Author: frankisemptiness

August 30th, 2019

“Bodhisattva, would you take me by the hand
Bodhisattva, would you take me by the hand
Can you show me the shine of your Japan
The sparkle of your china, can you show me?”

from “Bodhisattva” from Steely Dan

Karin and I spent the day prior to the land purification helping the monks and nuns get things set up. Actually, most of the time, I just acted like I was helping. There was an excess of labor available at the Ground Zero site. Remembering back to my Army days, I made every effort to at least look busy. Sometimes, I failed to even do that.

When I went outside after breakfast, I found Toby, a monk from Massachusetts, on his hands and knees. He was scrubbing the pavement around the stupa with a wire brush. Why? I don’t know. The concrete looked good to me, but I guess it wasn’t clean enough for the ceremony. I asked Toby if he wanted help. He did, so I took over from him.

What is a stupa? Well, in this case, it is sort of a monument. In the center of the concrete pavement is a massive base made of large stones. On the top of the base is a tall granite slab. The slab has Japanese writing inscribed on opposite sides. The phrase “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” is written in gold paint. Buried under the stupa are the remnants of a crucifix and a statue of the Buddha. These fragments were fused together in a fire started on this property by two Marines from the neighboring naval base. The arson occurred thirty-seven years ago.

Kamoshita, a young monk from Okinawa, was standing on top of the base of the stupa. He was washing down the large, upright granite slab. The hunk of stone was taller than Kamoshita. He stood on a ledge and diligently cleaned the granite.

Several people were raking the dirt around the site of the soon-to-be-erected peace pagoda. The site was circular and looked like a moon crater. Inside of the crater were concentric rings etched in the soil. There was some steel rebar sticking up in the very center of the circle.

Other people were working on the altar. It had three levels, and those would eventually be covered with flowers, and food offerings, and a statue of the Buddha. Flags were being set up near the altar. Post holes were dug in order to set up artificial trees with paper flowers.

Karin was inside the Ground Zero building. She was there with Takashi and some other folks. They were polishing brass bowls and ornaments. Denise was placing vegetables into a bowl and trying to make it look something like a flower arrangement. Other food offerings were already set up. There were pyramids of oranges. Watermelons had somehow been made to stand upright. There numerous vases filled with flowers and ferns. Most everything was going to stay inside until the next morning, and then the altar would be decorated prior to the land purification ritual.

Udae and Ben were in the kitchen cooking. I steered clear of that. Udae was like a whirlwind, in constant motion. He knew exactly what he as doing, and he didn’t seem to need any extra assistance.

Work continued throughout the day. I’m not sure who was in charge. Maybe nobody was. It was hard for me to tell because often the people were speaking in Japanese. I felt kind of lost. I guess that was okay, because everything got done.

 

 

 

 

 

August 30th, 2019

The night after the purification ceremony was confused and chaotic. Karin and I had thought that we might be able to sleep in the temple at Nipponzan Myohoji. Senji told us that was not to be the case. We were not going to sleep in the hondo, the sanctuary. I was a bit disappointed by that news. I really wanted to sleep at least one time in the temple. I often have nightmares, and I thought that maybe a night in the hondo would keep my demons at bay. I guess I will never know.

Instead, Senji told us that we would be sleeping in the house at Ground Zero. Actually, that was not at all a bad gig. There was a queen size bed in the attic, and that was just right for Karin and myself. We shared the attic room with Utsumi and Denise. Both Utsumi and Denise were Buddhists from the Atlanta temple, and they are currently  building a peace pagoda in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Utsumi has a rough voice, reminiscent of Marlon Brando in “The Godfather”. He seems to be ready for anything. Denise is a gentle and sensitive woman, a good listener. We were all settling down to sleep when we heard voices from the floor below us.

Two visitors had arrived. I knew nothing about them except for the fact that they were loud. Ben, who apparently is the unofficial ambassador for Ground Zero, welcomed them into the house. I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to see who the newcomers were.

Ben was in the kitchen, cleaning up dishes. One of the visitors was with him. I greeted the stranger. The person wore Buddy Holly glasses and a Michael Jackson perm.

The person’s first words were, “Hi. I’m León. I’m trans. Do you know what that is?”

I replied, “I’ve heard about it.”

I was tired and not on top of my game. The visitor had a Latin accent, but I couldn’t place it. I tried to make conversation, but I didn’t get very far.

The other visitor came into the kitchen. I’m pretty sure that she was from New York. This woman was not shy at all. Somehow, she knew Senji and Jun Sen and some of the other Buddhists. She was more than willing to provide us with her trendy, progressive credentials. I mentioned to her that I had been with the Indians on the Longest Walk last year. She made it clear that she had deep connections with indigenous peoples. I was using the wrong words to describe the Native Americans, apparently.

Ben asked me a question,

“Frank, your son told you that this might be a good time for you to try weed. You want to smoke some?”

Note: I have never tried marijuana. I don’t know why. It just hasn’t happened.

Before I could answer Ben, the New Yorker blurted out,

“I don’t smoke anything!”

Good to know.

I told Ben that I wasn’t interested in weed right at that moment. However, I would be willing to sample a glass of red wine. Ben was good with that.

I tried to resume the conversation with the New Yorker. I told her,

“I’m former military.”

Bad move. Very bad move.

She gave me a hard stare and said,

“Well, thank you. And I am sorry (for you).”

I replied, “I’m sorry too.”

She got onto her soap box.

“I am opposed to ALL types of violence!”

“And you think that I’m not?”

The woman paused momentarily, and said, “I don’t know you. I can’t judge.”

I said dryly, “You’re right. You don’t know me.”

The conversation aborted then and there.

Ben and I drank some red wine, and then I went back to the attic.

Karin and I settled into bed, and Ben came upstairs to talk. He noticed our situation and said,

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll come back some other time. Sorry.”

Last year, I spent some time with a Cherokee warrior who held court in his bedroom (with his girlfriend beside him). The guy had a bad back, and had to lie down frequently. Karin had met both of them (in their bedroom). It seemed like it was our turn to hold court.

I told Ben, “Hey, come on in.”

He said sheepishly, “I wasn’t sure if you all were decent.”

I replied, “Even if we were naked, we would still be decent.”

He grimaced, “Now I have an image in my head of you being naked.”

“Sorry, man.”

Ben went on, “That thing downstairs…I’m sorry about that.”

“I made a bad first impression.”

Ben said, “Well, the woman basically told you that you had joined the military because you liked to kill people.”

“You think?”

Ben replied, “That’s what I heard. She pushed one of your buttons, and I think she was surprised when you pushed one of hers.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

Ben left Karin and me. I laid in bed and thought.

The woman had said that she could not judge me, but she had been doing that ever since the moment she first laid eyes on me. The truth is that I had been doing the same thing. I was judging her, and I am still doing that.

Everybody on the group, including the two newcomers, went to the Olympic National Park the next morning. The New Yorker lent Karin her scarf when Karin was cold on Hurricane Ridge. That woman is a good person. I know that. However…

we will never connect.

I don’t know why. It just is. Shitty karma. Stupidity on my part. Whatever.

It’s a shame, and I feel bad about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 30th, 2019

We were almost home. The train had just stopped in Columbus, and we seemed to have no concerns. We had our bags packed, and it was only an hour to Milwaukee.

Karin looked into her handbag, and became agitated. She said,

“I can’t find my jewelry bag!”

I rolled my eyes. Karin often cannot find her things. We blame it on ADD, which seems to be the flip side of creativity. Karin is endlessly inventive, and she can never locate her car keys. It is not unusual for her to lose something. Fortunately, it has (so far) never been anything really important.

I waited for a moment until Karin had searched our entire sleeper room. Then I asked her,

“Did you forget it in the shower this morning?”

She immediately replied, “No! I had it here when we went to breakfast.”

We sat across from each other for several minutes, as the train roared through the corn country.

I asked, “What does the bag look like?”

Karin answered, “It’s just a little bag, like a purse with a clasp. It’s colorful.”

I asked her, “Do you want to ask the attendant to look for it for you? We could ask Donald to check around for it.”

Karin shrugged.

Then she said, “There isn’t anything really valuable in the bag. It just had some earrings that you bought for me. That, and a ring from Oma (Karin’s mom). And a bracelet.”

Karin tried to keep a brave face, but she failed to do so. I had bought the earrings in Arlington, Virginia, at an immigration conference. The earrings were from Guatemala. Karin was right. Nothing in that bag was valuable in a monetary way, but everything meant something to her. Everything was somehow irreplaceable.

Neither of us spoke. We just looked out the window.

The train pulled into the station at Milwaukee. We grabbed our belongings and found our Lyft ride.

We never talked about the little bag.

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 29th, 2019

“Don’t give me answers or I would refuse
‘Yes’ is a word for which I have no use
And I wasn’t looking for Heaven or Hell
Just someone to listen to stories I tell”

from “Stories I Tell” by Toad the Wet Sprocket (a really good song, by the way)

I tell stories. I’m good at that. It is curious to me that, as I tell stories, the emotional impact for me diminishes. I read once that we initially remember actual events, but later we only remember the narratives that we have created around those events. I think that is true. Often the actual events are too traumatic or confusing to describe. So, we make up a story, something that makes a bit of sense, to explain what happened. The story may or may not have anything to do with an objective reality. However, the story is the only reality that we can tolerate.

It was the morning after the land purification ceremony. I was just hanging around the Ground Zero house, waiting for breakfast to begin. I sat next to Sawada, a Japanese monk who currently runs the temple in Los Angeles. We hadn’t really spoken before, so we haltingly tried to get to know each other.

We sat, and we talked about languages for a while. I told Sawada that I had learned Arabic in the Army. Then I told him about how our son, Hans, had gone to Iraq to fight. Sawada nodded, and said,

“Yes, I read your letter about ‘Memorial Day’. It was very good.”

Then he placed his hands together and made gassho.

I talked about Hans and the war. I started telling Sawada the old story about what had happened to Hans. It was like a recitation for me. I was telling the monk a story that I had told many people many times in the past.

Then he put his hand on my knee.

That move was the emotional equivalent of getting stuck with a cattle prod.

My mind shifted abruptly. I was no longer telling Sawada a story. I was back in the story. I was back in a small room, talking with Hans on the phone. I went back ten years ago, listening to Hans tell me things that I never wanted to hear. In a way, I was no longer with Sawada.

I lost track of my words. I shook my head and told Sawada,

“Uh, well, then I asked Hans if he had shot a man in Iraq…”

Sawada looked at me intently, and nodded for me to continue.

I bit my upper lip, and then I said,

“Hans said ‘Yes’, and then it was quiet.”

My eyes misted. I told Sawada,

“I asked Hans if the man died.”

Sawada stroked my shoulder with his hand.

Then I said, “Hans told me, ‘Yeah, I guess so. I pumped thirty rounds into him.’ He said that so calmly.”

My chest heaved. Fuck, that hurt. Goddammit.

Sawada nodded again.

I got up. I needed to get away.

Sawada stood up with me.

He hugged me. He hugged me like he would never let me go.

I cried.

Eventually, we came apart. He smiled at me and said,

“Thank you so much for your words.”

He bowed and made gassho.

I went outside to pray.

 

 

 

 

August 29th, 2019

The land surrounding Puget Sound is remarkably vibrant and beautiful. Even now, in the dry season, almost everything is still lush and green. Last week, Karin and I were on a small piece of property owned by Ground Zero near Poulsbo, Washington. This lot, like most of the land around it, is mostly covered with towering Douglas firs and cedars. The underbrush consists of ferns, rhododendrons, and blackberry bushes. There are lots of blackberry bushes.

The blackberry bushes would probably be considered an invasive species, if they were anywhere else. The bushes have thorny canes that reach out to cover almost all objects blocking their  way. Fresh shoots from the bushes find new paths wherever and however they can. If left unchecked, blackberries can take over everything, and it seems that they often do. The saving grace of these bushes, at least in August, is that the berries are ripe and sweet and always within reach. It required literally no effort for me to feast on the blackberries.

Karin and I were staying at Ground Zero in order to help with the land purification ceremony that the Japanese Buddhists (Nichiren order) were preparing. The ritual was to be performed in anticipation of the construction of a peace pagoda on that spot. The people affiliated with Ground Zero are adamantly opposed to the possession and use of nuclear weapons. Ground Zero’s property is adjacent to the U.S. Navy nuclear submarine base at Bangor, Washington. Ground Zero and the Navy are uneasy neighbors. It’s more than a bit ironic. The Buddhists had attempted to build a peace pagoda right next to the naval base almost thirty-seven years ago. Their efforts were interrupted when two Marines from the base burned the original structure to the ground. It is only now that the monks and nuns are ready to resume their work.

I had some free time while I was hanging out with the Japanese monks and nuns. I used some of that time to go for long walks. Ground Zero is on the Clear Water Creek Road. After going along that road in one direction, I walked onto an overpass that was very close to the entrance of the naval base. Clear Creek Road rose high above the street that led to the military base. From the bridge, I watched the cars go into the base, and the cars that left from it. It all seemed so mundane, so ordinary. I just stood and watched, and watched.

I was in West Germany during the Cold War. I was an American soldier there. Every day I woke up wondering if we would go to war with the Russians. We didn’t, but that thought was always in my mind. Always. I was always conscious of the fact the end of the world was nigh. Now, people don’t think about a nuclear holocaust. I don’t understand why that is. The end of the Cold War did not solve the problem of nuclear weapons. We simply chose to ignore the problem. The nukes are all still there. Waiting.

As I stood on the bridge, I had time to think. I thought about the fact that a number of Trident submarines are stationed at the Bangor base, and that each of these subs carries ballistic missiles with multiple nuclear warheads. Each of these submarines has the power to destroy millions of people, almost instantaneously. I also considered the fact that Bangor is certainly a target for any enemy of the United States. This facility, along with anything within hundreds of miles of it, would be obliterated in a war. This lush, fertile land would become like Sodom and Gomorrah. All that I could see and hear and feel would be gone in a flash.

I saw blackberry canes coming through the cracks in the concrete at the side of the overpass. They found paths through even the tiniest spaces. There were some ripe blackberries available to be picked.

I reached for a berry and pricked my hand on a thorn. It hurt. I swore to myself and pulled my hand away. I ate the berry, and then I looked at my hand. My fingers and thumb were stained with the juice of the fruit, and there was also a bit of blood mixed in with it. I wiped my hand on a concrete slab.

I turned to look again at the gate to the naval base. I couldn’t understand. I can’t wrap my head around Armageddon. It’s just too hard. I can’t imagine everything dying.

Even the blackberries.

 

August 17th, 2019

“But beware and watch yourself very well, lest you forget the things that your eyes saw, and lest these things depart from your heart, all the days of your life, and you shall make them known to your children and to your children’s children.” – the words of Moses, from the Book of Deuteronomy

“Live dangerously and you live right.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Rabbi Dinin gave a quick sermon just prior to the Torah reading. I didn’t stay for the actual reading. I probably should have. It was the Parashat Va’etchanan, and, like all the parts of the Torah, it has several layers of meaning. The rabbi spoke briefly about the need for every person to “watch yourself”. As I understood it, he meant that, in order to remember and follow the commandments of God, each individual has to care for his or her own physical body, and refrain from doing dangerous things. Caring for one’s own body is an act of gratitude toward God.

That all seems very reasonable, but…what does it really entail?

Let me say upfront that that the rabbi’s sermons make me think. Sermons should do that. Sadly, I cannot remember most of the sermons that I have heard during the course of my life. Preaching can cause amnesia in the listener. It is not unusual for me to forget everything I heard in church, once I leave the parking lot. However, this rabbi keeps me interested even after I walk out of the synagogue. That is remarkable.

It is hard to argue that caring for one’s own body is a bad thing. Hell, Karin tells me to put on a scarf when it’s cold outside. There are plenty of exercise and health gurus to tell us that smoking, drinking, doping, and all the other usual vices are bad for us. However, we keep doing those things. Well, I keep doing some of these things. Other people have greater willpower and fortitude than I do. I have made peace with several of my bad habits, and I don’t expect to abandon them any time soon.

Then there is the subject of living dangerously. I have great respect for those people who live on the edge. I admire the ones who can befriend danger.

“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” – Kurt Vonnegut

Do I ever live on the edge? Yes, at times. I certainly lived on the edge when I was a helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army. For five years I did things that were objectively crazy. I distinctly remember moments of raw terror. Do I regret having had these experiences? No, not at all. Those were the times when I felt completely alive.

Now, I look at our kids. They are all fearless, and occasionally reckless.

Hans joined the Army, and he went to fight in Iraq in 2011. He got shot twice, and he killed people. When he came back from the war, he started skydiving to get the necessary Adrenalin rush. He bought himself a Kawasaki crotch rocket, and cranked it up to 150 mph on the Texas Motor Speedway. He really likes guns. He has been with motorcycle gangs. He has worked in the oil fields, and now he pumps concrete for a living. Enough said. 

Our daughter has done many brave things. She has also done things that were perhaps unwise. Enough said.

Stefan is an Iron Worker. By definition, he lives dangerously. Stefan sends us videos of himself, walking on steel beams that are several stories above the ground. He was once suspended in a cage from a crane, about 24 stories above downtown Milwaukee to do some work on a building project. In his free time he rides a motorcycle. Enough said.

There is a fine line between courage and stupidity. Some of us cross that line a bit too often.

The paradox is that we need to care for ourselves, and we also need to push ourselves to find our limits. We can’t always play it safe. I know people who have played it safe for their entire lives. In the end, they will be just as dead as I will be. The only difference is that I have stories to tell, and they don’t.

How do we serve God best? Each person’s journey is different. Some people, like Thérèse of Lisieux, lived lives of quiet contemplation, and they have inspired millions to emulate them. Others, like Gandhi or Martin Luther King Jr, had wild adventures, and they likewise inspire many people.

I guess the point is for each person to find his or her unique path to the Divine. You have to “watch yourself”. So do I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 11th, 2019

Father Michael blessed our marriage at the end of Mass today. He blessed another couple last Sunday. The previous husband and wife team had been together for fifty-seven years. Karin and I only have thirty-five years. We’re just getting started.

Father Michael has a standard format that he uses to bless marriages. He starts by asking the couple,

“Do you remember when the priest told you to give the sign of peace to your spouse?”

Apparently, that is the usual way for the priest to have the husband kiss his new bride, at least in America. Karin and I wouldn’t know about that. We were married in Karin’s home village in Germany, and her Lutheran pastor presided over our wedding ceremony. For us, it was all very different.

Father Michael asked us his leading question.

I promptly replied, “We didn’t do that.”

I said that just to be contrary. It’s what I do.

Father Michael was not deterred. He said to us,

“Well, you will NOW!”

So, Karin and I hugged each other in front of the congregation.

Father Michael rolled his eyes, and said,

“Frank, she’s your wife, not your sister. Kiss her!”

We tried again. We kissed. People applauded. Karin was happy. Father Michael was satisfied.

Later, Karin and I had brunch with Stefan at an African/Caribbean restaurant. Then we went to the Sprecher Tap for a couple beers. Stefan’s girlfriend, Beth, works there part time as a bartender.

We sat at the bar, and Karin showed Beth photos from our wedding. Karin had them on her phone. Beth looked at the pictures and laughed.

I asked, “Is that a mocking kind of laugh?”

Beth shook her head and smiled, “No, these pictures are just so sweet. You two look so young.”

Well, yeah. We were young then. Now we are an old married couple, “ein altes Ehepaar”.

Karin explained some of the pictures; like who the people were and where the photos were taken. Beth already knew some of our wedding stories. She knew about how Karin had been kidnapped by the single male guests at our reception, and how I had to track her down in various taverns in the village. Beth thought that sounded totally fun. Beth liked the picture us making a procession though Karin’s hometown, from her parents’ house to the church.

Stefan had already heard the legends of our wedding many times, so he was a bit bored. Beth looked at him. She said,

“I always thought that you looked like your mom, but I see now that you look a lot like your dad.”

Stefan shrugged.

Beth looked at a picture of me at the wedding, and then she stared straight at me. She looked at the photo on the phone again, and then she asked me,

“So, who is this guy in the picture?”

I answered, “Don’t know. He doesn’t come around any more.”

Beth laughed. She said,

“I never really thought of you guys as being old. I mean Karin looks pretty much the same, but you…well, you have had some interesting years, eh?”

“Yeah, I got some mileage.”

She smiled and asked, “Would you have it any other way?”

I shook my head, but then told her, “There are a couple things that I would have preferred not to have experienced…”

Beth replied quickly, “Okay, so what are your regrets? You brought it up.”

I wasn’t ready for that. Would anybody be ready for that? Beth has the tendency to ask piercing questions at unexpected times. There aren’t many specific actions that I regret. I wish that I hadn’t spent so many years as an angry bastard, but that is kind of general.

I could have told Beth that I regret joining the military. In retrospect I clearly did not belong in the Army. On the other hand, if I hadn’t joined up, I would have never gone to West Germany, and I would have never met Karin, and Stefan wouldn’t be alive, and we wouldn’t have celebrated our anniversary yesterday at the taproom, and Beth wouldn’t have asked me about my regrets.

With Karin with me, I had no regrets.

 

 

 

 

 

August 11th, 2019

This letter was published yesterday in the Capital Times. I wanted to say much more in the article, but I decided to be brief and to the point. It usually works better that way.

 

“Officials from the state of Texas have decided to pursue the death penalty against the shooter in El Paso. Likewise, President Trump today announced that he wants to use capital punishment in the cases of mass murderers and perpetrators of hate crimes. The prosecutors in Texas and our president all think it is good idea for the government to kill the killers.

But is it a good idea?

Is the death penalty a deterrent? Severe consequences for heinous crimes make sense if the person who intends to commit the crime is rational. However, President Trump has already stated that he thinks that both the shooter in El Paso and the shooter in Dayton are mentally ill. The death penalty obviously stops a murderer from killing again, but does the execution of the criminal keep others from copying him? Especially for people like white nationalists, wouldn’t the death of the convicted murderer just make him a martyr for the cause?

Do we stop violence with more violence?”

August 7th, 2019

The Robert E. Ellsworth Correctional Center isn’t a bad facility, but it’s still a prison. It’s nestled in a country setting near Union Grove, Wisconsin. From a distance it looks quite nice; surrounded by cornfields, and groves of mature oaks and hickories. It is only when you get close enough to see the high chain link fences and the razor wire that you realize that this is not a happy place.

Karin and I drove there a few days ago to meet up with the girl that we love. We parked our car in the lot, and then we went inside of a bureaucratic building in order to be cleared by a guard so that we visit with the young woman. The inspection process at Ellsworth is just as stringent as it is at the Taycheedah prison, which is a maximum security facility. It’s just that at Ellsworth, the guards aren’t wound so tight. When we went to Taycheedah to see our girl, it often felt like the visitors were considered to be criminals as the inmates. At Ellsworth, the guard does his job, but it’s slightly more relaxed. He isn’t afraid to joke around a bit, especially if he knows some of the visitors.

There was a guy going through security who was obviously a regular. He gave the guard a slip of paper that indicated the name of the prisoner that he wanted to visit. The guard looked at it for an unusually long time, shook his head, and then told the man,

“She’s in the hole” (i.e. she’s in solitary confinement).

That is something that you would never say to somebody, unless you knew for sure that the person understood that it was a joke. The visitor knew it was joke. Both he and the guard laughed. Dark humor. Very dark humor.

Karin and I strolled through the prison security, and found ourselves in the visitors area. The guard there told us to “sit anywhere”. At Taycheedah, the guard assigned you to a specific table. This was something new. After a short while, the girl appeared. She gave us quick hugs, and then suggested that we go outside and sit at one of the picnic tables.

The three of us sat at a table under a large oak tree. On the other side of the fence, some women were working in a garden. Other inmates were walking along a path, or playing basketball. Kids were climbing around on the playground equipment (a number of the prisoners are mothers, and their children were visiting them). There was very little privacy to be had.

The young woman was edgy. She had tried all day to contact her boyfriend on the outside, and he had not picked up. The girl told us that he was probably dead, otherwise he would be answering his phone. Karin suggested that maybe he was busy, or maybe he just misplaced his cell phone. The girl wasn’t buying either of those explanations.

The girl’s lip trembled slightly. Then she silently wept.

Sometimes, nothing can be done. Karin tried to console the girl, but I am not sure that she wanted to be consoled. I sat at the table across from the young woman, and I said nothing. I looked away for a while, and then I glanced back at her. The girl was trying pull herself back together, and I could see that it was real struggle for her. Slowly, her tension ebbed away, and she wiped a few tears off her cheeks. She took a breath.

I asked her, “You want an ice cream?”

She swallowed hard and nodded when I asked her that question.

I asked her, “What should I get?”

She replied, “See if they have Dove bars. If not, then a Snickers.”

I started to get up.

She stopped me and said, “Oh, and a Mountain Dew.”

I went inside the building to the vending machines.

I checked the selection on the ice cream machine. It was limited. No Dove bars here. Taycheedah always had Dove bars. They were awesome ice cream bars. The machine did have Snickers ice cream. That was pretty good too. I pumped in $3.00 worth of quarters, and scooped up the precious chunk of chocolate goodness. Then I went to the soda machine, and got the girl her Mountain Dew.

I returned to the picnic table. The girl and had been conversing with Karin. Her face lit up when she saw the ice cream. She tore off the wrapper and started to eat it. It seemed like she was unsure as to how she wanted to eat the Snickers bar. She was torn between gobbling it down and slowly savoring it. She began by eating it slowly, and then she ripped through it. She sighed deeply once it was done.

“Uh, so, do you want another one?”

The girl took a hit off of her Mountain Dew and said, “Not right now.”

The three of us talked. The conversation wandered through various topics.

The girl told us, “I was walking with one of the other girls. I told her that we couldn’t get Dove bars here. She kept telling me that wasn’t true. We argued for a while, and then I figured out that she thought I was talking about soap.”

We laughed.

Karin asked the girl if she had made any friends at Ellsworth.

The young woman frowned, and said, “Not really, but one of the women asked me if I wanted to be her girlfriend.”

It got quiet for a moment. I asked her,

“And you said…”

She gave me a hard look and replied, “I said ‘no’. ”

“So, you decided to remain heterosexual?”

She nodded.

Then she told us, “Yeah, well, the people who have girlfriends, they give each other love notes. They fold up the envelopes really small and slide them under the other person’s door. They call them ‘dyke kites’. ”

I asked her, “You want another ice cream?”

“Yeah. What else do they have?”

“Well, they have some kind of strawberry cheesecake thing.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I went on, “And they have a chocolate eclair ice cream bar.”

She got serious. “Does it look good?”

“It looks very chocolaty.”

The girl smiled. “Get me that one.”

The young woman ate the second ice cream more slowly, paying attention to the texture and the flavor. She made it last.

We talked about books. Karin and I send her books. She had just finished reading “The Godfather”. I told her about the movie, which she has never seen. I told her about what a great job Marlon Brando did in the film.

She asked me, “Is he fat?”

“Not in that movie.”

“But in the book, he dies of a heart attack.”

“Well, yeah, but you don’t have to be fat to get a heart attack.”

“But in the book, the guy is short and stubby.”

“Okay. In the movie he’s not.”

I thought for a moment. “In the movie, they have a part where he talks having about ‘an offer you can’t refuse’.”

The girl nodded. “They say that a lot in the book.”

She asked, “Is there another ‘Godfather’ book?”

“Well, there is a sequel to the first movie. Mario Puzo wrote a lot of books.”

The girl told me, “If there is another ‘Godfather’ book, I want it.”

“Okay. I’ll look. Do you want more ice cream?”

The young woman smiled. “Yeah. Snickers.”

I smiled back. “Okay.”

The girl ate the third ice cream bar slowly and deliberately. She was reaching the saturation point. She was also getting tired. The conversation faltered. It was late. The sun was hanging low in the west.

We said our goodbyes. The girl promised to call us the next day.

Karin went to visit the girl yesterday, without me.

They had Dove bars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 1st, 2019

“I read the news today, oh boy…”

the beginning of the song, “A Day in the Life”, by the Beatles

I went to a rally yesterday morning. I am no stranger to demonstrations. In an odd way, they sometimes bore me. These events have a familiar pattern and ritual. There are seldom any surprises, but maybe that’s a good thing. I have been to demonstrations that had surprises, and those were scary situations.

The rally was organized by “Never Again”, a Jewish organization committed to preventing a repeat of the events that occurred during the Holocaust. They have their work cut out for them. At this time, the group is protesting against the actions of ICE and the rest of the Trump administration toward immigrants and refugees. Never Again sees similarities between what is happening in our country now, and the outrages that occurred in Nazi Germany. The comparison is by no means perfect, but there are definitely some disturbing parallels. As Mark Twain once said, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.”

I met a couple people that I know from Voces de la Frontera when I arrived at the rally. Natalia was hoping that I would volunteer to be a marshal for the march from Cathedral Square to the ICE building several blocks away. I had not planned to stay very long at the demonstration, so I declined her offer. The main reason for not hanging around for the entire event was the fact that I had only enough loose change to feed the parking meter for an hour. I know that is pretty lame, but it’s the truth.

There were various people speaking to the crowd before the march got moving. That is standard operating procedure for a rally. Rabbi Laurie Zimmerman of Congregation Shaarei Shamayim in Madison spoke. U.S. representative Gwen Moore encouraged the crowd of  protesters to speak out. Josh, the leader of the marshals (yellow jackets) gave guidance to everyone who planned to participate in the march.

Songs were sung. That is also kind of standard for this sorts of rally. What was unusual this time was that some of the songs were in Hebrew, some in Spanish, some in English, or in a combination of all three languages. That was impressive, but a bit confusing to me at times. I should have looked at my song sheet.

Most of the crowd was most definitely Jewish, but in an eclectic sort of way. There were some LGBTQ folks there. There were some women wearing kippot (yarmulkes), which was something new to me. Obviously, the men wore them too. There were a number of people wearing “Jews Against ICE” t-shirts. Man, I wish that I had one of those shirts. They looked so cool. Anyway, it was an interesting mix of people.

I spoke briefly to a young guy named Micah, who had come to Milwaukee from Madison for the demonstration. He works with Jewish students at the university in Madison, Wisconsin. I told him that I go to services at Lake Park Synagogue in Milwaukee.  He wasn’t familiar with our shul, but then why should he be? It was the first time he had ever been to Milwaukee.

I have been going to Lake Park Synagogue (LPS) for about ten years now, on a semi-regular basis. I sort of fit in. I can honestly say that my understanding of Judaism remains marginal. I have learned a few things, but there are many other aspects of the tradition that I don’t quite grasp. Even after a decade of being part of the community, I still have more questions than answers.

One question that comes to mind is this: “Why are these Jews protesting against the treatment of immigrants who are overwhelmingly Latino?”

The answer to that question partially lies in the recent history of the Jewish people. The Holocaust (also known as the Shoah) is is deeply and permanently embedded in the Jewish psyche. The Holocaust is not something theoretical to these folks. It is personal and very, very real. I doubt that many, if any, of the people at the demonstration were even alive when World War II ended. However, I bet that nearly everybody there had a friend or family member who was murdered by the Nazis, or who somehow survived the concentration camps. Almost all the victims of the Holocaust are dead, but their experiences and stories survive them. It’s a living history.

One of the hallmarks of Judaism is remembrance. In the Torah, the Children of Israel are constantly exhorted to remember. If they can remember the destruction of the temple (by the Babylonians, and later by the Romans), they can certainly remember the Shoah. These events aren’t really in the past. They are part of the here and now.

Assuming that I am correct, then Never Again sees the past in the present. It is likely that they recognize the actions of the Gestapo whenever ICE agents kick in an immigrant’s door and rip a family apart. They relive the horror of having children stripped away from their parents. It doesn’t matter that the children are from Central America, they are still kids, just like the children that lived in Europe seventy-five years ago.

We walked several blocks from Cathedral Park to the ICE building on Knapp Street. Typically, on a march like this, somebody tries to fire up the participants by starting a chant. Personally, I hate that. It’s not that I am against rabble-rousing, but the chants can get kind of stale. For instance:

Leader: “What do we want?”

Unruly crowd: “Close the camps!”

Leader: “When do we want it?”

Unruly crowd, “NOW!”

I’ve heard all that before. It doesn’t get better with age.

On the other hand, There were some other chants that resonated with me.

One of the leaders of the march yelled out, “Never again is NOW!”

Right on.

I had to think about that. There was a time when the population of the entire planet vowed that the murder of six million people would never happen again. Not any more. Now there are throngs of Holocaust deniers. They say that it was all fake news, or part of some Zionist conspiracy.

Hate is a virus. It can be stopped for a while, but then it mutates and finds a new host. The virus still exists in Germany, albeit in a slightly altered form. However, it seems like America is the new host. The virus thrives here. Injustice is a disease. It is like the Ebola of the soul. It can’t be killed, but it can be stopped. Maybe.

Another slogan that was shouted out was: “Don’t look away!”

We do look away. I know that I do. I’m guilty of that.

We can’t look away. It was made clear during the march that people need to speak out now about what is happening to immigrants in our cities and to asylum seekers at our borders.

Why?

It is human nature to look away from the evil that does not directly affect us. We can shrug our shoulders and say things like: “I don’t know any of those people”, or “They are breaking the law”, or “It’s not my problem”. These statements all seem so reasonable, at first. They are satisfactory until the evil kicks in our door, but then it’s a bit too late. If we allow the government (or anyone else) to selectively abuse a particular group of people, we can be assured that our turn will come.

The march was “déjà vu all over again,” to quote Yogi Berra. We are fighting against something that we had thought was defeated. The virus is back, and the infection is spreading. Maybe we can stop it this time. It almost destroyed the world last time.

Never again.