Lesson For Today

Posted on 04/05/2014 by Grumpa Joe

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I often use the word conundrum, but am never really sure about its definition. I received an e-mail from my cousin which helps to clear it up for me.

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Subject: Conundrum

A conundrum….very strange

 

The definition of the word Conundrum is: something that is puzzling or confusing.

Here are six Conundrums of socialism in the United States of America:

1. America is capitalist and greedy – yet half of the population is subsidized.

2. Half of the population is subsidized – yet they think they are victims.

3. They think they are victims – yet their representatives run the government.

4. Their representatives run the government – yet the poor keep getting poorer.

5. The poor keep getting poorer – yet they have things that people in other countries only dream about.

6. They have things that people in other countries only dream about – yet they want America to be more like those other countries.

Think about it! And that, my friends, pretty much sums up the USA in the 21st Century.

Makes you wonder who is doing the math.

These three, short sentences tell you a lot about the direction of our current government and cultural environment:

1. We are advised to NOT judge ALL Muslims by the actions of a few lunatics, but we are encouraged to judge ALL gun owners by the actions of a few lunatics. Funny how that works.

And here’s another one worth considering…

2. Seems we constantly hear about how Social Security is going to run out of money. How come we never hear about welfare or food stamps running out of money? What’s interesting is the first group “worked for” their money, but the second didn’t. Think about it…..

and Last but not least,

3. Why are we cutting benefits for our veterans, no pay raises for our military and cutting our army to a level lower than before WWII, but we are not stopping the payments or benefits to illegal aliens.

Am I the only one missing something?

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Riding the Red Rocket Through the Cottage Grove Ghetto

Posted on 06/05/2011 by Grumpa Joe


Three times a week after school, I hobbled out to Cottage Grove from Mendel on crutches.  I always got a seat on the streetcar  at 111th Street. The Red Rocket went without a transfer all the way to 29th Street.  The ride was long, but I had to continue with physical therapy at Michael Reese.  All the way up to 63rd Street things were familiar because Mom had taken us shopping to the Sears and Hillman’s at 63rd & Halsted.  North of 63rd Street, however, Cottage Grove Avenue became interesting.  The neighborhoods progressed from poor  to more poor. The store fronts told the story.  In the better sections there were a variety of businesses; TV shops, cleaners, butchers, bakeries, flower shops, you name it and you could find it on Cottage Grove in each neighborhood along the way.  By 43rd Street the buildings were older, dirtier, the businesses were fewer and those that were there were different.  Night clubs, taverns, storefront churches, groceries and drugstores.  What impressed me most was the up-keep on the buildings – there was none.  Some of the old frame buildings had boards missing or they were loose and hanging.  The paint wore away  years ago, and the wood was grey from weather.  Many windows had boards nailed on, others had metal guards.  There were people everywhere, just hanging around.  The further north I traveled, the people on the car changed from white to black.  By the time I got off at 29th  I was the only white left.

I never felt unsafe at any point of those trips.  The neck brace and crutches gave me a pathetic look and kept me safe.  That section of Cottage Grove was truly what I call a ghetto.  So many poor people all living in very crowded spaces with landlords that didn’t care to spend money on upkeep of the buildings.

The three block walk to the hospital after the long ride was a welcome relief.  I arrived at the Physical Therapy Department at 3:45 p.m. for my 4:00 appointment.  Once in the PT area, I stuffed my duffel bag, crutches, and brace into a locker and donned an Indian style loin cloth for the session.

Each treatment was the same.  Walk the parallel bars without crutches, do leg exercises, then follow-up with neck stretches and neck exercise. The therapist always took over my neck. At times, it felt like she twisted my head backwards..  The drill lasted 30-45 minutes and then it was time to go.

On the trip home, I pulled on the handhold and pushed against my crutches to hike up the high steps into a crowded rush-hour Rocket.  I learned quickly to take any seat that was available.  Many times I stood all the way to 79th Street before a seat became free.

One day I stepped into a very crowded car and squeezed my self away from the entrance to give room for more people to get on.  A little white-haired black lady looked up at me and offered me her seat. She looked exhausted and tired. I thanked her but refused.  At age fifteen I wasn’t about to take a seat from a senior citizen.  That incident repeated itself many times over the course of eight months that I commuted on the Rocket.

The therapy continued throughout the spring and the summer.  By the time of my release from Michael Reese  Physical Therapy, I was very glad.  During that summer I began to lift weights at home to build up my arms and legs.  My gym was the back yard. I dressed in swim trunks and looked like the guy who got sand kicked in his face in the Charles Atlas adds. I lifted weights.

By the time school started in the fall, I talked my way into using just one crutch.  The therapist didn’t think my hip was strong enough to get off the crutch completely. After only a few steps my hip swung out to the side and I fell into a limp. Eventually, I got rid of the collar, wearing it only when I felt tired.

My physical condition was 1000% better by the time school started at the end of August.  The summer of PT and weight lifting did wonders for my muscles. At the same time I was still growing in height.

A feeble smile returned to my face.

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Conflicted Soul

Posted on 27/10/2008 by Grumpa Joe

I finally broke down and began reading BO’s life story “Dreams From My Father.” The one thing that becomes very clear to me is that this man has had a very troubled early life. The fact that his mother is white and his father black screwed him up big time. He was raised white, but his soul was black. He wanted to be black.  His mother would have done him a big favor by following the father back to Kenya. His writings are filled with inner turmoil caused by his own belief that he was being rejected by whites. He saw the color attitude throught the eyes of his black classmates. He didn’t see the race difference because his mother and grandparents were white and sheltered him. When he finally learned of his grandmother’s concern about being stalked by a black man he was stunned at her reaction.

BO sought out people throughout his high school years that made him feel normal. Among them a black poet who was a freind of his grandfather’s. The poet, whose name was Frank, was a communist. Throughout high school and his early college days, BO leaned heavily toward the racist poetry of Malcolm X and Marxist teachings.

No doubt, some of this turmoil was brought on by his upbringing in Indonesia. His mother’s second husband  brought them to this country when it was in the aftermath of the overthrow of dictator Sukarno. He witnessed lots of unpleasant things, lots of poverty, lots of turmoil between his mother and her husband. Throughout his life, his black father kept in touch with him and constantly fed him a line about his black heritage and family in Kenya.

BO’s thinking was definitely shaped by inner struggles between his white and black self. His early goal to become an organizer after college pointed at his need to “change” things from the bottom up: it’s his message today.

The man carries a package of guilt about his race. He is clearly a racist, his father was also a racist. His affiliations with Jerimiah Wright, Louis Farakhan, Frank the poet, Ayres, are all the result of this guilt. It is my opinion that he is where he is today because he feels superior to the white race, and would like to punish whites in order to relieve his inner turmoil.  

Is this the kind of conflicted soul we want to lead us?

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