An Insincere Apology

A watered-down apology from Rush Limbaugh to Sandra Fluke only solidifies my belief that he is a despicable misogynist. He started off by saying, “I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke.” And you know what? I believe that. I don’t think it was meant as a personal attack on Sandra Fluke, either. I know that it was an attack on all women.  Limbaugh then proceeded with his disingenuous apology by saying, “My choice of words was not the best, and in an attempt to be humorous, I created a national stir. I sincerely apologize to Ms. Fluke for the insulting word choices.” Limbaugh’s dark side is now fully exposed, his cavernous mouth continues to spew venom.

Humorous? Calling a woman a “slut”, a “prostitute”, and a “feminazi” is his idea of humor? Suggesting that she should have to make sex tapes and post them online so we can all watch is something that he thinks will amuse his listeners? By admitting that he meant to be humorous, he is verbalizing, once again, his sexist contempt toward women and by minimizing the impact of his choice of words; he is not apologizing at all.  His three-day rant goes beyond name-calling; it is an extension of his personal view on women.

Rick Santorum, on the other hand, refuses to apologize for his stance on birth control, particularly his support of the now defeated Blunt amendment, which would have allowed employers the right to deny contraception and other health coverage based on moral reasons. Santorum acknowledged that he believes birth control is morally wrong and that employers should be able to opt out of covering it. “I’m reflecting the views of the church that I believe in,” he said. His religious belief that birth control is morally wrong pushes women’s health and contraception issues back fifty years—an unthinkable setback for Women’s Rights and a horrifying glimpse at what could become reality if Santorum, who also does not believe in the separation of church and state, were to be elected as the President of the United States.

Right-wing Republicans are becoming increasingly bolder in their war against women. The 2012 election is becoming about women, and regardless of whether they are a democrat or a republican, women must stay informed about the political issues and the candidates stances. We gained the right to vote in 1920 and we should honor that right.

Sopapipa

 I love a sugary, crispy, deep-fried sopapipa with cinnamon and honey.  Oh... wait a minute, that would be a sopapilla. Something sweet and palatable. Something  that SOPA and PIPA are not.

We live in a world of acronyms that effortlessly  slip off our tongues and sometimes disguise or minimize the intent of an organization or group. Stop Online Piracy Act catches my attention while SOPA did not. Protest Intellectual Property Act (PIPA)  makes me wonder...what is this about? I'm sure there were a lot of people today who were unaware of these two House bills until they sought information from Google or Wikipedia and saw a blacked out Google logo and a shut down Wikipedia site. Google and Wikipedia are protesting the expansion of U.S. law enforcement to include online copyright infringement. The provisions of these bills would include requesting court orders to ban web search engines from linking to certain websites, and would require that internet service providers block access to the websites. The proposed law would have expanded existing criminal laws to include unauthorized streaming of copyrighted content, imposing a maximum penalty of five years in prison.

Who requested that SOPA and PIPA bills be drawn up to put the squeeze on the sale of pirated United States products via the internet? The film and music industry,of course. SONY to be exact. Like these guys don't make enough money? Let's pick on the Kardashians for example. They can't sing, dance, or act, but are worth hundreds of  millions collectively, and we can only imagine what financial horrors might happen to their nine-digit incomes, or to BravoTV network, or NBC,  if a bored late-night viewer in Italy illegally downloaded one of their episodes. This is my own generalization, but this is what SOPA and PIPA are really about.  More money, more money, more money. The film and music industries make untold billions from lucrative royalties and they want more. Sony is not satisfied.

If the legislation were passed, a provision would be to enable federal authorities to block sites accused of piracy or copyright infringement. Not convicted, but accused. Sounds a bit Big Brotherish, doesn't it? The vagueness of the bill would definitely have an impact on online freedoms. Though not a supporter of piracy,  I am definitely a proponent of freedom of speech and expression and believe the government should not have the right to regulate the internet. Everyone should have the right to free internet material without having to pay for it. I am aware that there are some websites you have to pay for and rightly so. They are not for the general public, and are separate from the issues I am addressing.

The bold protest by Wikipedia in shutting down for twenty-four hours with the message -  "Imagine a World Without Free Knowledge." I can't. Contact your local Congressperson and let them know you do not support SOPA or PIPA. The First Amendment is worth fighting for.

The Shame of Penn State

A Pennsylvania Grand Jury has released a report alleging that sexual crimes against young boys were committed by Jerry Sandusky between the years of 1994 through 2009. Sandusky admitted in an interview that he took showers with the boys, touched their thighs, and “enjoyed horsing around with them.” In 2002, Mike McQueary, a graduate assistant, witnessed Sandusky sodomizing a young boy in the shower. Not touching his thigh. Not horsing around. A brutal rape. McQueary reported what he saw to Coach Joe Paterno, who in turn reported the abuse to Penn State’s Athletic Director. The result? Nothing. There was no further investigation by university staff, no police report filed, no trauma counseling for the wounded child.

As an advocate for victims of abuse, I was naturally disturbed when I heard about these horrendous allegations of child sexual abuse, but I was equally dismayed when I watched Penn State student’s reactions to the firing of long-time coach, Joe Paterno. It saddened me to realize that these young people did not understand the severity of the allegations.

The effects of sexual abuse are long-term, far-reaching, and devastating for the victims. Children who have experienced sexual abuse battle a multitude of psychological problems. They suffer from depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and social and emotional developmental damage. They themselves may become sexual predators and perpetrators, continuing the demoralizing cycle of abuse. They practice self-medication with illicit drugs and alcohol in order to block disturbing feelings, forget disgusting memories, and numb emotional pain. In 1998, the National Institute on Drug Abuse reported that as many as two-thirds of people in drug treatment programs reported being abused as children. The child’s psychological problems often manifest into high-risk behaviors, including promiscuity and prostitution. In their adult relationships they struggle with intimacy and trust issues. Victims must receive counseling to deal with the emotional trauma and follow-up with psychological support throughout the healing process.

It is critical that any act, or suspected act, of sexual or physical abuse be reported immediately to the proper authorities. This is the shame of Penn State University. Their failure to act allowed a child molester to continue his systematic sexual attacks upon vulnerable, innocent young boys.

The grand jury indictment against Jerry Sandusky is very specific and graphic with credible witnesses. My hope is that the notoriety of this particular case will educate the public about the mandatory reporting laws that define state roles in protecting children from abuse.

Geronimo, Union Workers, and General Miles: Six Degrees of Separation

On September 4, 1886, Geronimo surrendered for the final time to government troops, ending three decades of war between the Chiricahua Apache leader and the United States cavalry. Between 1874 and 1886, Geronimo had been captured and/or surrendered several times, and each time, he escaped and continued to fight for ownership of his native land. His surrender in 1886 was to General Nelson A. Miles, who had recently replaced General Crook in the quest to bring in the Apache chief. General Miles pursued Geronimo over three thousand miles of scorching desert terrain and deep into the treacherous Sierra Madre Mountains before negotiating a surrender that exiled Geronimo and his followers to the state of Florida.

Tomorrow, September 5th, is Labor Day, a holiday first celebrated in 1883 in New York City. In 1885, the Central Labor Union designated the first Monday in September as Labor Day and the observance spread from city to city and from state to state. In 1894, with the approval of Congress, it became a legal holiday honoring American workers for their contributions to the economic prosperity of our developing nation. The holiday was first proposed by the labor movement, but disagreement persists to this day as to which union leader can take the credit—Peter McGuire, Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners, or Matthew Maguire, International Association of Machinists. McGuire, also the co-founder of the American Federation of Labor (AFL), gave a moving speech proposing a federal holiday to credit those “who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold.”

The epitome of grandeur at this time was the Pullman Sleeping Car, a luxury rail car designed and manufactured by entrepreneur George Pullman. The sleeping cars were a lavish display of rich décor - patterned carpets, tasseled draperies, gold-gilded accessories, and velvet upholstered furniture. Some cars came with separate libraries and sleeping quarters and offered the services of a porter, known as the Pullman Porter, which led to the creation of yet another union; the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, comprised of African-American males.

Congress passed the Labor Day Federal Holiday act after the workers at the Pullman Company, along with the American Railway Union (ARU), staged a strike against the Pullman Company for cutting factory worker’s wages while continuing to charge high rents to the workers. Pullman had created a city outside his factory and all his workers were required to live there and rent from him, even purchasing their food and gas from his profitable stores. The embittered workers and the ARU began a boycott of all Pullman sleeper cars. In four days, 125,000 workers on twenty-nine railroads across the country refused to handle Pullman cars, the factory workers walked out, and the first nationwide labor strike in the history of the United States was underway.

Edwin Walker, Counsel for the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul Railway, obtained a court injunction that prohibited the union leaders from supporting the boycott. The ARU ignored the injunction and continued with the strike. President Grover Cleveland then sent in federal troops to force a shutdown of the strike. Thousands of U.S. Army soldiers descended upon the strikers; killing thirteen and wounding fifty-seven others. The Pullman Strike came to a bloody end.

Who was the U.S. Army Commander who led the U.S. soldiers in their attack against the Pullman strikers? General Nelson A. Miles.

I came, I saw, I retreated.

I experienced a twenty-four hour sensory extravaganza in downtown Denver this weekend where the sport of people-watching rivals that found in Times Square. I was on a mission: to determine whether or not I could live in a metro loft above crowds of people bustling about day and night and endure the dissonance of car horns, sirens, multi-genre music, and seasonal roar of Coors Field spectators. I would also test the waters of the twice daily bumper-to-bumper rush hour commute on I-70.

After checking into the Sheraton Hotel for a complimentary stay (see Categories/Travel/Feb 07, 2011/Beware! Vampire Bugs) and studying the map the concierge gave me, I started out on-foot for the LoDo District. Five blocks later, sweat trickling down the back of my neck and knees, I boarded the 16^th Street Mall Shuttle en route to Union Station.

Within minutes, three teenage boys jumped on, cursing and maligning someone who was, by now, out of sight. Obnoxious and vulgar, armed with attitudes meant to intimidate, they were intent upon dominating the shuttle’s small space as they blocked the rear door, ignoring the physical shifting of apprehensive tourists and apathetic locals. I observed the trio of angry adolescent males and noticing that each had a slight physical disfigurement marring their appearance, I speculated that they had been fighting for their rank in life since they were young school boys.

Walking back to the hotel, I came upon two young black men, around ages 18 or 19, talking to two very young white girls - one with spikey dark purple hair and the other with pink and black streaks mixed in with her long blonde locks. I could easily overhear their conversation.

“See ya, later. Nice meeting ya.” The taller of the two grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him away from the girls.

“What the fuck was that?” his friend protested. “They were hot. They wanted us, man. What the...”

“Yeah, right. That’s what you call trouble. If I called my mama at work and said, ‘Hey, Mama, I just picked up two fourteen-year-old white girls and I’m bringin’ ‘em home’, she would say, ‘The hell you are! Are you crazy boy?’ An, she right. That’s trouble, man. That’s what that is.”

“So, don’t tell her they white!” his friend argued.

“It’s not the color man, it’s the age, the age. Forget about them. They trouble. C’mon, the night is waitin’ on us.” His overall manner was in sharp contrast to the three on the shuttle; he had an air of confidence and sincerity, characteristics that his mama had undoubtedly instilled in him by taking the time to teach her boy the importance of values and the existence of right and wrong.

I had several appointments to view lofts and when I finished with that, I sauntered down the city blocks - watching street performers, chatting with a roadie setting up an outdoor stage for a rock-n-roll band that would be performing for a charity benefit, and finally selecting the outside patio at Willie G’s Steak and Seafood to rest and eat dinner. After all the walking and eavesdropping, I was famished. Willie’s signature seafood trio salad called out to me – shrimp remoulade, smoked salmon, and cold jumbo shrimp served on top of beefsteak tomatoes. I downed a bottle of Pellegrino water and savored a glass of Moet & Chandon champagne while continuing to watch the pedestrian parade. Couples strolled by hand-in-hand, their  eyes locked and chemistry sizzling, while others walked with a foot of space between them, unaware that their body language indicated to others that their passion for one another was waning. I watched as the homeless trudged by with downcast eyes, burdened with heavy backpacks and sorrow. Teenage girls shared secrets that made them giggle at the awkward, boisterous boys who vied for their attention. All would be my neighbors if I chose to become a downtown dweller.

The lofts I viewed were amazing with exposed brick walls, granite counters, wood floors, and private courtyards or rooftop swimming pools, but after one day I was ready to head northwest, back to my son’s apartment with its unobstructed view of the Rockies and uncongested streets. Saying a prayer of thanks as I turned onto Highway 36 West, I retreated to the mountains.  My housing search continues, but the lofty fantasy of downtown living is over.

Denver or Bust

I am in the midst of a move to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. My weekend was spent sorting clothes, shoes, coats, and toiletries into piles of yes, no, and maybe. How many bottles of shampoo and conditioner does one woman need? I didn't realize how out of control my fragrances had become, either. Expensive designer perfumes and lotions purchased over the past twenty years that I have been stubbornly hanging onto even though they probably smell like hell now. Three contractor bags later, I feel like my personal belongings are manageable and moveable.

After move number seventy, I vowed to quit counting...and I did. This move is hovering somewhere around ninety, but I am not sure. The very first time I left my home state of South Dakota I was nineteen years old and I landed in Denver. I am now moving back. Have I come full circle in my travels? Is this where I will weather out my final years? I have no way of knowing at this juncture. Oglala Lakota nomadic blood still courses through my veins, pumping adrenaline along with red and white blood cells, promising excitement, challenge, and change. Where will I unpack this time? House? Condo? Townhome? Apartment? I don't prefer the latter, yet a tiny voice keeps whispering "Downtown loft"—a lifestyle I have yet to try. This thought has been nagging me since my trip to New York City in January. Moving to Manhattan is not financially feasible, but the notion of not having to drive everywhere appeals to me. I can see me walking out of a newly renovated historical warehouse into the heart of the arts district, drinking mocha latte and reading the morning news perched upon a stool in the local java house, returning after work to eat Eggplant Parmigiano at an Italian bistro, and then walking a block to my spacious loft to watch the sun slip behind the Rockies. These romantic ruminations fuel the fire that is necessary to perform the drudgery of purging and packing.

In reality, where I live in the Denver area will depend on where I find employment. I have numerous resumes floating in cyberspace and have had several promising phone interviews. There will be no change in my career path. I am sticking to what I know and where I excel—construction, architecture, and design—and with Denver currently booming in the energy market, ranking fourth in the world after Dubai, Calgary, and Rio de Janeiro,* there are new positions being created in my field.

The job market may be hot for me, but the decision to relocate to Denver came from my heart. I miss my little family who moved here earlier this year. In their absence, my inner joy has gradually subsided. I can’t bear to be separated from my granddaughter’s smile, laughter, and contagious enthusiasm for life, and I know the cure for this temporary melancholy. And so, a new chapter unfolds.

* Colorado Energy News, July 5^th, 2011. Denver Top Five Hub for Oil and Gas Professionals. Staff reporter.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"

 

Has there ever, in Hollywood history, been a more handsome rakish man or enticing manipulative woman? Has any other onscreen couple engaged in so many passionate squabbles? I don't think so. Entranced with the love story at age fourteen, I made this movie an annual "must watch" for many years, never tiring of watching Rhett Butler's devilish smile as he pulls  Scarlett to his chest, "Scarlett! Look at me! I've loved you more than I've ever loved any woman and I've waited for you longer than I've ever waited for any woman. Here's a soldier of the South who loves you, Scarlett. Wants to feel your arms around him, wants to carry the memory of your kisses into battle with him. Never mind about loving me, you're a woman sending a soldier to his death with a beautiful memory. Scarlett! Kiss me!"

That is all that we saw in the film—grasping, kissing, and morning-after gloating, but it was enough for me, and for the millions of other women who have watched the movie "Gone with the Wind" in the past seventy decades. I'm sure there have been almost as many men who have watched the film (at the insistence of their significant other) but I don't think they find it as titillating as a woman does.

Margaret Mitchell's Pulitzer Prize winning book, one of the best-selling novels in history, was published in June 1936, supposedly on this very day, and remains a timeless classic. David O. Selznick, Hollywood producer, knew a winner when he read one and wasted no time in purchasing the film rights to her book for $50,000.00. The production cost of the movie was 3.9 million and in 2010 (with inflation adjustment) had grossed 2.9 billion dollars. The classic film won ten academy awards. Vivien Leigh won Best Actress, but Clark Gable, up against Robert Donat for "Goodbye, Mr. Chips", did not win Best Actor. Humph. Hattie McDaniel won Best Supporting Actress, which made her the first African-American actress to be nominated and to win.

The accolades do not stop there. Mitchell gave us the unforgettable line, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," which was voted the #1 movie line of all time in 2005 by the American Film Institute.

Sadly, Mitchell did not live to write another novel. In 1949, at the age of 48, she was struck, and killed, by a drunken driver while crossing Peachtree Street in Atlanta, Georgia. The driver was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and served eleven months in prison. I am grateful she was on this earth long enough to write her glorious tale of the old south.