Lawson

 This morning I woke up around 6:15, and the first thing that came to my mind was, "Oh no. I forgot Lawson!"

Lawson is a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient who is buried in the nearby cemetery in Lawnside, New Jersey. He was long deceased when he received his award -- the commendation came around 130 years after he pulled a dozen fellow soldiers out of the bottom of a burning ship during the Civil War. See, Lawson was African American. To me it's a miracle he ever got the citation at all.

Lawnside is an African American community. During the Civil War, Black soldiers were not buried in official government cemeteries. So the community of Lawnside agreed to take any soldier of color who needed a respectful place to rest. There are well over 100 Civil War soldiers buried in the Lawnside cemetery. The exact number is unknown because every time the community clears more brush, they find more stones.

America, picture Arlington in your head, and then look at how this veteran of color is remembered.

Kind of sums up our nation in a nutshell.

That is not Lawson's grave in the photo, but this pictured stone is close to Lawson's. 

Every year, prior to Memorial Day, I take a bouquet of silk flowers -- red, white, and blue -- to Lawson's stone. I respectfully acknowledge to the other soldiers there that the bouquet is for them as well. I do this anonymously, in time for the services that the community performs in the cemetery.

This year I made it in the nick of time, about 9:00 a.m. Usually I do this the day before, or even earlier.

I forgot Lawson this year because I am heartsick. It's all well and good to live in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, but I still see and hear what's happening in the USA. It's tragic. 

I was able to soldier on until the president started targeting Harvard. That was the final straw. I guess it's because I attended a similar elite university. Yes, there are many foreign students at our top universities. Some of them can't even speak much English. But they are the creme de la creme of their nations, intellectually. They come to study at the best universities in the USA, and then they either return home to become the leaders of the future, or they stay and become part of the nation's brain trust. If that process ends, it will be the nail that seals the coffin of America's future.

I don't find it a reach to think that this is because the president's son wasn't accepted to Harvard. Or the president himself. It's also a performance for his uneducated base, the ultimate owning of the libs. Whatever. It's a self sabotage ... the likes of which no one has ever seen before. 

This Memorial Day, my mind wasn't on Lawson. It was on the ravages of the New Gilded Age. 

In today's baseball standings, the Baltimore Orioles are 18-34, buried in the basement of their division. There is no port in the storm.

Clarence Thomas Is Henry VIII

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," end of the Supreme Court calendar edition. I am one very pissed off Anne Johnson today.

In this circle of Hell called the USA, we have a court that is a final arbiter, containing three judges chosen by a president who did not win the popular vote. This is not how a democracy should work.

To make matters worse, we have a single individual on this court who rose from abject poverty to the priciest yacht travel in the world, who doesn't want anyone to think he did so because of affirmative action, because somehow the taint of affirmative action besmirches his clear superiority over all common folk.

This man parties like a king, and his wife behaves like a conniving queen. They sit in their luxury and make decisions that affect ordinary Americans without ever feeling the pain of the people whose lives they are impacting. Workers, women, debt-ridden college kids? Pish, tosh. Peons all. Pass the caviar.

When I was a teenager I couldn't get enough books about Tudor England. It always amazed me that Henry VIII could order his citizens to change churches on pain of death just because he wanted to divorce his old wife and marry a new, young one. Like, dude. You're ending peoples' lives because you're horny? You've got issues.

But Henry VIII was a king. America isn't supposed to have kings.

Turns out you can act like a royal without having the title. We have, on our Supreme Court, a sitting justice who enacts his own self-loathing as a fiat with bitter repercussions for rank-and-file citizens. His finances are opaque, his friend group is elite, and he only concerns himself with pleasing those few. Why? Because the man isn't comfortable in his own skin. He's a ruler with issues.

Of course this fucked-up operator has partners in crime, all with issues, all beholden to the moneyed interests. Multiple 50-year-old precedents overturned in one year. This is a disgrace more befitting an absolute monarchy than a democracy.

Aux armes, citoyens!

It Gets Worse

 You know what? Before I became a teacher, I complained about my neighborhood, politics, and religion. Never my job. Oh, how I long for those days.

For those of you just joining the chorus at "The Gods Are Bored," I'm a school teacher at a vo-tech just east of Camden, NJ.

Earlier in the school year, I got trolled on parent night by someone who posted the "n" word and also called me a white cracker. It was good for a few laughs in the teachers' lounge.

But on Thursday, I was doing a "gallery walk" for my students' writers notebooks. The students were walking around the room, commenting on one another's notebook entries. And someone in the room wrote the "n" word on the paper of an African American student.

In all my years of teaching, I've never seen ... yada yada yada Doesn't matter. My jaw dropped and hasn't returned to normal.

The wronged student filed a report on the incident (as did I) but will not come back to class, because the criminal who wrote the word is still in my room. I know it because every kid who was there on the day it happened came back the next day -- except the victim, who is one of my brightest kids this year.

Someone in the room has been convicted in the court of public opinion, but that's not enough to get them out of my class, and out of the school. There has to be convincing proof. Which means that on Friday, I had to conduct class as if the incident hadn't even happened, hoping to collect a writing sample from each kid featuring a capital G.

I will say right out of the gate that the perpetrator could not have been Caucasian, because I only have one Caucasian kid that period (out of 23 kids total), and he's a baa lamb who sits on the other side of the room.

There's nothing quite like having to call the parent of the wronged student to apologize and try to make amends. When I say I have been shaking like a leaf and sick to my stomach since it happened, I do not exaggerate.

As a teacher, I feel like I am the captain of the ship. If someone is injured on my watch, it's my fault. And this is the worst injury a student can face in my school, short of being slam-dunked or shot. I feel horrible.

I haven't gotten blowback from administration -- yet. But that may change when I insist that the suspect be re-assigned to another classroom, even if they can't prove he did it. (The suspect is tearfully proclaiming his innocence.)

The worst part of this is not being able to flip my shit about it in front of the whole class. I have a lot of African American students in there, and I'm sure they're concluding I don't give a damn about them. Never mind the cute little Hispanic girls who are sure they know who did it, but they can't be positive, but they want to see justice served.

BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE! Every day droves of students are going home, infected with Covid or quarantining. Seven students got called out of my 9th period class on Friday. Word on the street has it that kids left on Wednesday non-stop from beginning to end.

I need the pay and benefits at my job. If I didn't, I would quit.

I would honestly rather be writing about Jeff Bozos and the Big Blue Dick Horizon, but it's hardly on my mind.

Breaking out every charm, ointment, and spell I can use to set this right. My teacher desk is going to look very interesting on Monday. I'll try to take a photo.

24 Hours, 9 Emotions

 *5:25 p.m. September 18, 2020

Had chili for supper. It was good. (Satisfaction)

*6:25 p.m.

Splayed into recliner, too tired to join Mr. J on a simple walk around the neighborhood. Promptly fell asleep in chair. (Exhaustion)

*8:25 p.m.

Awakened by daughter The Fair. Looked at t.v. RBG dead at 87. Went from sleeping to full freakout in 20 seconds. (Panic)

*9:25

Total freakout mode, panic attack, predicting the end of the nation as we know it. (Panic)

*10:25

Congratulating self on not drinking the cooking wine, but did take a sleeping pill. (Fortitude)

*5:25 a.m. September 19, 2020

Nightmare that my daughter's car was stolen. (Fear)

*6:25 a.m.

Feeling a strong urge to engage in a fracas with fascists, knowing that there is a Proud Boy rally scheduled in Philadelphia at 1:00 p.m. (Fury)

*7:25 a.m.

Persuaded by spouse to abstain from rioting in the city. (Disappointment)

*9:25 a.m.

Bought some flowers at the farmer's market. Asked for a funeral bouquet. (Sadness)

*10:25 a.m.

Bought and drank some fresh cider and had an apple cider donut at the Berlin Farmer's Market (different from aforementioned farmer's market above) ... (Satisfaction)

*11:25 a.m.

Stood with my back to the Trump merchandise booth in Berlin so the vendors could see my Gritty cross stitch jacket and Black Lives Matter pin. Stood there awhile. Then a little longer. Then sauntered away. (Fury)

*12:25 p.m.

Sat in the sun wondering what it must have felt like in the USA the morning the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Told self it must have been worse than the death of Notorious RBG. Then told self that the attack on Pearl Harbor brought out the best in Americans, while the death of RBG will probably bring out the worst. (Pensive)

*1:25 p.m.

Saw Trump's tweet that he would seat another judge on the Supreme Court because that was what he was elected to do. Replied: "Say it louder so the moderates in the back can hear you." (Fury)

*2:25 p.m.

Got a package of new clothes and they all fit. Talked to The Fair, who is on a hike with a new gentleman caller. (Dim happiness)

*4:25

Back to the recliner to read about the Proud Boys event I was dissuaded from attending. Reports indicated that over 500 residents of Philadelphia turned out to counter-protest, and if the Proud Boys even showed up at all they retreated like egg-sucking dogs without being seen. (Satisfaction)

*5:25 p.m.

Still sitting in recliner, writing blog post, wondering why my words aren't historical enough for the Smithsonian, wondering if I'll die of COVID seeing as how I have hired a Goddess who presides over the death of women. Wishing I had asked my parents how they felt when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. (Sadness)

Smoke Screens

In my favorite movie, Matewan, by John Sayles, striking miners confront union organizer Joe Kinnehan about being a conscientious objector during World War I. The miners can't understand why Joe, an able-bodied man, would rather be in jail than fighting for his country.

Joe had an easy answer: "It was just workers murdering workers."

In these days of technology and unbridled ownership, it's oh-so-easy to pit workers against workers.

Mind you, I am absolutely appalled by these draconian abortion laws being passed by state legislatures. And I am sure the lawmakers are looking with hopeful eyes to the Supreme Court to remove a woman's right to the autonomy of her own body.

But that's not why those conservative justices are sitting there. Sure, they may overturn Roe. But abortion is a "worker vs. worker" issue.

The Supreme Court was carefully constituted by men who serve the needs of the wealthiest members of the global elite. While the spotlight is on abortion, this court has ruled against class action lawsuits and has overturned a decision that required people who were receiving the benefits of a union to pay a fair share fee for those benefits. This is the court that gave us Citizens United. Remember, the Constitution was written by wealthy aristocrats, so it's not a particularly difficult reach for "originalists" to look out for the interests of the few at the expense of the many.

The people in the highest levels of our government are doing the bidding of the moneyed elites. Abortion is a smokescreen issue that allows Congress and the courts (and, needless to say, the president) to undermine our democracy and make us all weaker, poorer, and powerless.

If I have to open my home to out-of-state women seeking health care in my state, I will do it, because it's worker helping worker. But that won't make me feel any more capable of shaping the laws of this land in a way that favors working people.

Oh, and by the way. The moneyed elite don't care about climate change, either. It won't affect them, except to undermine their profit margins if people begin to care about it.

Worker! Stop fighting other workers! Fight the owners. Forget the unborn, let's make this nation safe, equitable, and fair for everyone.

An Open Call to Ancient Goddesses -- Experience Required, Full Time +

HELP WANTED -- START IMMEDIATELY

Position(s) open for Ancient Goddesses with specialty in maternal nurture.

Duties: Creating miracles for suffering mothers, fathers, and children in a morally bankrupt nation run by barbarians. Effectively blocking considerable negative power structure, most persistently against an evil ruler and his minions. Imparting peace and safety to the poorest and most disenfranchised citizens of said barbarous nation.

Hours: Full time, with considerable overtime a distinct possibility. Must be willing to work weekends and late nights. Must be willing to devote entire energy to this blighted country without any expectation of spiritual reward.

Compensation: Candles lit for you nightly by one pathetic little worshiper who has faith in next to nothing and who cannot remember a darker time in her entire life, including but not limited to the 1960s.

Benefits: Two-week vacation (if no calamity intervenes), health care with a limited primary care provider in network, and the aforementioned candles.

Experience required: 500-1000 years prior deity service to a praise and worship team consisting of Homo sapiens sapiens. No known connection to any pantheon of historical record (assuring your complete focus on this position). References, in the form of ancient archaeological artifacts, required.

Apply on Summer Solstice to Anne Johnson, as she is weeping for the pain of others and feels helpless and inept.

Equal Opportunity Employer.

The Evils of Gentrification: A Personal Perspective

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today we really, really wish we could identify Snobville by its real name. Just afraid to do it, because there are two Anne Johnsons on my street, and I don't want either of us to get harassed by our fellow Snobvillains.

On the surface of things, gentrification of inner cities seems like a great idea. Developers buy old, rundown (or abandoned) row homes and refurbish or demolish them in favor of more expensive, upscale housing. This helps increase the tax base and builds "safer" neighborhoods.

Did you ever think about what happens to the people who were living in those rundown row homes? Where do they go? How much upheaval does their moving cause to their children and their local community? Because everyone has a local community. As one of my students said, "I've lived in Camden my whole life, and it's not scary to me at all."

There are a couple of new urban young  adult novels about the toll gentrification takes on minority city dwellers. (This Side of Home, by Renee Watson, is one of them.) Anecdotally I can tell you that wealthy people who buy property in certain Philadelphia neighborhoods and seek to recreate their lifestyle among those with a different lifestyle sometimes face hostility. In my own household, I out-and-out cringed when the Spare's boyfriend said, "When I'm finished grad school I'll probably live in Camden. It's so much cheaper there." Will he be welcome? Seen as pulling the neighborhood up or splitting it apart? The answer varies. Nothing in this world is simple. I'm sure you've noticed.

Can I tell you a secret? Gentrification is not only happening in big cities. It's happening in suburban communities too. It's happening in Snobville. Right across the street from my house.

EXHIBIT A: "Before" View from My Front Door

This house was built in 1919. Behind it was a two-car garage with a one-bedroom apartment above the garage. Pretty, huh? I thought so too. But the people who lived there wanted to move away, and instead of waiting for a buyer interested in an older home, they sold to a developer. The developer used the fact that there were two residences on the property (the house, the apartment) to subdivide the lot for two full-sized luxury homes.

EXHIBIT B: Ominous Signs of Things To Come

Last fall, one day while I was at school, the house got demolished in less time than it took me to complete my teaching day. When I left in the morning it was there, and when I came home, it wasn't.

What about the trees? You ask. Eight of them are gone now. The tree cutters came on the weekend, so I couldn't avoid them. In fact, they came last Sunday for the largest tree (not pictured, off to the left).

Have you ever been wakened on a Sunday morning by an industrial-sized wood chipper and an army of chain saws? Mr. J called the police. It took the cop 40 minutes to come, during which the tree slaughter continued apace.

It took about six months for the first luxury house to be built. Asking price: $850,000 -- more than twice the value of my home across the street. The house was purchased before it was even finished.

As you might imagine from looking at the above photos, putting two houses on that property is a tight squeeze. Here's the first one, all finished.

EXHIBIT C: Four People, Four Bathrooms

The tree pictured has been cut down.

Notice the size of the house and how small the front yard is. This is the "smaller" of the two houses. The bigger one will be directly across the street from mine. If this one sold for $850 grand, I imagine the larger one will be offered at a million.

About four weeks ago, a young family moved into the house pictured above, Exhibit C. They are very young. Both are lawyers. They have a baby and a three-year-old. So basically the house has a bathroom for each inhabitant.

Probably next week, workers will begin digging the foundation for the next house. To make way for it, the largest tree on the lot had to be murdered.

EXHIBIT D: Candles on a Stump

Look at the size of that stump! This was a beautiful tree. They were cutting it down last Monday when I got home from work. (After the law chased them on Sunday.) I'm the one who put the candles there when the deed was done. The stump has since been ground out.

I don't know what you would call this, but I call it gentrification.

I've seen a lot of turnover on my block during the last 31 years. I've always been the first one to bring a casserole to the newbies and volunteer to help them with information on daycare and where to get the best birthday cake. But I cannot bring myself to welcome this new family. Their values cannot possibly be mine. Clearly they wanted a house where everything was brand spanking new, with four fucking bathrooms and no yard, front or back.

It's supremely disorienting to come home from work to the same house and the same street that you've lived on since 1987, and nothing is the same. The trees are gone. The old house is gone. In its place a butt-ugly monstrosity populated by a family that has a pathological aversion to smelling shit. And this is not Rip Van Winkle. I didn't go away for 25 years and come back to a changed world. I went to work in the morning and came back to a changed world at the end of my shift.

And then, the other day, as I drove home from work, I was greeted with one of these out in the street, in front of the new house.

EXHIBIT E: Really? REALLY?

Oh, reader. It was all I could do to just park my car and hoof it to the rear of my dwelling without blowing my stack. These spoiled yuppies wanted a brand new house, and they bought one with no yard, and now they are warning me that their tot is playing near the street?

I don't want to move. It takes me ten minutes to drive to work. The El Train to Philly is four blocks away. But I'm not comfortable. There are barbarians at the gate. They have created a wasteland and called it progress.