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The Republicans have recently unleashed an all out assault on President Obama and Attorney General Holder, accusing them of racism for having had the audacity to accuse the Republican of whining and sniveling about various and sundry perceived failings of Obama and Holder.

This is distinctly odd given the record of individual and institutionalized racism in this country. Consider:

–Almost three hundred years of slavery, beginning in the Colonies and extending until 1865, concluding only after a merciless Civil War which cost the lives of almost 600,000 Americans from both the North and the South.

–Followed by a hundred years of institutionalized segregation and mass murder of Blacks by Whites with virtual impunity. For example, from 1885 until 1945, about 5,000 Blacks were hanged, beaten, burned to death, and otherwise put to death by a variety of means with not a single White called to account.

–A six-year never-ending crescendo of accusations and racial epithets hurled at America’s first twice overwhelmingly elected Black President, ranging from code words such as lazy, haughty, and un-American punctuated by accusations that Obama was born in Kenya, Indonesia, or whatever other blatantly false birthplace came to mind.

–In this era of our first Black President, the Supreme Court has ruled twice on matters that an outside observer could only conclude were meant to suppress the votes of Blacks and elevate the ability of rich Whites to buy elections.

The current Republican race-tinged tactics are thus not surprising given the party’s weak to nonexistent appeal to Black voters and its outright opposition to any and all things Obama. The Party’s blatant antipathy to America’s Black voters reached a sustained crescendo several years ago when a Republican operative named Lee Atwater developed an attack strategy that promoted the use of “code words” such as “welfare queens” to signify black women on welfare. Atwater argued that the use of such abstract language would remove a candidate from direct and harsh terms like the N word and thus shield him or her from charges of racism.

Code words are still widely used, but today’s Republican are also harsh, direct, and unapologetic. These latter approaches are characteristic of the tactics of Karl Rove, a contemporary and ally of Lee Atwater.

Rove developed several campaign approaches that have elevated various clients to high office. Perhaps his most effective tactic has been an all out assault on an opponent’s strongest characteristic.

He successfully employed this approach in the Presidential Election of 2004. The candidates were Democrat John Kerry and Republican George Bush II. John Kerry was a decorated combat veteran of the Vietnam War. Bush served in the Texas Air National Guard as a fighter pilot but was never on active duty. Kerry’s military service was his strongest point; it was arguably Bush’s weakest.

Rove and his minions, the Swift Boat crowd, unleashed an all out assault on Kerry’s military record, questioning the accuracy of his official military citations and all but branding him an all-out liar and traitor. In the face of the Swift Boaters’ unrelenting attacks, Kerry’s responses seemed weak and ineffective. Needless to say, Bush handily carried the election.

The Rovian tactic was also employed successfully against Max Cleland, a Democrat and a disabled US Army veteran of the Vietnam War who lost two legs and an arm in that conflict, a recipient of the Silver Star and the Bronze Star for valorous actions in combat, lost an important Senatorial election in Georgia to non-veteran Saxby Chambliss. Chambliss’ campaign manged to brand Cleland a virtual traitor. If you guessed that Chambliss won, you are correct.

It isn’t surprising, then, that the Republicans recently unleashed their all-out assault on President Barack Obama and Attorney General Eric Holder, branding them as racists. Their crime: daring to call the Republicans to account for their own racist actions and egregious statements.

In Republican circles, what is good for the goose is not always good for the gander.

The March of TIme

Originally posted on beverlyanna:

By  Beverly anna

The march of time takes me on a journey that only I can travel

It is recorded  in perfect cadence and synchronicity
With  every beat of my heart…
They carry on together…

Time, marching along, never stopping 

Always  forward… never backward
While… beat by beat , moment by moment, 
My heart collects living  melodies 
And tucks them away for safe keeping in the attic of my soul

Until the day the  march stops
And there are no more beats to keep track of  the time

No more melodies  to  fashion

And my life’s symphony is done.

View original

Originally posted on beverlyanna:

By Beverly anna

Hitching a Ride on a Memory

By Beverlyanna

Did you ever try to hitch a ride on a memory ?
You know…  grab hold of it  and drift to another time and place.
It is almost like trying to catch the wind.
You can feel a memory,  you can see it in a photo or  hear it  in a song

But you can’t hitch a ride and go away with it

No matter how hard you may try.
Memories are fashioned  with air  and  precious  golden threads of time
They travel  down to earth on slow moving clouds
And land right smack  in your heart
And just as you try to climb aboard
They  drift away,  far beyond the horizon to some special place

That you cannot  go to

At least not yet.

View original

Originally posted on beverlyanna:

By Beverlyanna

On a crisp and cold, Wednesday afternoon,
In the dead of winter
Tucked away , ever so gently
In a very small corner of my harried day,
I knew something quite special had just taken place
Other days, this may have even gone unnoticed…
Lost in the hustled bustle of a typical day
But not this day…
Something so simple
Yet, ever lasting had just occurred
A gift to me…
A very special present
The kind that is etched with love
And painted with a special smile
Just a simple sparkle in my aging Mother’s eyes

Just a simple little thing

Inspired by a few short and friendly moments in a Farmer’s Market
On a crisp and cold winter day
And just for one brief moment
It felt like it was spring again.

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Winter Window

Winter Window.

A long time ago, when I was a productive member of human society, I worked for a supervisor who apparently shifted into some sort of ecstatic state by bedeviling me in public.

I must say however that I often retaliated in subtle ways. I recall one instance in a group meeting. The boss had assigned me to write a report. At the meeting, he held it up and said, “Whoever wrote this writes poetry.”

As quick as a fly heading for an outhouse, I said, “I’ll tell my secretary you said that. She wrote the report.”

I won’t tell you what followed except to say that the boss almost had an apoplectic fit.

But that’s unimportant. Did you catch the subtlety of the boss’s comment and my response?

The boss clearly implied quite strongly that men who write well must write poetry, and men who write poetry must be sissies. I’m sure his subtle attempt at embarrassing me wasn’t lost on you.

But what about my response? Did you catch my message?

The report was so unimportant that instead of devoting my attention to it personally, I assigned it to a secretary. Of course, my second level message was more subtle.

It followed that if I thought the report was unimportant, I must also believe the boss was unimportant.

I think at the moment I did because he really pushed my button. My response was automatic and intended to embarrass him.

More than 30 years later, I remember that incident and the embarrassment I felt at his words. The truth was then that I did write poetry. I also remember that I thought of myself as a real man who played sports, spent time in the military service, and often got the crap knocked out of me because of an uncontrollable tongue.

Since then, I’ve often asked myself, “Why not? Why shouldn’t a man write poetry? Who says so? Who made such a rule?”

Well, culture does. Culture plants all kinds of role model rules in our minds from birth until death.

Maybe roles are necessary for the smooth functioning of society. Who knows? Not me. That isn’t what I’m talking about.

The creation of roles and the rules for playing those roles has insidious effects on children and adults alike. Basically, with few exceptions, more people than we suspect, are cast in roles they are unsuited for by societal pressures or by their own inclinations.

My experience is a case in point. Sitting in a room full of co-workers while a stuffed-shirt ridiculed me wasn’t my choice of occupations. Never mind that I was a stuffed-shirt, too. I didn’t want to be one, but economics and a family required my presence every day in an environment that sapped my energy. I wanted to ride a giant mower around a golf course, smelling the new mown grass, laughing as duffers flubbed their way around the course and lied about their scores later, all the while running sonnets through my mind.

Or better still, driving a big rig equipped with radio broadcast equipment cross-country, playing trucker’s songs and philosophizing.

But in retrospect, I can see that my tenure as a stuffed-shirt was the right decision. It paved the way for almost 30 years teaching, which turned out to be my real preferred occupation.

Oh, I still dabble in a little poetry now and then. But I realize that it was never a real career path. Sometimes, the truth comes late. My real career was helping my wife raise three wonderful daughters who in turn gave us seven wonderful grandchildren.

But I did write a brief expression of my grief shortly after she passed away.

Beyond the shadowed window pane
where dancing rays of sun rejoice,
the verdant green reminds me
of her eternal voice.

It isn’t much, but I’d like to show it to the stuffed-shirt of so many years ago and say, “You can never take this away from me.

I’m thinking it’s about time I had a little talk with my buddy, Sid.

If you recall, Sid is actually God operating under a nom de plume after the Tea Baggers took over Heaven and replaced him with Ted Cruz.

Sid decided to become an entrepreneur. He’s listed in the Yellow Pages as Sid, Purveyor of Blueberry Pies and Performer of Amazing Miracles.

“”The next best thing to being God,” Sid explains, “is watching the ecstasy on some poor soul’s face at the smell of a freshly baked blueberry pie. It’s better than sex.”

“You’ve got to be careful,” says I, “the first thing the tea baggers will do is take blueberry pie off the approved food stamp list. Then, they’ll rewrite Genesis. No more fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Eve will tempt Adam with a freshly baked blueberry pie. Instead of sex we’ll have blueberry pie baking as the World’s Oldest Profession. Noah will load two of every species on a giant, floating blueberry pie. Imagine what would happen to the human race if those species started eating the blueberry pie right out from under them. You’re treading on dangerous ground, Bud. Entire industries will collapse and the world will be thrown into turmoil. Why, imagine a world in which thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s blueberry pie.”

“The way I see it in retrospect, Son, I should have let humans perish anyway and replaced them with blueberry pies from outer space.”

This set me to thinking. A world of blueberry pies from outer space. Every pie alike, no more biases and prejudices, every pie entitled to equal treatment, no Republican pies, no Democratic pies, and no teabag pies. Just a world of Generic Blueberry Pies.

But, then, I thought, what if one day in the distant future, a single blueberry pie decided to corner the market in blueberry pie futures. Here we go again.

“Sid,” I says, “I’m thinking we might be better off the way we are. At least we can go to hell cursing Ayn Rand. No one in his or her right mind could curse a blueberry pie covered with whipped cream.”

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