Kitty and I went for a walk shortly before 3 p.m. Saturday, a fine cloudless day in May. We strolled to the corner of First and Walters. To the left, my neighbor Lee Goodman, in his homemade concentration camp uniform, and a small knot of protesters. To the right, the usual expanse of empty sidewalk. I had just about convinced myself to go rightward, avoid the crowd, but my gaze lingered a fraction too long to the left, and Lee's wife Nancy waved. I might be able to slip away from a protest, but I'm not one to cut my neighbors. I ambled over.
Lee's new sign struck me as non-controversial in a sane world. "Northbrook stands with migrants." This being a nation of immigrants, all of us or our forebears, at one point or another, I'd say we have to.
But alas, we do not live in that sane world. Having written on the subject Friday, and gotten an earful from readers who have lapped up the immigrants = criminals cant for years, their brains sodden with the stuff, taut like a water balloon, bulging with fallacy. To see them sneeringly feed it back, the logic being, if only they could deliver the news with sufficient vehemence, why then they would win the day.
On some I used my line that the fig leaf of concern for legality does not cover their shameful bigotry as well as they seem to think it does. It would help if they viewed a Venezuelan dishwasher with parking tickets and the multiple felon presidents through the same prism of love for law. But that takes time to express, and what's the point?
Which is sort of my view toward street corner protests. I'm glad they're there, support them fully, but don't see the effect. I chatted briefly with Lee, who mused how long it would take our neighbors — some of whom are far more devoted to the idea of free speech for themselves than they are to free speech for others — will linger before throwing paint at his sign. I figure, nightfall the second day.
Prying myself away, I strolled up First Avenue, back toward home, and paused to press my face into the lovely lilac bush below. At first I thought, "These lilacs will make a fine post for tomorrow," planning to ignore Lee, whom I've featured here in his concentration camp uniform in the not-too-distant past. But then I realized the challenge we face is to balance keeping track of and protesting the Trump enormity, while still enjoying the good things in life that his metastasizing presidency has not yet found a way to ruin. I figure, split the difference: start with blue triangles, end with purple lilacs.
Prying myself away, I strolled up First Avenue, back toward home, and paused to press my face into the lovely lilac bush below. At first I thought, "These lilacs will make a fine post for tomorrow," planning to ignore Lee, whom I've featured here in his concentration camp uniform in the not-too-distant past. But then I realized the challenge we face is to balance keeping track of and protesting the Trump enormity, while still enjoying the good things in life that his metastasizing presidency has not yet found a way to ruin. I figure, split the difference: start with blue triangles, end with purple lilacs.
'Once a reporter asked him; "Do you really think you are going to change the policies of this country by standing out here, alone at night in front of the White House with a candle?"
ReplyDeleteA.J. Muste replied softly: "Oh I don't do this to change the country. I do this so the country won't change me."'
Exactly. Trump has the uncanny ability to make everyone a lesser version of themselves, often to the point of ruin. His bumbling frantic daily need for attention and affirmation takes a toll on all of us. It's takes effort to stay positive, stay engaged, and not let this historic cancer of a human make us lesser versions of ourselves. It's energy I'd rather spend elsewhere, but, like a deadly virus, you've got to inoculate yourself against his toxic reach.
DeleteThe effect is that people in your neighborhood are doing *something, and while your inclination was to walk in the other direction, because they are your neighbors, you engaged with them. And now you've written about them. And maybe that encourages someone else to do a little something. And many little somethings add up.
ReplyDeleteNot "now" — I've written about Lee repeatedly.
DeleteProtesting against the current occupant of the White House, his quislings and his/their policies makes me feel like I am doing something more than just bitching. Hearing hundreds of cars, trucks, semis, and even the occasional police car honk in solidarity gives me strength. And seeing so many men (finally) joining the millions of women who have been demonstrating against TCOOTWH since January, 2017 energizes me.
ReplyDeleteWhite lilacs are even more intoxicating. The Puccini aria of flowers.
ReplyDeleteAren't we ever so fortunate to have you to identify and call out the ignorant bigots amongst us.
ReplyDeleteWhy don't you realize doing this over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again diminishes you
are your little fee-fees being hurt stevie?
DeleteAs opposed to the ignorant bigotry that is spewed on Fox News and other channels of that ilk? Yes, we are very fortunate that Neil didn’t take the S-T buyout and continues to post on EGD, as he remains unafraid to comment publicly as to the desecration of the Republic, and its Constitution and Democratic processes, being implemented by the current so-called presidential administration. The great thing about our country is that if you don’t like what you’re reading here, you’re free to go elsewhere to read comments from mouth-breathers and conspiracy peddlers that may be more to you liking and speed.
DeleteThe orange felon repeating the same cruel, mendacious bullshit he started out with after coming down the escalator a decade ago "over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again" hasn't diminished his support, has it?
DeleteI don't agree that attempting to counter his regime by repeatedly and clearly writing about the truth is diminshing in any way. It may be futile, but the only hope is that at some point, enough of the folks in thrall to that conman and traitor may somehow see the light.
Why is it that columnists and blog commenters are expected to be circumspect and civil, but it's just assumed that the freaking president of the United States will be as coarse, obnoxious and belittling as he wants?
Yeah, right. Ignore them and they will all go away. Thanks for sharing.
DeleteGosh, I'd sure like to know how calling out as*hats diminishes someone.
DeleteReally, one of your best columns.
ReplyDeleteHere in Lincoln Park, Crab Apple trees, beautiful Tulip beds and greening trees
ReplyDeleteHelp us to remember at least briefly that
There is beauty in our world in spite
of the”would be King”. Enjoy for now, fight on tomorrow!
Vince Clary
Neighbors throw paint at his signs?
ReplyDeleteNo escaping the fashes and the glassbowls.
Not even in the leafy suburban paradise.
An account by one of my grandfather's relatives who managed to make it out alive.
ReplyDeleteI am Solomon Mandel. I was born on July 28, 1926, to Berta and Joel Mandel in the town of Bukaczowce, in southeastern Poland [NOTE: The region of Galicia, now part of Ukraine]. It was a small town. We had two synagogues and a Talmud Torah. We had two rabbis whose names were Rabbi Shwarz and Rabbi Singer, and we had two shoctin for slaughtering kosher meats and poultry. Their names were Joel Nagelberg and his son, Shimon Nagelberg. They all perished. The only survivor is a grandson of Joel Nagelberg.
I was going to a cheder for my Jewish education and to a Polish school for my Polish education until 1939, when the Second World War started. The Germans occupied the northern part of Poland, and the Russians occupied the other half. For the Jewish people it was not bad – the only thing the communists stopped was Jewish education. It was not until June and July of 1941 that the Germans occupied us. The trouble started for the Jewish people in 1941. That summer the Germans, with the help of the Ukrainians, created the ghetto. On Yom Kippur, the first action was made, and the Jewish people were sent to the crematoriums. Three weeks later, the second action was made, and the town was declared "Judenfrei." Whoever remained alive from the Jewish population had to move to a different ghetto in Rohatyn, 23 kilometers from my town. I went back secretly to my town and hid so no one would know. In February 1943, I was captured by the Ukrainian police and sent to Rohatyn, and from there to a concentration camp. I was not there too long when I planned to escape. It worked for me. I went back to my town, and I got connected to the Partisans. My father somehow came to town illegally and I joined him. We were together until the Liberation in 1944. In July, I went to the Allied Army for one reason, to take revenge. In the end of 1945 I was discharged, and I needed to go into the Polish Army, but I did not want to go. So in the summer of 1946 I escaped from Poland to Germany, where I was in a DP camp until 1949.
From age 15 to age 23...EIGHT YEARS of hell (1941-49). But he survived.
ReplyDeletewhat a beautiful photo of the lilacs! I can vividly recall the lilac scent just by looking at it. When my mom moved to Florida, I'd cut some close-to-blooming lilac sprays and carefully include them in her mother's day gift every year. She said the scent filled her condo for days. Like my mom, our lilac bush is gone now. Reading how you balanced the bad in the world with the scent of lilacs, if just for today, brought a smile to my face and a tear in my eye. both are appreciated. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteLandscaping our new home in Niles, my father planted a Lilac bush and a flowering Crabapple tree. I never liked the Lilacs scent and the Crabapple was a nuisance. But a rogue seed sprouted that year that might have fallen to the lawn mower, but was somehow spared. It grew into a beautiful Maple that colored our autumns.
DeleteMy father died young. On decoration day my mother and her other widowed friends would make giant buckets of lilacs to take to the cemetery. To ensure they stayed fresher longer they would dispatch someone to the liquor store for a bottle of gin which was then poured into the buckets and then polished off by the widows when they returned from the cemetery.
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