return was a sacred kind of thing,” Trump tells Jesse Watters<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmJffHyWlFgwIDQclLPGc3De5XREkADF34ZG4du17UeCI14cwJ6Eiv43FAglm_hmrndGb3MSCBpbR2dv5K0ktv6ByGPchAk2SQMib85d4FTi6-deF2STLq9tkF_jmH2P6K8SgcgYYmJi2/s1600/income+tax+form.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmJffHyWlFgwIDQclLPGc3De5XREkADF34ZG4du17UeCI14cwJ6Eiv43FAglm_hmrndGb3MSCBpbR2dv5K0ktv6ByGPchAk2SQMib85d4FTi6-deF2STLq9tkF_jmH2P6K8SgcgYYmJi2/s400/income+tax+form.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaYSWFT-XqESAfHbTP07DeXkNWZPfk-MVaRj0jGN7prTVzqy4etqyQugmvxXJjY89ALXWtL-3skPMQbg9NphBzwtxFi5kPOxd7SHAWtCjAXyh-IVJml-FihpZrm5Ob1SGzJFoMdyWuK1n/s1600/lifted+in+prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaYSWFT-XqESAfHbTP07DeXkNWZPfk-MVaRj0jGN7prTVzqy4etqyQugmvxXJjY89ALXWtL-3skPMQbg9NphBzwtxFi5kPOxd7SHAWtCjAXyh-IVJml-FihpZrm5Ob1SGzJFoMdyWuK1n/s400/lifted+in+prayer.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">The Call To Worship!</span></span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-25790054175535480762016-12-14T20:15:00.000-08:002017-05-27T14:31:47.436-07:00Sinclair Lewis' Passing Novel--Kingsblood Royal<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjAB78HLq5iHLzs0zfsYIx3CFSacywu3bo3PcRIIC2M9TuSGibZrwbsbkWrQRfAO7zwS0L20NXT61-0_BqvLi8LGvJnenyRNoaQsPdEi7b0SXiCIo1u4L3Yezja_EurcjCiM5zUF-xFh1/s1600/george_bonga.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjAB78HLq5iHLzs0zfsYIx3CFSacywu3bo3PcRIIC2M9TuSGibZrwbsbkWrQRfAO7zwS0L20NXT61-0_BqvLi8LGvJnenyRNoaQsPdEi7b0SXiCIo1u4L3Yezja_EurcjCiM5zUF-xFh1/s640/george_bonga.png" width="460" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">This is a photograph of George Bonga, a Minnesota fur trapper and one of the first African-Americans born in Minnesota. He was the grandson of two slaves brought to Mackinac by a British officer and freed there, and his mother was an Ojibwa woman.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In 1947, Sinclair Lewis published, a satirical novel that was nominally about George Bonga and much more directly about America's complicated relationship with race. The novel's hero is a very white man in a very white suburb doing research to prove that he's descended from royalty, who discovers, instead, that his ancestor was essentially George Bonga--which makes the hero of Kingsblood Royal, a man of color--at least according to the one-drop rule. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The hero is shocked by this discovery, but as he starts telling people, his world falls apart, leading him to wonder what life is really like for those poor black folk who live so separately on the wrong side of town. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_af2mcXtDjRQL_8QOnYmmenvbflnfmTbB9CkuPxJGAg1eTXZeRtL6GZbRmVy2-TRTGZIFzibYC7vY4WN1FjSLMaPHh2xEGteQ0nIt13RXni3qBT8_aY-KSEBKoeRDWk_NQEPUn2IX0qn/s1600/African_American_Women_in_the_Silent_Film_Industry_WFP-ROB021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_af2mcXtDjRQL_8QOnYmmenvbflnfmTbB9CkuPxJGAg1eTXZeRtL6GZbRmVy2-TRTGZIFzibYC7vY4WN1FjSLMaPHh2xEGteQ0nIt13RXni3qBT8_aY-KSEBKoeRDWk_NQEPUn2IX0qn/s640/African_American_Women_in_the_Silent_Film_Industry_WFP-ROB021.jpg" width="412" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The white press couldn't stand Lewis' novel. There's no way, they said that any such well-to do guy would have been so stupid as to claim his hidden heritage. The black press loved it and thought it was very astute. Paul Robeson's wife, Eslanda, said she appreciated Lewis' approach to material "from the white side," and--get this--said that she was working on a novel about somebody passing for white from the "other side of the medal." </span><span style="font-size: large;">You may not know this--I did not know this--but Paul Robeson's wife was an author, civil rights worker and anthropologist. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWPCqxzLSDjzR78VXARaQaHOppX4gy9Vg7P8JPzCCqy_KpjqEvTt7PYtUvVHQwtSJ04chmf28W8e4iYkWdEXd-GFNKSKOj0L1E0mqhGd3rXEI-kWsr4M3OFL18rOTr_nw8ocpg-5gP2rk/s1600/Kingsblood_Royal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWPCqxzLSDjzR78VXARaQaHOppX4gy9Vg7P8JPzCCqy_KpjqEvTt7PYtUvVHQwtSJ04chmf28W8e4iYkWdEXd-GFNKSKOj0L1E0mqhGd3rXEI-kWsr4M3OFL18rOTr_nw8ocpg-5gP2rk/s640/Kingsblood_Royal.jpg" width="414" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder why most of us have never heard about Kingsblood Royal, or George Bonga or his father, Pierre or his Ojibwa mother? And why the heck have we never been taught about Paul Robeson's wife, who--by the way--co-wrote a book with Pearl Buck? I also want to know how to find that manuscript of Eslanda Cardozo Robeson's the one approaching this material from the other side of the medal. Oh, how I would love to read that. </span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-73374301167470241992016-11-14T19:37:00.001-08:002017-05-28T15:22:12.274-07:00Those Who Can Say, "Give Him A Chance." <div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="a2vr7" data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQffD3va3FmT4k6NrmqdT6XxcO2l7S3I-EU9tlkL-UUH2yi0FPsIJw7yXKLhbQrS_Q1lIHFLuzJ6tjLMiRzDczyhyphenhyphenB7ejJb3NyliW2JT9wovSpEz_9nrjAC1pp8X24_wALwTcw3tSOybGl/s1600/Ida+Fink+the+journey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQffD3va3FmT4k6NrmqdT6XxcO2l7S3I-EU9tlkL-UUH2yi0FPsIJw7yXKLhbQrS_Q1lIHFLuzJ6tjLMiRzDczyhyphenhyphenB7ejJb3NyliW2JT9wovSpEz_9nrjAC1pp8X24_wALwTcw3tSOybGl/s640/Ida+Fink+the+journey.jpg" width="408" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; direction: ltr; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Ida Fink's spare and powerful novel, <i>The Journey</i>, begins on a golden, gorgeous autumn morning, the day that typically, the author and her family would harvest apples from a tree that adjoins both properties. </span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">But on this morning, the father has left his girls in hiding, watching as their neighbors harvest all the apples. They are Jewish and their neighbors are not, and it's Poland in 1939, and the Nazis have just told every Jew in town to come to the town square to be shipped off to an "internment camp." So, the sisters, terrified, listen to the screams coming from the town square, while their neighbors move the ladder and pick bushels of apples from the tree. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; direction: ltr; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="20tj0-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="a2vr7" data-offset-key="2ak9j-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2ak9j-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="2ak9j-0-0"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've been thinking about apple-picking as we enjoy these extraordinary, golden, unusually warm days of autumn and recover from the shock of the election. I keep thinking of those apples every time someone says to me, "I'm just going to trust it will be okay and enjoy this gorgeous day." Because those people, like the Ida Fink's neighbors, can do that. Not from any ill-will, not because they're evil, but because they can go on picking apples while others fear that they will be shot, or harassed or rounded up in the town square or shipped off to some unknown location, or go into hiding, their identities stripped from them as they scurry from place to place, terrified.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="2ak9j-0-0"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="2ak9j-0-0"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> After all, I'm sure that on many days, during many <i>raffles</i>, (what the Germans called the roundup of Jews,) many decent people longed to hope for the best, to enjoy the beautiful weather, to pick those apples and try to believe that it would all be all right. Maybe it will be all right. As long you're not one of the targets and you're willing to pick apples while others are targeted. </span></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-54339817165669231052016-11-10T10:51:00.003-08:002017-08-20T15:57:55.473-07:00The Allure of a Despot<span style="font-size: large;">The real fascination of a character like Henry VIII is that we all know him. We've all had a parent like him or a spouse or a boss. Someone who rules by terror, who likes to watch people hop, {who loves the freedom to grab women by the pussy} and who doesn't care whom he beheads.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIyyhWLaLoSQS-k4vZe6xrL-P_z5QAHIkHcYnVUB6NL0ykBdmj1f-KuX_M7oSF4MrSm6wK3sKXQcOqn0_6MkeNtxynHHMeWUTXpY-yVw_xOimnH1vg4Duoj6qk61xZiEcCUmfiLC0PYXk/s1600/donald+trump+Henry+VIII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #b87209; float: left; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIyyhWLaLoSQS-k4vZe6xrL-P_z5QAHIkHcYnVUB6NL0ykBdmj1f-KuX_M7oSF4MrSm6wK3sKXQcOqn0_6MkeNtxynHHMeWUTXpY-yVw_xOimnH1vg4Duoj6qk61xZiEcCUmfiLC0PYXk/s640/donald+trump+Henry+VIII.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The parallels reflect more than a liking for sumptuous decor and the habit of multiple wives. Like Henry VIII, Trump was raised with an abusive father who coupled rage, emotional neglect, and velvet gloves. Like Henry, Trump was the younger son, his older brother supposed to be the heir. As</span><span style="font-size: large;"> the darling of his father's empire, Henry VIII had a whipping boy, someone who was punished in his place whenever he misbehaved. Trump had a teacher who he punched in the face when he was only twelve--with no real consequences afterwards. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Like Henry VII, Trump's father was a man so crooked it was probably hard for him to walk straight and he passed onto his son an empire where his word was law. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Roy Cohn was Trump's Cardinal Wolsey, a man behind the scenes who turned the scion of an empire into a unrepentantly immoral fighting bastard. With Cohn as his teacher, Trump, like Henry VIII, learned that it was perfectly acceptable to cheat the commoners who work for him, rage at them, cut their pay or stiff them completely--with everything based on a whim. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I have always thought that watching the Tudors was a lot more fun than living among them must have been. And it wasn't just people at court whose heads rolled. Millions of commoners had their lives uprooted, destroyed or brutally ended simply because Henry wanted to divorce his wife and couldn't do it, and nobody--but nobody--could say no to the man. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, with a Republican Congress and Senate willing to ignore all evidence of wrong-doing, and a Conservative Republican Supreme Court, Donald Trump is set to rule our Land. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">May God Save America. </span><br />
<span style="color: #bbbbbb; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "trebuchet" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-47154006947084594012016-11-09T09:49:00.000-08:002016-11-09T09:49:11.413-08:00Wisdom of the Father's, transformed to include the Mothers. <span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">In a time of great stress, we sometimes turn to older wisdom. So, I give you this, from a book of Jewish wisdom called the Pirkei Avot, (Words of the Fathers) modified slightly to make it words of the Mothers, too:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;">“In a place where no one is human, one should strive to be human.” – Pirkei Avot 2:5</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;">And this: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rabbi Tarfon . . . </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">used to say: It is not your responsibility to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjxDfAvgYUmx7M6puiZbrRMqk4WbcaagX2eG7-08hBMaWpHnZUoLAPhqQDiwnW26RODGUhCL8XPL9O1KmS1Zw0mBdeqSgDc58EouFWF4txf1pmooZ8EdNFrgCBhGYxcNCZtdN-EsEzPQz/s1600/not+free+to+desist+from+it.+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><img border="0" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjxDfAvgYUmx7M6puiZbrRMqk4WbcaagX2eG7-08hBMaWpHnZUoLAPhqQDiwnW26RODGUhCL8XPL9O1KmS1Zw0mBdeqSgDc58EouFWF4txf1pmooZ8EdNFrgCBhGYxcNCZtdN-EsEzPQz/s640/not+free+to+desist+from+it.+.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="background-color: #e9e9e7; color: #333333; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Georgia, serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">(My apologies--I cannot find the artist to credit for this image.) </span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-14981492151644193772016-11-09T09:31:00.000-08:002016-11-09T09:31:48.561-08:00John Steinbeck pegged it, back in 1952<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="81tah" data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBUpRpigs1eLeylYyWFyApHxNgdVo7qDkg5K1SAMnflyCQH0nxFNOsy2apwZrMP1JYc31Up-arVj-RqztVICGK1Vvh_p85HFfnv0QtNll8YRTQ49KZlvfFCzzxRFuMyVAX2Oh_DwOCoiL/s1600/John+Steinbeck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBUpRpigs1eLeylYyWFyApHxNgdVo7qDkg5K1SAMnflyCQH0nxFNOsy2apwZrMP1JYc31Up-arVj-RqztVICGK1Vvh_p85HFfnv0QtNll8YRTQ49KZlvfFCzzxRFuMyVAX2Oh_DwOCoiL/s320/John+Steinbeck.jpg" width="320" /></a><span data-offset-key="env3b-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">John Steinbeck pegged it, back in, in <i>East of Eden </i>(1952)--discussing America's need for demagogues. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="81tah" data-offset-key="7duuk-0-0" style="font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7duuk-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7duuk-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="81tah" data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: normal; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It is argued that because they {Americans} believed thoroughly in a just, moral God they could put their faith there and let the smaller insecurities take care of themselves. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dia8g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I think that because they trusted themselves and respected themselves as individuals, because they knew beyond doubt that they were valuable and potentially moral units -- because of this they could give God their own courage and dignity and then receive it back. Such things have disappeared perhaps because men do not trust themselves anymore, and when that happens there is nothing left except perhaps to find some strong sure man, even though he may be wrong, and to dangle from his coattails.”</span></span></div>
</div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-7302836912335440842016-11-08T16:22:00.000-08:002016-11-08T16:22:04.992-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhb-Uda12Cc6cFqsmu3f3bLgNCn-VGl9_t4djd9h_t2rLdBz6b-LWerl-ZQTv0wqhVcW4hf8qPLh8uNu4SlyOvcVk6l6LeZ_2rGbi_LoYpqqqj50_KTnMWf5OswFp0P0oYExLKsR19M_v/s1600/Cindy+McCain+white+pantsuit.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhb-Uda12Cc6cFqsmu3f3bLgNCn-VGl9_t4djd9h_t2rLdBz6b-LWerl-ZQTv0wqhVcW4hf8qPLh8uNu4SlyOvcVk6l6LeZ_2rGbi_LoYpqqqj50_KTnMWf5OswFp0P0oYExLKsR19M_v/s640/Cindy+McCain+white+pantsuit.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Anybody notice that Cindy McCain was wearing a pantsuit when she voted? A white pantsuit, no less? Is this a secret signal about how she planned to vote? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps she feared that her husband, too, would be trying to control her vote. . .<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXpAp3oKgNELkWwvLZuOomG4GV8WQDDsoAywhMG7F4xI7GJ1hKcQdhCJAlMzyKw26BHxrLDa5PxJ2_PyVlbojZMGHIl9ZOHUa_4Gi0IxUtkyNi5GL2t8OdpOEMZcj6ukaxrf5LrCUKYrS/s1600/Trump+peers+over+Melania%2527s+ballot.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXpAp3oKgNELkWwvLZuOomG4GV8WQDDsoAywhMG7F4xI7GJ1hKcQdhCJAlMzyKw26BHxrLDa5PxJ2_PyVlbojZMGHIl9ZOHUa_4Gi0IxUtkyNi5GL2t8OdpOEMZcj6ukaxrf5LrCUKYrS/s640/Trump+peers+over+Melania%2527s+ballot.jpg" width="640" /></a></span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-6406987293851845972016-09-29T09:39:00.000-07:002016-09-29T09:39:45.214-07:00My Child Should Run for President<span style="font-size: large;">My oldest child should run for president--the kid knows the names of more foreign heads of state than one of our current candidates. My kid even knows the name of the guy currently bombing the crap out of the children of--what's the name of that joint in Syria again?--Help me out here, I'm having an Aleppo moment. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTOFvrMPjJFg7mFUba21GQas_TScEfnFamdZwvHZO1kf8nJFEOBxO1s8_fi6lfuD9r7vNCSlV7aLSwFkmAxrflnxEVImmbFmsM8CHvzwZjcIvxRNK1bflIzloNSBbxME1AgejdtMkEVzj/s1600/Gary-Johnson-asks-What-is-Aleppo-in-an-Interview-on-MSNBC-520x245.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTOFvrMPjJFg7mFUba21GQas_TScEfnFamdZwvHZO1kf8nJFEOBxO1s8_fi6lfuD9r7vNCSlV7aLSwFkmAxrflnxEVImmbFmsM8CHvzwZjcIvxRNK1bflIzloNSBbxME1AgejdtMkEVzj/s640/Gary-Johnson-asks-What-is-Aleppo-in-an-Interview-on-MSNBC-520x245.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Johnson's VIP was finally able to haul up a name. But since he couldn't remember Merkle's first name (Angela, with a lovely hard g) Johnson could have been referring to silent film star Una, or to Ursula Merkle, the musical Bye Bye Birdie's</span><span style="font-size: large;"> hyperactive best friend of Kim, the teenaged second lead. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On the other hand, Donald knows the name of at least one--Benyamin "Bibi" Netanyahu, though Donald thinks he's "not a happy camper." And he used to know the name of the Mexican president, because he met with the guy. Probably, though, knowing the Donald, he's forgotten the name Enrique Pena Nieto already, but we're all sure Donald could tell us all about some beautiful--truly amazing-- property he owns there. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">For those of you who, unlike two of our presidential candidates. who would like to learn more about heads of state, here's a lovely article: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2016/09/ranked-admirable-world-leaders-that-gary-johnson-forgot/502208/</span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-83129631177157681832016-09-27T08:58:00.001-07:002021-07-09T18:33:59.220-07:00The Romance of Food Poisoning<span style="font-size: large;">So, I woke up in the middle of the night tortured by gut pains like Alien was trying to bust out. No position could improve the pain. I had to get up, and wait it out for a couple of hours--let's not get explicit here, but they were not fun. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkY-piur3E4lmT99l3FGgLIhuBxMBYyzFJoXQzbsodnZY144mmte3lcYFdjSjuLttOUG-KrHpDgP2eSE-MVwHxZqK0zYJ35B_OQtROUda-VFS5M0_0pI2L7tCW-HTlqFpwocI6oKxh_9FI/s1600/alien+busting+out.jpg"><img border="0" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkY-piur3E4lmT99l3FGgLIhuBxMBYyzFJoXQzbsodnZY144mmte3lcYFdjSjuLttOUG-KrHpDgP2eSE-MVwHxZqK0zYJ35B_OQtROUda-VFS5M0_0pI2L7tCW-HTlqFpwocI6oKxh_9FI/s640/alien+busting+out.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I ran a hot bath, hoping that would help me relax and survive the gut explosions, and it did for a bit, until I had to lurch out and throw up. (Let's get explicit here.) </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyOkHYOJMTnL97l2uh-YzJGUtE8OKsXcj-h5T4bdyuidRnXjS7WOLOBeH4_FMfDMkLVSl-Z7F_k3eAFcK-mXZqBdKLCiT5NZGdBv59zgEIiifKat04qySkxO_HXhyphenhyphen_PueX1NGNGDGKzCK/s1600/Henry5.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyOkHYOJMTnL97l2uh-YzJGUtE8OKsXcj-h5T4bdyuidRnXjS7WOLOBeH4_FMfDMkLVSl-Z7F_k3eAFcK-mXZqBdKLCiT5NZGdBv59zgEIiifKat04qySkxO_HXhyphenhyphen_PueX1NGNGDGKzCK/s400/Henry5.jpg" width="285" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Not only my throat, but the insides of my nostrils burned from stomach acid and I was pretty sure this was food poisoning and not a stomach flu. I didn't want to wake the kids. I grabbed a chair so I could be more comfortable--if that's at all possible. I hate throwing up. (As if someone could love it?) I get all shaky, cold and hot at the same time. Maybe King Henry V felt like this while he lay dying of dysentery on the battle field he loved so well. I just wanted to lay my head on the cool, floor, in our house, perpetually covered with dog hair. (Gotta love Hank Cinq's haircut--I think it's coming back in style.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, I staggered up the hall and woke my poor husband, who is recovering from a cold and needs his sleep. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Hubby stayed with me while I moaned and urped and released poison from various orifices. I said, "Tell me a story about when you were little." He started to trot out all the ones I know. "No, about school. Tell me a story about when you were little in school." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He was leaning against the counter. He thought a minute and then told me, "When I was four, there was a boy, he was bigger than me. I remember that. And I kicked him in the stomach. I got in big trouble. I had to write the proverbial lines on the board." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Wow," I said. "You could write when you were four?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Wait. My papa was already in the states," he said. "So I was five. No, six. He was in the West. Yes, I was six. I was scared about my Oncle Maurice. I remember my Tante Marcelle making faces behind his back so that I wouldn't be scared."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You were scared of Oncle Maurice?" In the stories, he's a kind man who makes people do the right thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Well, Marcel was the easy-going one." (Yes, there's an aunt Marcelle and an Oncle Marcel--the names sound the same, and I <i>think</i> they were married to one another, which means even they must have spent their lives confused. But maybe not. Maybe Marcelle married Maurice, so confusion was limited.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What did you have to write?" (I figured if you're writing something a hundred times, you'll remember.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't know, '</span><span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Je ne jamais livrer un coup de pied à l'estomac de Didier.'" (literally--<i>I will never deliver a hit of foot in the stomach of Didier.</i>) At least that's what I think he said--my French felt as shaky as I was at the moment. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Tell me another story," I said. "About school." I'm not sure why I was fixated on school, but I know I sounded like our little one who loves these kind of tales. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwtFV_BIEo7as7qFIFSWzYvUzFCWkAcjfmWptjau5ccuW0DF3TXdK7liKVJLxgnZaiZqDJqFkLwzDgBU_cHwyreJd82x6XyfuQl6SkjSs4t4Uzb-CFrmstiqk0nzILCjxbEa-x0qiRhVn/s1600/kids-soccer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwtFV_BIEo7as7qFIFSWzYvUzFCWkAcjfmWptjau5ccuW0DF3TXdK7liKVJLxgnZaiZqDJqFkLwzDgBU_cHwyreJd82x6XyfuQl6SkjSs4t4Uzb-CFrmstiqk0nzILCjxbEa-x0qiRhVn/s400/kids-soccer.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Well, there was a boy--this was in the states--at my school who was big and an athlete--I wasn't an athlete by any stretch </span></span><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">of the imagination--and he was rough and kind of mean but I could do a sideways futball kick. So, with kickball, he figured out that we would run up the court, me with the ball, everybody chasing after him, and I would shoot him the ball and he would score every time. So he would always pick me first. I was the first kid picked by the best athlete of the school." </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I had never heard these stories. That's amazing. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Another," I said, still sounding like our youngest. </span></span></span><span style="color: #212121; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">By this time, I was done throwing up, so I was just waiting for the rest to pass through me. Spouse took my chair and told me another, after mentioning how sexy I looked (!) </span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I ran for Treasurer in High School," he said. "I have no idea why. And my papa drew for me these posters--'Don't Fight, Switch, vote for--' and he put my name. There was some cigarette commercial that used the slogan, 'I'd rather fight than Switch.'" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"What did the drawing look like?" </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"It was a guy with a black eye, like in the cigarette ads." </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I had no idea his father could draw--another of many talents of this man I never met. I love to draw, though I rarely get time for it, and our little one is turning out to be a gifted artist, while our oldest, when he tries, can also draw very well. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I was, by this time, exhausted. (Bed times stories are designed to be relaxing. These had worked.) I was ready to go back to bed, but not certain it was safe. </span></span><div><span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Hubby took a towel and laid it on the sheets, just in case. I was still in pain, so we could only hold hands. I fell back to sleep right away. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't think of Food Poisoning as romantic, or tales from elementary and high school as courtship, or a wife in the throes of earping, (etc,) as sexy. </span></span><span style="color: #212121; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, the Night of the Food Poisoning, was romantic in its own crazy way, with Hubby wooing and winning my heart all over again. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-84038304506783847902016-09-26T10:46:00.004-07:002017-05-28T19:56:11.556-07:00Witness to Protest: Justice For Philando March Part I<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcyRGlPzTHr_FrIfPeDTGZHqqQeda15oX45Vq6PKXtXzwkAEoT5ObvQY2IvCtwTUIAfSInaBU_xYIvNhR-Y9L4kqdbVUhDTcg-ng0OpzkKNwsE6rtuNd8uThrHNy1EYxZjg4LyKX_c8xw/s1600/Ramsey-County-Courthouse-St.-Paul-MN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcyRGlPzTHr_FrIfPeDTGZHqqQeda15oX45Vq6PKXtXzwkAEoT5ObvQY2IvCtwTUIAfSInaBU_xYIvNhR-Y9L4kqdbVUhDTcg-ng0OpzkKNwsE6rtuNd8uThrHNy1EYxZjg4LyKX_c8xw/s640/Ramsey-County-Courthouse-St.-Paul-MN.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On Sept. 6th, almost three weeks ago, I headed downtown for a protest march: “Justice For
Philando.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I went because I received notification from AR14, which seems to me a wiser group than Black Lives Matter, and because three African-American adults whose actions I have admired were among those who went me invitations. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I went despite my intense dislike of crowds, an innate
wariness of herd behavior, and a learned fear of being on lists and being caught in large groups that comes from being part of a Holocaust
survivor family. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Our city is shaped like a large stone axe, surrounded on three sides by a giant bend in the Mississippi River. City Hall and the Ramsey County Courthouse are housed in a large, gorgeous Arts and Crafts building, which sits at the corner of one of the major bridges that cross the river, and directly in front from a main boulevard that fronts it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was told via Facebook, that 700 people were
going to attend. Nobody was outside when I got there a few minutes early. Naive, I went inside City
Hall to ask the security guys manning the metal detectors if they knew where the protest was. (Protests are a part of our civil liberties, so I wasn't worried about mentioning this one.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">They didn’t, but they did inform me that the protest
couldn’t be inside, because they didn’t allow any signs in the building. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I walked around
the building for a while, looking for people wearing the black they had
requested. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, I found some other youngish white people. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We all
walked to the front and waited. A few more people—black, white—dribbled into
the crowd. Then, we saw a large
crew walking across the bridge. They
seemed cheerful, as if this were a picnic. Some of the younger ones were cavorting. That's the only word for it. A few wore shiny construction vests. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>363</o:Words>
<o:Characters>1528</o:Characters>
<o:Company>A really famous company</o:Company>
<o:Lines>26</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>2546</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>12.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I felt very much out of place. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been looking for a group to join, someplace to go for Phil. I so want to be part of a community working for Philando. I was hoping this would be that place, and that community. I want to work for justice for him. I want to remember him. I want to have ways to make his life keep on living, although I know that’s not literally possible. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Members of the crowd began to pass out signs. None of them said what I wanted to say. I should have brought my own sign--<i>Philando was not a number--he was a good man.</i> Or <i>Phil cared about kids.</i> Or <i>His Mother Loved Him</i>. Among the gathering crowd sat a young black man, dressed, despite the heat, in a black leather jacket. He was on the bench that edged a yard-sized planter, one arm on his knee, his head on that hand, and he was falling asleep. </span><span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">I knew he wasn't a part of the protest to come--no one spoke to him or even seemed to see him. He was one of the invisible, ones, the lost ones, the homeless, the mentally ill who haunt our streets, and he had to be either drunk, intoxicated, or completely exhausted to be able to fall asleep amid the crowd and the noise. </span><span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">As I watched, he twitched, his body slowly relaxing, muscle by muscle, leaning forward. I was afraid he was going to fall on his head on the concrete. I watched, waiting to leap for him if he started to fall. Finally, I woke him. I had to. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">He startled. I said, "Sorry, sorry. I didn't want you to fall and hit your head." </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">He put his head back on his hand and started to fall asleep again. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">I said, "Where's your mother?" </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">"Dead," he said. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">I asked, "Do you have somebody who can help you? Somebody who loves you?" And then wanted to kick myself. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">He said no. He was having a hard time getting his social security card, he said, and his legal i.d. He was hungry, he said. Did I have a snack. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;">I usually do, but I didn't. Phil would probably have fed this guy, I thought. Philando fed people. That's what he did. The man asked if I could give him three dollars. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I don't give money, but Phil was in my head. I gave him the only dollar I could find, loose in my backpack. He put his head on his hand and his eyes oozed shut. The dollar landed on the ground, next to a piece of paper. I picked them both up. It turned out to be his parole paperwork. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, as the protest began to fire up, I went into the courthouse. I explained that I was worried about this guy. The guards called a Ramsey County Sheriff who said he could call St. Paul Police to do a welfare check, but, he said, they'd have to send a car and the officers would have to be in uniform and if they came out in the middle of a protest they'd have a riot. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">So, I went back out. The guy was sitting up, more alert, but still invisible to the crowd around him. The protest had spilled into the center of the street, to the narrow space between the yellow lines. The chant switched from "No Justice, No Peace," to "No Cops, No KKK." I had a huge disconnect. I had just gone to the police for help, for a black man. We need police, just not racist police who view anybody black as a terrifying monster or someone to dominate. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I put my hand on the sleepy guy's shoulder. The paperwork had said his name was Lamont. (not his real name) I asked what I could do. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Can I stay with you tonight?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I said, "I have a special needs kid. That wouldn't work." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He asked for twenty dollars for a room. I didn't have any money. The homeless shelter was three blocks away. And yet--I know people who've been in these shelters. They're crowded in a room with hundreds. It's noisy. They don't feel safe. They can't sleep. And this guy seemed much more alert. Maybe he was just exhausted. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I dug into the open section of my backpack again, and out came twenty bucks that I didn't know I had. I handed it over and looked into his face. He looked back into my eyes. I said, "You matter. Your life matters. I'm not your mother but I'm <i>a</i> mother, and I know that you count. Just hold on. Get through this. You can make it. You can make a difference in the world." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I might be deluding myself that he listened, who knows? It seemed to me that he heard it--heard a fellow human person, caring. He</span><span style="font-size: large;"> nodded, a couple of jerks of his head, and then he crossed through the protest and the crowd, and heading off, walking straight, not at all like someone drunk or on drugs. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-22329105012034231162016-09-11T08:16:00.003-07:002021-07-09T18:43:17.117-07:00The Times We Lie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB31RLPXbCz1uSWLaq4MIngzQQfVbtgXaRCts1tK_1qz9gFAdwmAt4qinAvlY5hTIcaf_TYJouVE5nbsc9n7EpXagH3b2o7cymzKQ-2DKssVouwk4HGdD360wJerqWEJ32E5llWSBOGvOD/s1600/stick+drawing.jpg"><img border="0" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB31RLPXbCz1uSWLaq4MIngzQQfVbtgXaRCts1tK_1qz9gFAdwmAt4qinAvlY5hTIcaf_TYJouVE5nbsc9n7EpXagH3b2o7cymzKQ-2DKssVouwk4HGdD360wJerqWEJ32E5llWSBOGvOD/s640/stick+drawing.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday, in the car, my youngest listed multiple times when she had lied about misbehavior. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She had:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Scraped the fridge: "You know that little drawing on the side? I accidentally scratched the paint off with this paper clip and then I thought, I can make a drawing, so I kept on going." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Drawn a head with legs and arms attached on the wall in the bathroom (when she was very little). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Hid under a towel with a friend and a pen so they could extend the arms and legs of the drawing in the bathroom. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Hidden under the bed with several children at a birthday party and drawn all over the wall down there with all of them. (More about this later.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Turned the fridge and freezer temperature so cold that the ice machine froze. (That one cost us 100 bucks on a service call--we thought the water main was broken) though fortunately, the repairman kindly also fixed something on both the dishwasher and the dryer for free.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I stayed completely mellow about these confessions, for several reasons. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">First: Oldest is the one who usually gets into trouble--though clearly Little One is as capable of doing Bad Things, but much better at getting away with it. And Oldest was in the car, listening to Little One addressing the balance. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Second: Research Has Shown that all kids lie. Even ones who get beaten, punished or humiliated when they're caught in a lie. When children are punished for lying, that simply serves to drive lying underground. This may not mean as much when the lying is about who snuck the candy or drew on the wall, but it will mean a great deal when it's who is sneaking out of the house to run around with teenaged friends and possibly get pregnant/drunk/STD's/in an accident. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We have friends who severely punish their children any time they catch them in a lie. With very stern faces, they say to very young children, "We will always love you if you tell us the truth, but we will be very, very, very angry if we ever catch you lying." And, indeed, any child caught in a lie is severely punished. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Their oldest middle child (they have several) is one of then best and most frequent liars I know, and is often involved in my own child's admitted lies (see above, friend under towel, one of friends under bed, etc.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Third: I lie, too. "I have a previous engagement," with quiet and a good book. "I'm sorry, I did not see that email," when I'm pissed at the organizer's request. "Thank you in advance for your prompt and thoughtful action," when I know that the action will be neither thoughtful nor prompt. "I love that haircut you just got," when I think it makes them look like a hamster, but know they have a big job interview tomorrow. "I'm sure that he was completely responsible for the divorce," when I know the opposite will never be heard but I want my kids to still be allowed to play with their little friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I even use bendy lies, implications, like, "I can understand how you would think you were responsible for your husband's adultery," and the subsequent child this friend is partly raising, when, in fact, I don't at all believe that she's responsible for his callous choices. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And we're not even getting into times when we have to lie to the boss because the boss is a controlling disaster but we can't get fired; or the many, many times when our relatives lied for their very survival, during the Holocaust. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Lying, to me, then, is a continuum, and a life-skill. Frankly, it's one I need to learn better. I was once booted from a writing critique group because I couldn't lie well enough. (The leader had pulled me aside and said, "She's not capable of learning to write any better. She'll never learn subtext or how to write dialogue. So when you make those notes, you just make her feel awful. You need to simply praise what she does.")</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">(Of course, the leader, too, had massive blind spots that needed tender-loving lies. I tried, but failed in Lying 101, so out I went.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At any rate, as I heard Little One's list, I simply laughed with the rest of the family. When Little One said, "I'm pretty good at lying," I replied, "Well, sometimes we do need to lie in life, but I hope that, from now on, you'll tell us when you do something wrong. Look at us--we're hardly angry." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"But that's because it's a lot later," said Little One, who may have a point. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, Little One asked if I had ever lied to my parents about things I'd done. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Well," I said instantly. "There was the time--I think I was ten--when my best friend and I rode our bicycles far beyond the boundary I had at the time. We knew we could get back in time, and we wanted to explore. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Unfortunately, my front tire went wobbly. It wouldn't turn, so I couldn't bike. We didn't have any tools. We were too scared to ask for help. So we had to run my bike home, holding up the whole front half of the frame, because only the rear wheel turned. My best friend took turns with me, thank goodness. We made it in time. Barely. We were exhausted and our arms ached, but we never told." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And then, oddly, I thought of something else that I never told, also when I was ten. I thought carefully and decided to tell it to the kids. "There's this other thing that happened when I was ten that I never told about," I said. "We lived near this big drainage ditch that was kind of like a small river with riparian woodland all around it." (Of course, being a mom, I had to explain riparian woodland before I could get back to the story.) "We used to play there all the time. It was called Gregson's Ditch. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"And one time, when I was ten, these two girls, Kelly and Heidi, sisters, they told me they wanted to see my bra. I already had a bra. And they wanted to see it. And I said no. Kelly was nine and fragile, Heidi was eight and built like a horse. And when I said no, they wouldn't let me go. They kept yanking up my sweatshirt. I kept holding it down. I couldn't get away from them. Every time I managed to get Kelly's hands off my sweatshirt, I had to get Heidi to let go of my arms. I was crying."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"That was sexual assault," said my oldest, and I felt gratified that these days, kids know, that they are certain. We didn't know when I was little. In fact, without that announcement from the back seat, I'm not sure I would have realized it (with certainty) even today. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes," I said. "It was." Now, it turned out that Kelly and Heidi had also pulled down Melinda's pants in her garage and stuck pebbles up her butt, all of which makes me think that somebody--maybe Mr. Ettinger--was doing something he shouldn't have been doing to his two daughters. In fact, come to think of it, I remember overhearing the parents talking about this, but they didn't report us playing with Kelly and Heidi or even tell us to stay out of their house. How times have changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Anyway. I don't know how long we were down there. Maybe an hour, maybe less. I know that it felt like it was forever. I know that I thought I would never get away. I know that when I finally managed to escape them both and take off--red-faced, huffing, sobbing--my sweatshirt was so completely stretched out of shape that it never recovered. And they probably did manage to see parts of my white cotton training bra, despite all my efforts. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"But I never told." I said. I'm still not sure why I never told. I know I felt shamed. I felt besmirched. I felt stupid to have gone to the little paths at the side of Gregson's Ditch with only Kelly and Heidi, even though they had never bothered me before and I didn't yet know about what they'd done to Melinda in the garage. I felt there was something wrong with me that I needed a brassiere while Kelly and Heidi didn't. And I liked Kelly, though I did not like Heidi, who was often hostile and physically rough. In fact, I remember that I kept pleading with Kelly, reminding her of how awful her sister was, telling her I would play with her if she'd just get Heidi to let me go--it was Kelly masterminding this, or so I thought at the time. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">(Of course, part of the reason I never told might have been the way my own mother would usually say to me, if I mentioned any problem at school, including bullying that broke my collarbone, "But what are you doing to make them act that way?" But that's another story. <br /></span><div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At any rate, I thought it was all my fault, and my shame, which is why I never told. "Do you think that was right, or wise?" I asked. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"No," said my little one. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"So I'm telling you this story because I want you to always tell us if anything happens. No matter if you feel ashamed or you're afraid you might have done something to cause it. " </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's sexual assault," said my oldest. "Of course, we'd tell." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But I, with my Gregson's Ditch experience, am still not so sure. The shame I felt was enormous. And the self-blame. "I will never, ever treat you that way. Because I know how it feels," I said. "That's not something you can ever lie about. Okay?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I got agreement, but of course, you never really know. Kids--all kids--lie. </span><br />
<br /></div></div>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-10082089649162943352016-09-02T08:33:00.000-07:002017-05-28T15:53:29.431-07:00I Wonder What That Policeman Is Thinking Right Now?<span style="font-size: large;">"I wonder what he's thinking doing right now," my little ones says. "What he's doing." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Who?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"That policeman."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I know immediately who she is talking about--Officer Jeronimo Yanez, who killed Philando Castile. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't know," I say. "What do you think he's doing?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The little voice expresses disbelief. "How would I know? First off, I'm not a racist. Second, I'm not a cop. And I'm not even a grownup." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I drive for a minute. </span><span style="font-size: large;">"I would imagine that he's scared. And angry. On that video, he's shouting and he sounds so scared. He's probably looking around for somebody else to blame. That's what a lot of people do--they look for someone to blame. It takes a lot of courage to admit what you've done."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't know why he'd be scared. He's off some place, and he's got his family, and nobody is attacking him." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I think," I say. "He would be scared because he knows that he's done a horrible thing. I would think that he's scared to look at that."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I hear a snort. "Well, nobody else shot Phil," says Little One. "Phil was doing what the officer told him to do. He was the one who pulled out his gun. He as the one who shot the bullets." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Well, that's true," I say and the conversation veers into what it was like the time this little one forgot a line in a class play, and just stood there. Just stood there, while the kids around whispered the line, just stood and stood, until the teacher finally called out Little One's name and spoke the line. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I felt so hot," says my youngest. "Like my whole chest and my arms and my legs were going to burn up with heat."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Some emotions are hot ones," I say. "Embarrassment. Shame. They can make you feel like you're burning up with heat." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That evening, we go to the school playground. There is a tiny black girl playing on the equipment. She is fearless, so she is flanked, all the time, by two women who turn out to be cousins, one the little girl's mother. We talk, as moms do at the park. They went to high school with Philando Castile. They express great sympathy for "your school's loss," and I to them for the loss of their friend. One was in a theater class with him, part of a production about teenaged feelings that toured to other schools. They knew him well. I am dreading going back into the school building for the first time, and I know that some of our kids are struggling, including my own. But these two women seem so calm, so happy to remember him with love. It's better to be together, to grieve together, I think. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, I begin to</span><span style="font-size: large;"> repeat the conversation with my little one earlier this morning. "I wonder what that police officer is doing today?" I mis-quote. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"He's alive," says one of the young women, bleakly. "He's alive. Which is more than Phil is." </span><span style="font-size: large;">And we stare into the distance. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-85716941085373222342016-08-31T07:00:00.002-07:002017-05-28T18:16:21.713-07:00Weiners, Or We Have Now Entered The Twilight Zone of Presidential Campaigns. <span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemeFzCMvzHQStsoHRiJ3OOhfYIsh13G-ruv0vsIHrds0XvXpjeo1D75Qw5pP-v1nAf7IzcsPo1E9i1pp9DrCiWA4TsrLyaDKudKwSgPJ-gYhLkJ2bCW_P0bNdyxqY6ayljIGWm3Z4IVBV/s1600/The_twilight_zone-314134213_large.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemeFzCMvzHQStsoHRiJ3OOhfYIsh13G-ruv0vsIHrds0XvXpjeo1D75Qw5pP-v1nAf7IzcsPo1E9i1pp9DrCiWA4TsrLyaDKudKwSgPJ-gYhLkJ2bCW_P0bNdyxqY6ayljIGWm3Z4IVBV/s640/The_twilight_zone-314134213_large.jpg" width="640" /></a>That's it. We're beyond surreal, we're beyond unbelievable. We've entered--The Twilight Zone Presidential Campaign. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Podium talk about hand/penis size.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> "I'd vote for him if he went out and shot somebody on 5th Avenue." </span><span style="font-size: large;">Baby-hating candidates. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And now this. Yes, Ms. Abedin should have left him long ago. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, it has next to nothing to do with Hilary's campaign.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Still--</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I do not need this. The American electorate does not need this. American children do not need to be hearing about any of this--hand/penis size, violent campaign promises, baby-hating, or daddy-sexting. We all have far too much on our plate to add a Weiner. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Ba-dum-bum. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojZ6__yAPZ5EHUoyfvMS0ZPPgEnKdi0OHtaO9nHPjlMvp8Aoq2bYkZZ8bwWstvrMzCHmkHC9_AKFZsp9oXm18QByWof-9VoGocvx37f7f6Rr94aGD7y3T7hNmJya6mPeace_7LiP0bqTI/s1600/Cq_hkn1XEAQMbLr.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojZ6__yAPZ5EHUoyfvMS0ZPPgEnKdi0OHtaO9nHPjlMvp8Aoq2bYkZZ8bwWstvrMzCHmkHC9_AKFZsp9oXm18QByWof-9VoGocvx37f7f6Rr94aGD7y3T7hNmJya6mPeace_7LiP0bqTI/s400/Cq_hkn1XEAQMbLr.jpg" width="357" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-80669752995963726412016-08-31T07:00:00.001-07:002016-08-31T07:02:08.023-07:00Weiners, Or We Have Now Entered The Twilight Zone of Presidential Campaigns. <span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemeFzCMvzHQStsoHRiJ3OOhfYIsh13G-ruv0vsIHrds0XvXpjeo1D75Qw5pP-v1nAf7IzcsPo1E9i1pp9DrCiWA4TsrLyaDKudKwSgPJ-gYhLkJ2bCW_P0bNdyxqY6ayljIGWm3Z4IVBV/s1600/The_twilight_zone-314134213_large.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgemeFzCMvzHQStsoHRiJ3OOhfYIsh13G-ruv0vsIHrds0XvXpjeo1D75Qw5pP-v1nAf7IzcsPo1E9i1pp9DrCiWA4TsrLyaDKudKwSgPJ-gYhLkJ2bCW_P0bNdyxqY6ayljIGWm3Z4IVBV/s640/The_twilight_zone-314134213_large.jpg" width="640" /></a>That's it. We're beyond surreal, we're beyond unbelievable. We've entered--The Twilight Zone Presidential Campaign. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Podium talk about hand/penis size.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> "I'd vote for him if he went out and shot somebody on 5th Avenue." </span><span style="font-size: large;">Baby-hating candidates. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And now this. Yes, Ms. Abedin should have left him long ago. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, it has next to nothing to do with Hilary's campaign.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Still--</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I do not need this. The American electorate does not need this. American children do not need to be hearing about any of this--hand/penis size, violent campaign promises, baby-hating, or daddy-sexting. We all have far too much on our plate to add a Weiner. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Ba-dum-bum. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojZ6__yAPZ5EHUoyfvMS0ZPPgEnKdi0OHtaO9nHPjlMvp8Aoq2bYkZZ8bwWstvrMzCHmkHC9_AKFZsp9oXm18QByWof-9VoGocvx37f7f6Rr94aGD7y3T7hNmJya6mPeace_7LiP0bqTI/s1600/Cq_hkn1XEAQMbLr.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojZ6__yAPZ5EHUoyfvMS0ZPPgEnKdi0OHtaO9nHPjlMvp8Aoq2bYkZZ8bwWstvrMzCHmkHC9_AKFZsp9oXm18QByWof-9VoGocvx37f7f6Rr94aGD7y3T7hNmJya6mPeace_7LiP0bqTI/s400/Cq_hkn1XEAQMbLr.jpg" width="357" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-12787565680006481202016-08-30T07:36:00.000-07:002016-08-30T07:36:20.572-07:00New Trick For a Reluctant Reader--Climb A Tree<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-aIGsj6l-Gu2Ojmtm9daAk6eAiKFB6dNQZNzudVT-nnPk92b7Was2kGdu3_EAXd0KgTJ1ghSAPcqan3Ub0y1mSRyaQZp9fVUJwsTWjDOQj_4jMNGkiKOOQC3U4Q8QeVr1coGX92_Csnr/s1600/outsidereading.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-aIGsj6l-Gu2Ojmtm9daAk6eAiKFB6dNQZNzudVT-nnPk92b7Was2kGdu3_EAXd0KgTJ1ghSAPcqan3Ub0y1mSRyaQZp9fVUJwsTWjDOQj_4jMNGkiKOOQC3U4Q8QeVr1coGX92_Csnr/s640/outsidereading.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have a reluctant reader. Given a choice, this child would rather be moving, or pretending, or playing a video game. Since other members of the family have been known to walk home while reading a book, this is a new one for me. My mom used to punish us by taking away our library cards. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I often think our kids can come up with their own solutions. This one did. Kid spent some time scoping out various neighborhood trees. Kid planned--it's a white pine, so kid wanted to bring a towel to sit on to avoid the sap on pants. Kid figured out a rudimentary pulley, found rope, a bucket, brought food and water, climbed up, got accessory (parent) to tie the bucket on the rope, and used it to haul everything up. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What a shame its nearly the end of the summer. Kid can't wait to get up there and read! (I can't wait to join said kid. Finally, a chance to do nothing, just sit around and read.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-7321341411601894702016-08-28T12:48:00.000-07:002017-05-28T15:45:21.347-07:00Can Donald Trump Apologize? <span style="font-family: "helvetica"; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, everybody. Close your eyes and imagine this: Donald</span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"> Trump, steps up to a podium, surrounded by a crowd of very white followers, with, of course, his own personal black person. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">Mr. Trump puts his hands on the podium, leans in, and says, "All right, I have to say something. To apologize." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">A collective, inward gasp. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">"In the past, I was a racist. I ran my real estate business--the greatest business, really the best ever--in a racist way. By this I mean we didn't rent or sell to black people. By order, our agents lied to those black people and repeatedly told them that the place was already rented or sold."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">He flicks back his orange hair. "In fact, we fought anybody who tried to say that. We cost the federal government a lot of money while taking more money from them in government loans." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">He spreads his arms. "Of course, this was when I was young, still working with my father. And most everybody did things like that in those days."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">He lowers his head. "But even later than that, when I came to visit my casinos, I instructed the bosses to get the dark faces out of the way--hide them in the kitchen so I didn't have to see them."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">"And it was wrong. And I am ashamed. I'm even ashamed of these days, when I'm racist, it's more casual. You know, I'm hanging out with supporters and so I just say what I know they want to hear because I like people to like me and because, really, I don't have any black friends--but then, I don't have any friends at all, so that's not racist. I don't want to be friends with anybody. "</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">He spreads his arms. "Except my kids. I love my kids, really, I do. They're the best kids ever, the very best, I make the best kids you could make, and they are the best friends a person who doesn't have friends could ever have. Having friends who aren't your kids, it's is too scary. It's like admitting that you're wrong, which I never, ever do. Of course, I'm hardly ever, almost never wrong, because I have this very good brain. And it's much easier to fight.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">"But I've decided that, as your president, I need to be bigger than that. I need to be really brave. So I want to apologize. I was wrong. We kept out good people because their skin was brown. While we were doing it, we cheated the government to make a ton of bucks. I've been racist on purpose, just to win an election or get some press. In fact, I've said bad things about blacks and Mexicans and people who are disabled. And I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">Are your eyes still closed? Are you still struggling to imagine that scene? Me, too. Me, too.</span>Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-29744689539760460982016-08-27T17:25:00.000-07:002017-05-28T18:15:48.857-07:00Re trigger warnings and the university of Chicago. <div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEiMD3LTxYd3c_5ibOxPlFRfMuyXnGssX-lLe_tAzyjtriMf1csy4ez5xBxu3MIo4T0xB7TV2UYH-g1Jrgh88s0qqUGSTx0aMlpiJEGOgNZjZoLBRI85awm_IcbrqRk4CCE4DTvt01LRb/s1600/27chicago1-master768.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEiMD3LTxYd3c_5ibOxPlFRfMuyXnGssX-lLe_tAzyjtriMf1csy4ez5xBxu3MIo4T0xB7TV2UYH-g1Jrgh88s0qqUGSTx0aMlpiJEGOgNZjZoLBRI85awm_IcbrqRk4CCE4DTvt01LRb/s640/27chicago1-master768.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Photo thanks to New York Times. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">I wonder how holocaust survivors manage. Managed. They mostly did. At least, our family did. Do. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">I remember when we watched one such couple get a phone call from dear friends, telling them that a twelve-year-old they loved had died of cancer. This is David and Rosette, living in Paris. When Rosette was a child, her little sister starved while they hid out in the forest in Poland, scrabbling for food, freezing, constantly at risk of death. Grief, yes, and they moved on. They considered themselves lucky the rest survived--everyone left behind in the village was exterminated. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">David at fourteen, had gone over the border into Russia, been picked up and shipped to Siberia and the salt mines of Khazakhstan. He was helped by being with older siblings and they were able to stick together. Two family babies--nieces--died in SIberia. The family left behind in Poland were exterminated, including two "little blond boys." Every time the family talked about them, they always cried. Same when they talked about their mother. About their siblings left behind. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">The same way they cried when they heard about the twelve-year-old with cancer. And then they sang songs and then they danced a little. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">I wonder how they managed--manage--living in Paris in the Marais, where buildings are marked with bullet holes and plaques announcing how many children were rounded up from each school and slaughtered? I know they encountered anti-Semitism. They still do. In their old age, they live in a city where hundreds of people were recently murdered because they were Jewish or were at a Jewish-owned business or a Jewish-owned concert venue. That must have triggered something from their past. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">I wonder how my neighbors, who survived the Somali civil war manage when their kids study the US civil war? Those who fled Rwanda? I have talked to survivors, about the horrendous deaths or woundings of their family members. We held hands and cried together, and connected to the soul. And then, we went out and took care of children and got on with our days. </span></div>
<div style="display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Lets teach our students resilience, the ability to self-calm and speak out. Let's teach them that they can cope. If they feel overwhelmed, let them learn how to step out and calm themselves down. We have to be able to talk to one another. And listen to one another. Calmly.</span></div>
Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3129721649926508795.post-55153580382135378422016-08-25T07:29:00.001-07:002017-05-28T16:16:06.874-07:00Kid's Nightly Journals - Philando Castile<span style="font-size: large;">There are times when I feel like the worst of moms, and times when I feel like I'm doing something right, and times when I am just fricking grateful that the kids have stumbled onto something wonderful on their own. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My little one, having a hard time falling asleep, has begun to look for tools, and figured out that writing about the day or drawing pictures in a notebook seems to help calm monkey mind. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My big one has followed suit. Now, at bedtime, I find them sprawled across one of the others' beds writing in their journals and drawing pictures. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I know. It's wonderful, right? And I have permission to read them, which is even better. It's like that lovely moment in the book <i>Peter Pan</i>, when Mrs. Darling tidies up her children's minds. "It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for the net morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can't) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on." (James Barrie.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, my kids mostly seem to have ordinary kid thoughts, except for the disability we have to cope with. And except for Philando Castile. Both children's journals regularly touch on him and his death at Officer Yanez' hands. My little one is worried about what it will be like to go to school without him there. And who will replace him? What will that be like, having someone take his place?</span><span style="font-size: large;"> My big one is upset that Officer Yanez was put back in uniform and given a desk job. (Yes, we've raised a news junkie, of course.) "He didn't even follow proper protocol. Phil is dead because that officer didn't do his job right and because he was scared." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I can't imagine what it must be like for Diamond Reynolds, as her little one gets ready for school. Or for our other cafeteria worker, Vanessa. Or for the teachers, preparing for 502 little kids, some who probably don't know yet. (Some who may not care. Some who will, very much.) At the Saint Anthony City Council meeting two nights ago, one co-worker of Phil's said that his four-year-old nephew said he wanted to paint his face white so that the police wouldn't kill him and people wouldn't hate him. Shades of <i>The Bluest Eye</i>. This stuff affects kids so differently than it does grownups, and believe me, it's affecting a lot of us grownups pretty hard. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This world is hard. And my kids--all our kids--are in the midst of this world. I hope that, for them as for me, the gift of writing, analyzing, turning events into stories or commentary or simply dumping it onto the page, will prove a tool for resilience, and ultimately a tool to create positive change, not just for themselves, for all of us. For the whole world. </span><br />
<br />Sakki Selznickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03371650279066139799noreply@blogger.com0