On Prejudice in America 2019…by Robert M. Katzman
On Prejudice, in America 2019
By Robert M. Katzman © July 21, 2019
Overall, my family, too, can be told go back to where we came from, except when you read where we came from, well, we’ll need a lot of planes flying in different places.
As far skin color, gee, well…, um, some white like doves, some as dark as the bark of an old oak, some ruddy red like a deep sunset, some olive colored, like me, I suppose, which frankly my very very “white” Norwegian/Danish wife thought was very attractive. Or she kissed that olive skin often enough over 42 years. I don’t think Joy ever saw color.
While she was alive, if someone made some stupid prejudiced remark about her grandchildren, or yours, that hidden Viking axe was never too far away from her to erupt into rage. If my Joyce were alive, she’d make a hellova president. Even dead, she’s way better than the sewer of hate we’re immersed in now.
Silence isn’t golden. That’s why all your brave and tough grandparents, came to America in he first place. Would they admire their grandchildren today?
My original post starts here:
Sometimes, like a sky that seems confused
About whether it’s bad weather or sunny, or mixed
Other things aren’t always so clear, either
Other times
There is a level of beauty
Beyond words
Which suggests that bad times
Are transitory,
And like great storms
Will blow away.
Sometimes, a person, any person
Can look up and think
That maybe their world might end
That the sky might fall
And some of my uncles
Who died in in World War One
And my tiny Polish Grandmother
Who wrapped bandages
For the Red Cross
Before she could speak English
Took her a long time to
Learn to speak English
Like now in America
I think about my grandparents
From Eastern Europe
Who managed to emigrate here
Just before the door was shut
On Jewish immigration
Then I think about my father and uncle
Who fought for America in Asia
In World War Two
Even though both could speak Yiddish
A strange foreign language,
No one seemed to think they
Weren’t “American” enough,
Especially when my father Israel
Was wounded
In a Japanese air raid
Then I think that
My own grandchildren, today,Â
Are more “foreign” than ever,Â
Collectively part:Â
Native American (Ojibwa, Ottawa, Ohio)
Philippine, Mexican/Basque
Danish, Norwegian
Jewish (Polish, Lithuanian, Byelorussian)
English, French, Irish
And two are miraculously descended
From two Holocaust survivors.
I wonder what is
An “American” anyway
And why is this so confusing?
Doesn’t it mean the one country
A person declares is theirs
Over all others?
Who is in charge of deciding this?
Are some people somehow
“More American” than others?
I’m pretty smart,
Speak the local
Wisconsin language
Fairly well
And think this whole subject
Is insane
The United States “ethnicity”
Is the Declaration of Independence
and
The Constitution,
A sort of mixed marriage
If that’s what any person
From anywhere,
Is willing to except
And maybe die for some day
There is nothing else
They have to prove to me
Because after all
Who the hell am I
To judge anyone?
Scary times that needn’t be
I believe
Especially for children
Who haven’t a clue
What’s going on
With their parents
But eventually,
Like the sun peeking through
What seems to be a
Temporarily terrifying sky
That this particular time
When my country is acting
Irrationally like it is now
Like when the Chinese and
Southern Europeans
Were prevented from coming here
Or the McCarthy Era
When a communist was
Whomever one man
Decided was one
Or when the Japanese here
Were locked up
Or when the Native Americans
Were slaughtered for their land
Or the Germans here
Were persecuted in World War One
Or the Catholics before the Revolution
Or when the Irish here
Were treated like dirt
Called Monkeys
After the potato famine
Or Italians and Sicilians
A century ago,
Or Black and Brown people
Continuously
That one day, one day soon,
All of this will blow over
Like a bad storm
And that beautiful Red, White and Blue flag
–Wait! Does that maybe suggest mixed blood??–
Will resume meaning
Everything
It’s supposed to mean
For everyone in this country
I am only one voice
But in this country
One voice is supposed to matter
Every voice
When the current storm passes
Maybe it will be light enough
To see that flag better
And remember what it represents
Thanks for reading this reflection of mine
Freedom of the Press
Remember?
I do