Category Archives: Culture

On being a Jew

In an increasingly anti-Semitic world

Dell Franklin may not be the ideal Jew but he aligns himself with those who have once again become targets of escalating anti-Semitism in the US and abroad. Illustration from his Rogue Voice classic, “The shortest bar mitzvah in the history of the Jewish religion.”

by Dell Franklin

On being a Jew, I’d say I’ve been pretty lax these past 60 or so years, as I haven’t been in a synagogue in all that time, except to deliver eulogies at my parents’ funerals. I get lost when discussing religion and was raised never to bring it up in any conversation in fear of insulting somebody. When somebody tries to proselytize me to any religion, I quickly inform them I’m hopeless and at best an agnostic, or nonbeliever.

Still, I was raised by Jewish parents who both grew up in the Midwest amid virulent and, in my dad’s case, vicious anti-Semitism. And, as a kid, I went to synagogue, usually by force, resentful because it was unbearably boring and took me away from baseball, football and whatever else was on the agenda in blue-collar, roughneck Compton, California, where I grew up.

Jewish boxing champ Barney Ross emerged as one of boxing’s great fighters in Chicago in the 1930s.

My father grew up in Chicago in the 1920s and ‘30s, the only Jew in an anti-Semitic German/Polish neighborhood. From childhood on, he and his sisters were called kikes, sheenies, Jew boys and Jew bitches, and yes, were spat upon. Dad engaged in fights nearly every day. He was built for it, and by 13 trained in a boxing gym that produced the great Jewish champion Barney Ross. By 16, dad was an amateur champion under an Irish name because he didn’t want his parents knowing what he was doing.

You see, as in most Jewish families, plans were made for dad to become a lawyer, doctor, dentist, or businessman. What they didn’t expect was a psychotic athletic competitor who received a football scholarship to the University of Illinois, and ended up playing for the Detroit Tigers in baseball’s major leagues.

At the beginning of his 17-year professional baseball career, dad dealt with anti-Semitism quietly, until it went too far, and then he pulverized a Nazi teammate who belonged to an American Bund, and who repeatedly needled dad with the usual anti-Semitic insults. Dad carved out his eye with his fists and the man never played ball again. He vowed no Jew hater would ever forget the beatings he administered them. 

Young Dell Franklin with his father.
Young Dell Franklin with his father, who pummeled a Nazi sympathizer teammate.

Dad despised the foolish stereotype that Jews were elitist intellectuals and money mongers who wouldn’t fight. “Your old man’s a fighting Jew,” he’d tell me, flashing his most murderous, soul shaking glare, then wink, and grin.

Growing up with a father like this, and an extremely educated bookworm mother, a nurse and an Eleanor Roosevelt bleeding-heart liberal who applied a scholar’s dedication to Jewish history, I was bombarded with the history of the Jews, and especially the Holocaust. I was reminded constantly of a culture that produced people like Einstein and Oppenheimer as well as media and entertainment giants and business titans. This was already part of my identity and forced me to expect much of myself, or at least more than what most people supposedly expected of themselves, because I was a Jew. 

In my mother’s and dad’s families, their sisters and brothers insisted on marrying fellow Jews. Thus, I was attracted to lush Irish girls and voluptuous Italians. I was a full-on jock, and not one Jew lived in our neighborhood. I was an unmotivated student who had no interest in medicine, the law, or business.

I was not called a kike or sheeny or Jew Boy, but, rather affectionately, “Herman.”

At that time, being so young and obsessed with myself and sports, I failed to realize that when something tragic or disastrous faced the Jews, it became resoundingly obvious to me we were not necessarily a religion, or a race, or a nationality, but an historically tortured tribe, which was why, possibly, three months after my Army discharge, I was at the Israel Embassy in Los Angeles trying to volunteer as a soldier for what turned out to be the Six-Day War in the Middle East in 1967.

Of course they informed me I had to become an Israeli citizen and calmed me down by explaining they felt the war would be over soon in their favor, which it was.

But my inclination to end up at the embassy ready to fight for a religion I had not observed since I’d left home reminds me of how I feel today, when the ugly cruelty and ignorance of anti-Semitism in the world, and in the United States especially, is again rearing its ugly and evil head.

After 55 years of utter stagnation, I am riled. Not about being suddenly fervent about my Jewishness, but of being a member of a people I respect and admire and yes, love, despite myself. Once a Jew, always a Jew. Like my father, I can’t read from the Torah during high holiday services, but when I observe those gentle Jewish people who were shot down in that Pittsburgh synagogue a couple years ago by an anti-Semitic monster, I am a Jew.

And watching and listening to these survivors of that slaughter, and how forgiving and spiritual they are, brought back the civility and kindness, the warmth of the Jewish people I grew up with, and how if you are in trouble they rally around you and form a womb of comfort and safety that only a people who have been through what they have can.

I recall, as a cab driver back in the late 1980s in San Luis Obispo, Calif., picking up at the airport a bearded man nearing around 75 who had a regal bearing and penetrating gaze. He was visiting a daughter. He sat in the front seat and talked to me in an accent, and when I asked him where he was from because I was a writer and very curious, he said, Israel.

His name was David Kopenhaus and he was originally German but had fought with the British in WWII, and then against the British in 1948 as a member of the Irgun terrorist organization in Israel, and again in the 1967 and 1973 wars against the Arabs. He also explained he was not necessarily religious, and seldom went to temple. “I am more of a Nationalistic Jew,” he said, looking directly at me with intermittently piercing and kindly eyes.

But I knew what he meant. He had seen it all. And I guess he saw into me, too, because, when I dropped him off, he said, “I enjoyed talking to you — landsman.”

“How did you know I was Jewish?” I asked, because I hadn’t mentioned it.

“As an Israeli, we make it our business to know these things.”

Then he winked, and we shook hands.

Remembering a person like this, and my mother and father, and what is currently going on in this country with the rise of anti-Semitism, I admit to being a proud Jew, ready to rally and rumble, if necessary. △


Dell Franklin is the founding publisher of The Rogue Voice and author of “Life on the Mississippi 1969,” available at Amazon.

Attack on the Capitol:

Parade of patriots, or fools?

I’ve learned that wisdom, the rightful use of knowledge, brings life, more to be treasured than gold. Photo by Stacey Warde

Let a man meet a bear robbed of her cubs, rather than a fool in his folly. — Proverbs 17:12

by Stacey Warde

The classic definition of a fool is someone who believes in a lie, who lives their life according to fables and unfounded claims, who refuses to acknowledge truth, all of which eventually result in their own or someone else’s ruin.

Fools are not to be trifled with; they are supremely dangerous — better to come across a bear robbed of her cubs than to meet a fool in his folly, says the author of Proverbs. They pose a real threat to the health and well-being of the community with their loud, false, and vociferous claims.

They bear false witness and malign others to further their own ends, and refuse to bend their hearts or minds to truth despite all the evidence, and willfully submit themselves (and those within their circle of influence) to eventual disgrace and humiliation. A wise person seeks to heal and mend, to build and create rather than malign and destroy.

There’s no peace or rest with fools; only calamity. They set their sights on the destruction of all that is good. Their goal is to demolish and tear down. They haven’t any plan or clue on how to make things better, only on how to destroy, disrupt, and divide. Their words — often rhetoric that has no basis in reality — are full of poison and misrepresentations of the facts, which don’t matter to them at all.

I’ve been no less a fool myself on many occasion, believing lies, getting angry at imagined slights, lashing out unintelligently, living in the fantastical world of magical thinking, holding fast to half-truths and trinkets of reality, concocting stories out of whole cloth, indulging in speculation, rumor, and hearsay, supporting lost causes. Over the years, however, and in spite of my own follies, I’ve gained more respect for wisdom and understanding because these, at least, are much less likely to end in disaster — for individuals as well as the larger community.

I’ve learned to think critically, parse truth from fiction, because I believe that these are the mature and responsible ways to behave as a citizen, because, let’s be honest, as even the Bible says, wisdom is more to be desired than folly. What is the nature of wisdom?

I’ve learned that wisdom, the rightful use of knowledge, brings life, more to be treasured than gold; wisdom and the actions derived from it are in accord with nature and are more likely to result in the good that promotes healthy community and constructive dialogue. Folly, living and believing in a lie, leads to shame, villainy, and death, as we’ve already witnessed and continue to witness among those who claim falsehoods as their guiding light.

So, here we are, a nation apparently half full of fools, on the heels of a global pandemic, still believing a lie, still clinging to villainy and the threat of armed resistance, still stupidly thinking against all the evidence and sound reason that Democrats stole Election 2020, still spuriously claiming that covid-19 is “just a flu,” despite the million victims in the US who have died from the disease, still holding up a false god (any politician, not just Trump) as their Savior, ad nauseam…. How sad, how really truly sad, that folly, maliciousness, and shameful, willful ignorance have become the hallmark of a “patriot” in the U.S. These so-called patriots now call good evil and evil good, promoting acts of violence such as we saw during 2020’s January 6 attack on the nation’s Capitol with blessings from the Biggest Fool of all.

I’ve had conversations with well-meaning friends and individuals who believe that we ought not to judge or criticize the wayward fool, that we ought ourselves to remain neutral in the false hope that we might turn their hearts towards what is true and lovely. Rather, these friends have argued, we ought to remain open to conversation or intelligent dialogue with people who have succumbed to the lies and ignorance of, say, shadowy figures or movements like the Pillow Guy or QAnon. I say that’s bunk. Holding out hope for a fool is wasting your time. Better to tie an 800-pound rock around your neck and jump into a lake. Leave the presence of a fool and let them wallow in the sewage of their own delusions. You’re better off without them. Save your gifts and talents for those who will listen.

And, at the risk of ignoring my own admonition to move on from the presence of fools and being maligned by false witnesses and sundry other misinformed individuals, if you are one of those people parading their folly in the streets, carrying “stop the steal” signs, claiming in ignorance and against all evidence or reason that Trump won the election, thumbing your nose at covid-19, defying science and public health guidelines, all I can say is, Just stop! Don’t be a fool. Don’t go down in history as someone who based their life on a lie. Stop trying to subvert our democracy. Stop minimizing the pain and suffering of those who have died from covid-19. Call yourself tragically misinformed, or claim the moniker of fool, but don’t flatter yourself by calling yourself a “patriot.” There’s no virtue or wisdom in such a specious claim. You, who ignorantly believe and willfully spread these lies, are no patriot.

A patriot doesn’t resort to arms in defiance of just laws, or try to destroy what is good; a patriot fights for liberty from real, not imagined, oppression. A patriot isn’t blind or foolish, or a subscriber to QAnon, or a follower of imbecilic claims by people like Mike Lindell (and the list goes on…) who says he has evidence of liberal malfeasance but has only offered evidence of his own delusions. A patriot defends the right to vote, demands that all votes be counted (once, twice, three times, it doesn’t matter), not the right to add or subtract votes at whim.

Let wisdom and reason, not folly, be your guiding light. Our republic, and the blood of those who sacrificed their lives to preserve it, demands nothing less. ∆

Stacey Warde writes from his home in Mendocino County where he studies and trusts in the words of the wise. This essay originally appeared on Medium.

I got slapped hard in the face too

For a much worse offense than telling a lame joke

I’m still learning how to swim years after the terror of drowning, after getting thrown into the deep end without knowing how to swim.

by Stacey Warde

Toxic masculinity (circa 1975)

At 15, I took a round slap to the face from a young woman about my age. Not for making a lame joke but for something much worse, for an assault.

I was in the midst of drying off after taking a short ocean swim break from my duties as a store clerk at Clark’s Surf Shop on 15th Street in Newport Beach, Calif., then a popular summer hangout for teens. We rented rafts and umbrellas, and sold mens and womens swimwear, towels and lotions, whatever anyone needed to stay comfortable on the beach.

My work mate, an accomplished popular surfer named Jack, who was a few years older than I, laughed uproariously as the smack of the woman’s hand against my face reverberated throughout the shop.

“What did you do?” he asked, still laughing as the girl strode proudly back out onto the crowded, sun-drenched boardwalk that ran up and down the Newport Beach Peninsula, busy with cyclists on beach cruisers, skaters on skateboards and roller skates, and sunbathers strolling, looking for a hookup or a hamburger.

“I smacked her on the butt,” I said. He laughed even more loudly.

“You did what? Do you even know her?”

No, I told Jack, who was teaching me how to bodysurf the monster south swells that pummeled Orange County’s south-facing beaches during the late summer, swells kicked up by Baja’s hurricane season. I respected him and felt the rightness of the humiliation I suffered in that moment as he sought to understand what had just happened.

I thought I was hot stuff, running out to the ocean’s edge with my swim fins, fearless in the face of some really big waves that Jack taught me how to bodysurf, eager to show off what I’d learned from him. He was the real water ballet dancer, spinning down the face of some of the biggest waves I’d ever seen, holding himself steady halfway down and hydroplaning on his hands inside the wave, the wave’s lip threatening to bury him beneath a ton of water, then spinning himself several times more before torpedoing himself out the back side to meet the next big wave. He was fearless and artful and at-ease in the water, and I really admired those qualities. 

***

It had taken me a long time to get comfortable with swimming because, as a young boy, I was terrified of the water after someone, a male in the family, decided to teach me how to swim by throwing me into the deep end for a “sink or swim” swimming lesson, which I failed. I struggled and began sinking until someone fished me out. I refused from that point on never to go near the water.

Until then, as a 5-year-old, I had been perfectly content to hang out in the shallow end of the pool, clinging for dear life to the pool’s edge. But for some reason, not from malice so much as from the notion that a boy shouldn’t be a pansy hanging onto the edge of the pool, never venturing beyond his  limits, one of the menfolk in my family decided to test my mettle by lifting me out of the shallow water and hurling me into the deep end. I remember it being one of my uncles; mom says it was my biological father who had abandoned us one year earlier. In either case, someone had decided it was time for me to stop being a “pussy.”

Mom had to hire someone, a young woman, to lure me back into the pool after nearly one year of my refusal to get wet, she says. It wasn’t easy; it took some work, patience on the part of my instructor. I don’t remember exactly when I began to really love the water but eventually I overcame my fear of swimming and became a proficient swimmer–and learned to be wary around the menfolk in my family.

***

I trusted Jack, and the girls on the beach seemed to like him as well. He was not a macho kind of guy, even with his hairy chest. He had a slight build, high-pitched voice, and was not “manly” in the typical sense but more like the dolphins we’d see swimming in the warmer south-swell waters, gleaming, playful, and proficient. He was graceful, good-natured, and good-humored.

Whenever possible, friends and I would watch him swim each time he ventured out into the ocean and we would marvel over his mastery of these enormous waves and over his ease of movement in the rush of water pounding the beaches. He usually was the only swimmer to brave those waves, and the lifeguards knew him well enough to leave him alone while they chased everyone else safely away from the water’s edge.

I explained to him how I’d noticed this girl on the beach; she was a regular, and I found her attractive. As I was running up the boardwalk, out to the water for my midmorning swim, I saw her coming toward me, and so took the liberty of slapping her bikini butt as I trotted past her.

“What?” Jack gasped.

She’d waited, apparently, watching me as I took my swim, and followed me back into the shop to correct the situation. She walked to where I was drying off in the store, stood herself directly in front of me, took a deep breath, looked me square in the eye, and with a heave of her arm, slapped me hard. Really hard on the face, not just with fingers but palm and the heavy swing of her outstretched arm. It hurt and it stung. Then, to the music of Jack’s laughter, she marched out.

“You better go find her and apologize,” he said.

I  gave him a look, as if to ask if he could manage the shop without me because it was getting close to lunch time, the busiest part of our day, and also because I didn’t really want to apologize. I was afraid to apologize, to admit that I’d done something wrong. Yet I knew that I’d made a poor choice, and hurt someone, and Jack knew it too. I could feel the pain, not just on my reddened, hard-slapped face, but more deeply. Jack shooed me away. Go! Take care of business, he seemed to be saying. I put on my shirt and took off for the beach.

I was half-hoping that I wouldn’t find her. Yet, one way or another, I would need to make things right, admit that I was wrong for slapping that girl’s butt, that I had taken liberty where none was offered. I would, as was so common during summers at the beach, inevitably run into her again. What would I say? How would I face her? I could feel the shame building up inside of me.

Plus, if Mrs. Clark, the nicest lady in the whole world and owner of the shop, caught wind of what had happened, I’d feel more awful than I already did. If word got out that one of her boys working the surf shop was assaulting potential customers, she would have been hurt too. She trusted us enough to leave the shop in our hands and let us run the place. Knowing also our love for the ocean, she was ok with us taking turns on big south swell days to test ourselves in the water. I knew I had a good thing, this summer job on the beach.

I found the girl, sitting among friends on towels in the sand, lounging, enjoying the sun and breeze, not far from the public restrooms where so many of the usual crowd would hang out at “The Wall,” a brick and mortar construction, to watch the surf and gaze at beachcombers as they trudged through the sand to find their places. It was a glorious summer day, the waves roaring up the wet sand, electricity in the air as the south swells pounded the beach.

I braced myself, wary of alarming her and her friends, eager to make things right, to make peace. One of her friends turned to see me coming and warned the others. They all turned to look as I approached, making sure, I guessed, that I would not commit another assault.

“I came to apologize,” I said nervously, hoping to set their minds at ease, dropping to my knees in the sand to avoid towering over them where they sat on their towels. “I’m really sorry,” I said to the girl. 

“You had no right to do that!” she said. “You don’t even know me!”

“Yes, I know. I’m really sorry. I won’t ever do it again.”

Her demeanor softened and we chatted briefly about how much we enjoyed the ocean and how that was the most important thing, our only real common interest. Beyond that, we would not be friends, merely acquaintances. Periodically, we would see each other and wave, or say hello. 

My struggles with women did not end there.

I’ve offered apologies for worse behavior than slapping a girl on the butt. As a man, I’ve succumbed to the same toxic maleness that possessed whoever threw me into the pool to teach me a lesson about swimming when I didn’t know how to swim. And once, when I called someone “a pussy,” a woman, a friend and lover, laughed at me and said: “Pussy? Try pushing a baby through your penis and see what happens!”

***

The men in my family, mostly uncles, wanted what was best for me, and they taught me what they thought I needed to know to thrive in the world as it was then (and perhaps still is) configured: Men had to be tough, not whiners or “little pussies,” but ready to fight for what was right, and grab what’s theirs before someone took it away. There was no time to cry, or “be like a girl.”

I ventured out into the deep end, however, not because I “manned up” when thrown into it, but because a woman was kind and patient enough to coax me back, not to go deep right away, but simply to get into the water again–after experiencing the terror of drowning–and actually becoming unafraid of and passionate about swimming.

I’m still learning how to swim. The deep end is indeed a scary place. 

Stacey Warde is a writer living in Mendocino County, not far from the ocean.

The Lighthouse, a beacon of hope

Where 19th century genius meets 21st century thuggery

I had no idea that a militia of armed rebels was conducting a raid just minutes away as I stood in awe of the genius of 19th century lighthouses.

by Stacey Warde

On the day of my first-ever visit to the Pt. Arena Lighthouse in Mendocino County, I returned home to discover that local law enforcement, five agencies in all, had issued a “shelter-in-place” order because 20 armed bandits wearing black hoodies had descended upon someone’s home in the woods near Gualala, a few miles down the road.

I had no idea that a militia of armed rebels was conducting a raid just minutes away as I stood in awe of the genius of 19th century lighthouses casting a beacon of warning and welcomed light from some 20+ miles away to ships at sea, saving perhaps hundreds of mariners from certain shipwreck, and possibly death. I was still trying to wrap my head around the genius of the French innovator and physicist Augustin-Jean Fresnel, (1788–1827), whose light technology from 200 years ago, as the saying goes, “saved millions from shipwreck,” and is still used today in car headlamps and traffic signals. All the while, mesmerized by the beauty of the Mendocino coastline and the historic collective effort of pioneers in this area to build a rescue center and beacon of hope for mariners, a small army of bandits was trying to overwhelm nearby homeowners, presumably pot growers or drug dealers with a lot of cash on hand, which is a common hazard in these parts.

Recently relocated to this county from Morro Bay/Cayucos, I decided to go for a drive and enjoy the sun and clear skies along the the coast, try some sightseeing, get to know the place, and landed at the lighthouse, not far from my new home in the small coastal community of Elk, less than 400 residents, slightly smaller than the 2,500 population of Cayucos, where I have lived for most of the past 35 years.

The weather, so far, has been mostly cold and wet, with lots of welcome rain, some frost, and a few cold weather advisories. I’ve been homebound, on account of the weather and covid-19, eager to get out and meet people despite the rain and fog and the global pandemic, but on Tuesday the clouds cleared and the sun came out; it seemed like a good day to venture out into the southernmost part of the Emerald Triangle, where some of the world’s best pot is grown.

Also, nearby Anderson Valley is emerging as one of those quaint hard-to-reach wine destinations popular among folk who love good cuisine paired with equally delicious wines, and appeals to visitors from The City who like to get away and spend lots of money. Like Cayucos, this is a tourist destination but, unlike Cayucos, it appears to me that many who live here also do not wish to be bothered by urbanites whose only goal is to fuck things up by turning the countryside into a rich man’s playground. Still, the push toward the high-end dollar is very much in evidence here, where wine, money, and pot commingle in an odd amalgam of earthy wealth and criminality.

Originally, I had planned only to make a quick run to the Elk Post Office, pick up a package, hit the small family-run general store next door and return home. But the store was closed and I needed some avocados, which were always plentiful on the ranch in Cayucos. We were having tacos for dinner and guacamole sounded like a great side dish.

I had recently visited a small grocery/coffee shop on the main drag through the town of Pt. Arena, about half an hour’s drive south from Elk on Highway 1, the Shoreline Highway. I knew they had what I was looking for. So I headed south on the winding, breathtaking road past Irish Beach with its cluster of eyesore prefab-like homes, down through Manchester, and finally into the little town of Pt. Arena.

Hippies have left their mark on the place, I’ve decided, where it’s easy to find organic produce, posters and handbills advertising liberal ideas such as diversity and the right to vote, and yet there’s an odd mix here of surfers, foresters, environmentalists, and drifters who lounge in the public restroom/park area across the street, next to the Arena Theater, an old movie house still in operation and run locally by an association of art lovers. It’s not unlike the little coastal town of Cayucos, from which I came a few months ago, but less chic and apparently less affected by big money. This is a town, like Cayucos, that has a storied seafaring history but, unlike Cayucos, feels like it’s on the verge of a civil war.

Before I got to the tiny local market, however, I detoured onto the road leading out to the point, where many shipwrecks have occurred throughout the years and where, in 1870, a lighthouse was built to steer ships to safety. Mariners must adjust to a 40-degree slant, heading either north or south, when they get there to avoid hitting rocks or running aground. Navigating these waters requires a skillset that keeps me in awe and I wonder how men and women even find the nerve to approach such a task.

While exploring the area around the the point, I marveled at its rugged beauty, which reminds me of Big Sur, the spectacular rise of coastal mountains on California’s Central Coast, where I’ve spent many a wonderful evening, conversing with Benedictine monks overlooking the Pacific, grousing over the shape of things to come with the curator of the Henry Miller Library, and sitting naked with my lover in the coed baths at the Esalen Institute. Big Sur, however, as I’m quickly learning, is not Mendocino.

While I stood in rapt wonder over the effort required to build the lighthouse and signal a warning to shipmasters the world over who dared to navigate these waters, two armed residents held off the small thug army until authorities arrived and the invaders scattered. Into the woods, I guessed, which would mean several days of slogging through rugged hill country before they arrived where I’m now living. No need to worry. Yet.

We’re loaded down ok, with a couple of shotguns, a handgun or two, but hardly equipped to fend off 20 invaders. I’ve had some training in guerrilla warfare tactics as an Army Ranger, and my host’s two brothers–all lifelong friends, like family–served as Special Forces operatives in Afghanistan and Iraq. I suppose we could stage ourselves for combat. Conduct raids. Drive out the enemy. But this is supposed to be our home. And besides, I’m 63, and I don’t want to set up for combat. I want to live! Life is difficult enough. Like anyone, I want to feel safe in my home, eat good food, sit by the fire and read, not throw up parapets and dig fox holes.

In the end, I want to study the genius of men like Fresnel, who apparently thought more of the wonder of light than how to terrorize and steal from his neighbors. In the end, I wish to pursue the enlightenment to be had in the study of physics instead of bullying someone into giving me something that doesn’t belong to me.

Two days after the “shelter-in-place” order, I have still not found any updates in the local media, no word on whether anyone was caught, or what became of the residents who apparently bravely stood their ground. I’m surprised at the queer silence that has filled the pages of the local news. There’s no appraisal or reassurance about much of anything here, simply the hope for connection with minds like Fresnel’s whose focus truly was to enlighten rather than dominate and terrorize.

Stacey Warde is a writer living in Mendocino County.

Bomb cyclone on the Amtrak

As I changed my wet outer garments into something dry, the conductor announced that the train isn’t exactly weather proof, there may be some seats that are wet, due to leaks.

Searching for a home during a global pandemic

By Stacey Warde

I woke up at 4:45 a.m. to catch a six o’clock train, Amtrak’s Surfliner, in San Luis Obispo to Santa Ana. I slept fitfully in a Motel 6 not far from the station.

Had I stayed here the previous night, it would have cost me nearly $300, which I don’t have; but Sunday, after prime time, it’s only $80, which is still more than I want to pay on a fixed budget. Fortunately, good friends put me up for a night and it was great to socialize and visit them and to find love in an era where love seems lacking, when so many are holding their breath, isolating themselves as I have these past two years, waiting for the covid pandemic to end, starved for affection and a friendly, warm human embrace.

Throughout the night I could hear rainfall but it turned heavy and started dumping around 3 a.m. I got up several times to look out the window of my motel room and saw it coming down in sheets the way it does in the tropics. God, I thought, I hope there aren’t any delays or problems on the railroad tracks.

I had been worried about this supposed “bomb cyclone” forecasters had been warning about for days, a system out of Alaska that was drawing moisture up from the south, packing potential devastating rain.

I’ve been looking for a new home, essentially homeless, these past four weeks after quitting a 7-year relationship. I’ve been up to Mendocino and back to San Luis Obispo and Orange Counties several times, staying with family, friends, and in motels, hoping to find a place to land.

Meanwhile, during my travels up and down the state, I had been worried about this supposed “bomb cyclone” forecasters had been warning about for days, a system out of Alaska that was drawing moisture up from the south and packing potential devastating rain, with flash flood warnings in California’s burn areas, one of which, the Alisal Fire near Gaviota, we would be passing through on our way south. Peak rainfall, the forecast warned, would occur as we passed through the area, and debris could quite possibly muck things up.

I found a space as close to the station as possible in the long-term parking lot, and tried to wait a few minutes for the rain to lighten up before traipsing up to the train depot but the rain kept coming down hard. Finally, losing precious time, I grabbed my bags and hustled off, still a good walking distance from the station, to find cover inside the depot, when I realized that I hadn’t placed my parking pass on the dashboard of my truck. I hurried back (“goddammit!”), by this time nearly soaked, to place the pass in the window as heavy rain blasted at my back. I could feel it soaking through, my bags already glistening wet as I set them down to unlock my truck and put the parking pass where it belonged.

Inside the depot, still not quite 6 a.m., I had a moment of panic, my travel bags dripping, clothes soaked, waiting passengers milling about, shaking off the rain, some wearing masks as required to protect against Covid-19, others not, some, believe it or not, wearing flip-flops over bare feet. I hadn’t had my coffee, and I was feeling cranky, and the air itself seemed icky wet.

A young male adult, probably a Cal Poly student, stood tossing a yo-yo through the air not far from where I sat, barely missing his girlfriend’s face who was seated in front of him, watching and blinking as the yo-yo flew past her nose, and I wondered what her parents must think of the fella, whose only talent appeared to be wrapping yo-yo string around his fingers, and making the yo-yo itself twirl in loops around their daughter’s face. What a useless dick, I thought, feeling like a crotchety old man. Still, she seemed to like him.

I noticed one woman who had gone into the restroom with wet clothes and came out moments later in dry clothes. She appeared to be the only person in the room who felt comfortable and at ease. Smart woman, I thought. I’ll be doing the same thing on the train, putting on dry clothes, staying comfortable, not getting chilled.

The station master, who had been carefully monitoring the scene, came out, and from the door of his office announced, “the password to get into the restroom is 2-0-0-1.” In minutes, the train pulled up to the boarding platform and passengers gathered their damp belongings to go outside, where it was still dark, and board the train. Underneath a small covering, in the glimmering light of the station, we waited for the doors of the train to open and watched as the rain poured, splattering the ground all around us.

The biggest concern I had at that moment wasn’t the flash flood warnings given for the recent Alisal Fire near Gaviota, but my damp clothes, staying warm, and keeping my covid protection mask dry. “Ugh, a petri dish of…”  I had to put it out of my mind. “What good does it do to worry? I’m going, so let’s go!” I boarded the train, feeling like a wet rat in clothes and a mask covering my face.

On board the train, as I changed my wet outer garments into something dry, the conductor announced that the train isn’t exactly weather proof, there may be some seats that are wet, due to leaks, and to “feel free to move around until you find something dry.” I found my place, the same as always, a seat with no one behind me. I could essentially relax unmolested, if I could relax.

We passed the Alisal Fire area without any problems, the blackened ground reeling against the season’s first downpour but not slipping into nearby ravines and clogging waterways or blocking the road and railroad tracks. I could barely see out of my window as the rain pelted the train. I could hear it on the roof of the car, and when I went down to the cafe car to get coffee, I spotted empty seats that were taking on water from the leaky roof.

At the Santa Barbara station, where mostly college students get on or off, the conductor announced again, “this train is not weather proof! Please find yourselves a seat that’s dry, and be careful walking around the lower deck; it’s very wet!”

Occasionally, I could hear the throaty hacking cough of a woman several seats in front of me. WTF? I hoped she’s ok and that it was only the usual morning clearing of the lungs and not something more menacing. Yet, I know there are those who will travel no matter how they feel, even during a global pandemic.

Upon our arrival in Ventura, the rain had lightened considerably but the wind blew stiff against flags that flapped furiously in dark horizontal squares against the sky, and along the tracks trees had fallen. The hacking cough continued unabated, at least until the woman got off the train. I wasn’t feeling especially charitable or friendly, and neither did other passengers appear ready to show friendly faces. I kept to myself, and did not wish to appear friendly so no one would sit next to me. I was perfectly happy to sit alone for this ride.

My mask, as always with long-time wear, was beginning to hurt my ears after several hours, but at least my clothes were dry.

This trip would not have been necessary had I stayed in the unhappy situation I’d lived in for years. Things had gotten so toxic. I try not to focus on it too much and remind myself that I need to get on with my life, and I’m still learning what that even means. “Getting on” means a willingness to risk, to be vulnerable, to find a home, to end things when so much effort goes into making an unworkable relationship work.

As we rolled into the LA station, the conductor announced that more than 100 passengers would be boarding, and that all seats must be made available. “It’s a crowded train.” Who’s gonna get the wet seats on this train that “isn’t weatherproof”? And why are so many people traveling when the risk of covid is still so great?

As more passengers boarded, complaining of how crowded the train was, I could smell the dank odor of marijuana. Someone is packing or carrying a load, I thought, someone always is. Fortunately for me, I love that smell.

As the conductor made announcements about federal regulations for wearing masks–“yesterday I removed five passengers for not wearing masks”–a young woman, probably in her 20s, on her cell phone raised her voice to be heard above the din: “I had the bruschetta…” I was having trouble hearing the conductor. What is wrong with people, I thought as I tried to listen to the conductor’s instructions, that their personal stuff, which isn’t really personal because everyone can hear them, is so much more important than the conductor giving instructions for riding the train during a global pandemic? A friend soon joined her. Neither one wore a mask.

I’ve been hearing so much about the tensions between Boomers like me–“OK, Boomer”–and younger folk like this woman, who was so rude and selfish in her tiny little world of sharing her dinner experience with everyone on the train. I didn’t understand those tensions; now I do. Basically, I realized, we’re all sojourners of a sort, looking for a place to call home. Yet, I also know that home is a state of mind, where friends and family welcome you into their arms, no matter how wet you are, or how difficult your life has been.

#

Stacey Warde is editor of The Rogue Voice. Please leave comments.

God loves pagans

But Christians hate them

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Any religious or spiritual practice outside the church’s seal of approval can be attributed to only one source–Satan, another church contrivance created by religious ignoramuses and bigots. And Satan, we all know, must be destroyed.

Editor’s note: In  the face of the more recent rise of right-wing, Christian bigotry, it’s worthwhile to revisit church bias and its influence on culture.

By Stacey Warde

The church’s myopic vision of itself often leaves believers thinking history started with Jesus. Christians forget the tens of thousands of years of human history that predate Jesus, or they write them off as irrelevant.

Or worse, they’re entirely ignorant of the way the world was before the time of Christ. They haven’t any clue about how people lived, or what they believed, unless it’s in the context of biblical archeology, or viewed through the theologically “superior” filters of the church doctors.

Thus, Christianity’s take on history is rife with prejudice and ignorance, strengthened by the supposed enlightened, God-inspired, doctrinaire twists and turns of yarns spun from the Bible. Christians wrap an entire history, no matter how inconvenient, in a fabric of their own making–”the world as it was,” as seen through the cloak of church dogma.

Of course, history viewed in this fashion makes it easier for Christians to discard as morally and spiritually inferior any and all other religious practices and faiths that don’t have the biblical and patriarchal colored thread running through them. Especially marked for scorn, if not outright hatred, by good Christians intent on spreading God’s love, are pagans and other nature lovers who lived and worshiped in the countryside, and who mostly resisted early Christianity’s claim to preeminence in all things spiritual. Pagans, by most accounts, were good people but the church has never viewed them that way.

This unfortunate myopia has led to needless persecution and suffering for those who have refused to acknowledge the church’s declarations of primacy, power and truth. The history of the church is replete with cruelty toward people who draw their spiritual nourishment from other sources, whether from trees, oracles, yoga, crystal balls or a stack of cards. Christians typically ascribe the source of these peculiar practices to the devil. Any religious or spiritual practice outside the church’s seal of approval can be attributed to only one source–Satan, another church contrivance created by religious ignoramuses and bigots. And Satan, we all know, must be destroyed.

***

In 1999, I attended a spring conference of Episcopal Communicators at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee. The aged and hallowed place of learning was the perfect setting for the annual gathering of intelligent, liberally minded editorial professionals, whose job is to offer clear-headed perspective and keep Episcopalians informed about the world around them, and on events affecting the modern American church.

While sitting at lunch one afternoon, I overheard at my table two women, both leaders in their respective dioceses, confide that they had examined and studied Wicca, a modern and, in some cases, formalized remake of ancient pagan rituals, derogatorily known as witchcraft. I respected these women because they had been doing their jobs for a long time, had advanced in their careers, kept a good humor about themselves and their work in the church, and were well-known and liked by their peers at the conference.

“You guys have looked into Wicca?” I queried, astounded at their admission of going outside church boundaries for spiritual nourishment. I’d never heard anyone in the church say one nice thing about pagans or witches. It’s more rare than a female Catholic priest, rarer still that highly esteemed women in the church would confide their own respectable interest in pagan practices. Coincidentally, I had also recently found a similar interest in nature religions and in people who had practiced pagan rituals long before Christians decided it was a good thing to burn them at the stake.

“Yes!” they responded in hushed tones. “We’ve even participated in some of their gatherings.”

“Why? What do you get out of it?”

For women, they said, Wicca offered empowering alternatives to the wooden assurances from an institution still essentially run and governed by men. Sure, women were being ordained, finally, after nearly 2,000 years of church history, and yes, the Episcopal Church was first among mainstream Christian institutions to ordain women, but they were basically still second-class citizens whose rise to prominence in church power circles was then being stifled by what was known as the “stained glass ceiling.”

Women aren’t likely to find stained-glass ceilings under a canopy of trees in the forest or in nature where feminine principles of birthing, nurture and sensuality abound and receive their due respect. I had also begun to look into the history of religious practices that predated the church and found that nature religions, which observed the seasons and the elements and respected the body as much as the spirit, were as sophisticated and intelligent as any. In fact, pagans appeared to be more at ease with themselves and natural systems, and better at understanding their environment than “subdue-and-dominate-the-earth” Christians.

In their discomfort with nature, and the formalized pagan observances associated with her, churchgoers will be quick to note that paganism–especially the Wiccan variety–offers devil-inspired, and ignorant, forms of worship. The church views paganism as aberrant spiritual practices that put destructive forces into play, where men and women perform rituals to invoke magick and demonic power, and engage in a tantalizing dance with the devil that leads to darkness and death. Sadly, Christian contempt for pagans is based as much on superstition and bugaboos as it is on practical experience or reasonable theological explanations.

Further investigation shows, however, that pagan rituals most likely originated from primitive, earth-based experiences in which devotees lived in closer contact with plants, animals and soil. Their knowledge of herbs and natural medicines, and their acute awareness of the seasons and how these played a vital role in the survival of the community or tribe, led to observances and practices that were often ritualized and celebrated.

Primitive cultures incorporated ritual to note the change of seasons, the passage of the sun and moon, the shortening and lengthening of days, and these helped to guide them in their seasonal rhythms for planting, tending, harvesting and storing food. These rituals played a vital role in the community’s survival. They weren’t merely window dressing, as some rituals in the church, for the emotionally distraught, or for casting spells on their enemies.

Along the way, Christian orthodoxy demonized even the simplest and most basic of these rituals, which were birthed from the natural order of things. And where these rituals weren’t demonized or outlawed upon penalty of death, or where indigenous people refused to let go of them, they were co-opted by the church and turned into “Christian” observations. Most notable, of course, are Christmas and Easter, originally pagan observances noting the cycles of life, and respectively, the return of the sun and rebirth.

Unfortunately, so many of today’s Christians fail to understand where their own rituals and observations originated. Consequently, they tend to view their sacred traditions as unique, original, and the only “true” forms of religious practice for understanding the spiritual and material worlds. It’s easy, therefore, to demonize any religious form that doesn’t conform to their models, and to ostracize or condemn anyone who participates in unorthodox or non-Christian religious observances.

***

The women at the conference agreed that earth-based religions offered another viable option for understanding the world, for gaining self-knowledge, enlightenment, personal power and spiritual renewal–albeit in a context viewed unfavorably by the church. The church claims its right as the only institution in which these qualities can be properly exercised, under the watchful care and eye of the priesthood, which in turn performs the task of submitting everything to the scrutiny of church doctrine.

Ideally, the hierarchy works best under the compassionate embrace of Jesus. The benefits of self-knowledge and the wielding of personal power, especially, ought to always be engaged with the same measure of humility as Christ, which you seldom see in church circles where women do not share seats of power.

I understood the women’s curiosity about paganism and spiritual sources outside the church that promise renewed energy, power, or even love. The church, try as it might, seemed often to fail individual believers, as well as the larger Christian community, in giving them the necessary tools to grow and rely less on authority, to find personal strength through love and through a healthful, life-affirming connection with nature. It had generally failed, as it does today, to challenge power structures that have destroyed communities through graft, greed, corruption, and environmental decimation. It had failed to appreciate the wisdom of ancient nature religions, pointing instead to their aberrations, rather than acknowledging their reverence for natural processes upon which all life depends. Finally, it had failed in myriad other ways and it was no wonder why Christians would then seek hope or empowerment outside the church.

The conversation struck a chord and I couldn’t shake it from my mind. Weary of the hypocrisy, the false enthusiasms and ennui hobbling church gatherings, weary in fact of its authoritarian governance and crippling oversight, and outraged at the ongoing intolerance for and prejudice against other religious groups and practices, I wrote an account of my encounter with these daring women, defending pagans and encouraging a dialog with them in the diocesan newspaper that I was then editing. (Friends later observed that I had written my own termination piece.)

The piece lobbied readers to consider the benefits of an interfaith dialog with pagans in a similar vein to the church’s attempts to converse with other denominations. Clearly, an earth-based connection to the numinous might give Christians new insight into their religious experiences, might even lead to new sources of inspiration, and a more complete understanding of the world in which we live.

“The revival of ancient pre-Christian religious practices,” I wrote, “including shamanism, suggests to me that the Living Water we seek might also be found in sources other than in official church doctrines, fables and rituals, which remain in desperate need of renewal.”

I threw open the possibility of finding spiritual truth and renewal in sources beyond the confines of church dogma and hierarchy and ritual. I never suggested Christians join their pagan brothers and sisters, also children of God whom God loves, to worship the forces of darkness. I asked only that Christians try to open their minds and look at history with a different, less biased filter, one not so densely opaque with prejudice against non-Christians. I had hoped, rather naively it turns out, that Christians might find at least an objective interest in and curiosity about the way people lived and worshiped during the tens of thousands of years prior to the birth of Christ, especially since so many of their own traditions were established long before the various church councils wrote them into law.

The commentary, titled “Neopaganism: Revival of nature religions could be instructive for Christians languishing from church torpor,” resulted in numerous letters, most notable of which were those sent by church leaders. One, from an abbot in a Midwest monastery, suggested I quit the church immediately and go work for Satan. Another letter writer, pretending to agree with the commentary, suggested that we go on a church outing, climb a mountain and “throw human sacrifices into a volcano.”

Reactions like these, I thought, proved my point. Dogmatized Christians live in fear of and cannot fathom holding an intelligent or rational conversation with people who would rather spend a day in the forest than sit in a musty church and listen to diatribes against gays, pagans, and women priests. That’s less of an issue for Episcopalians but it’s easy to find members who’ll squawk just the same, as they did in response to my commentary about the possibility of pagans in their midst.

In the end, I got fired for it. The bishop’s secretary called within days of publication and said the good bishop was eager to meet with me to talk about my article. She made it sound like fun and games and I expressed my concern that the bishop was going to fire me. “Oh, he wouldn’t fire you,” she assured me. “He just wants to meet with you.” I knew better and on a warm afternoon at Keefer’s Restaurant in King City, over tea and tapioca pudding, the bishop informed me that my services were no longer needed. I reminded him that four months and nearly $18,000 of income remained in our contract.

“Well, we’ve got a problem,” he said.

“You should honor our contract and let me go after it’s completed,” I urged.

He refused and cut me off, effective immediately. Suddenly, I had no job and no means to support myself, and in the end I had to hire an attorney and threaten a lawsuit before I received compensation for the four months remaining in the breached contract. Meanwhile, I incurred debts and was forced to move out of my home. The bishop’s vindictiveness spoke volumes about his commitment to God’s love for sinners and of his willingness to honor his word. But most of all it reconfirmed for me the terrible meanness and ignorance that arise when Christians choose to demonize the things they don’t understand.

***

Stacey Warde is publisher of The Rogue Voice.

Trump’s appalling policy

Separating children from asylum-seeking parents

by Stacey Warde

When news first broke about the U.S. government losing 1,475 immigrant children, I made a cursory search to determine the story’s veracity.

Satisfied that initial reports were true, I fired off an angry letter to Senators Kamala Harris and Dianne Feinstein.

“Please do the right thing…and pressure those who are responsible to reunite the missing children with their parents immediately.”

Then, Dave Congalton, host of KVEC’s Hometown Radio Show, asked me to come on the air to discuss the issue (to listen, click on this KVEC link).

After looking more thoroughly into the matter, I realized that my letter and response, a hazard in today’s volatile news environment, were not quite fully informed.

Turns out, more worry and focused attention would be better spent on the children our government is separating from their parents on the grounds that they’re trying to enter the U.S. illegally.

It’s an appalling fact, even if the children and their parents are illegal. But the truth of the matter is that most of the immigrants crossing the border are fleeing widespread violence in Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. They’re seeking asylum not a cover for illegal entry, as claimed by the Trump Administration.

In April, a government official told Congress that the Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR), a wing of the Department of Health and Human Services, responsible for underaged undocumented immigrants (mostly seeking asylum), had “lost track” of 1,500 children.

The ensuing uproar (including my letter) demanded that the responsible government officials find them and ensure their well being by reuniting them with family.

Since 2014, when there was an unusual influx of these undocumented minors without parents or guardians, the government, under recent legislation, began classifying them as “unaccompanied,” placing them into the care of ORR.

Under federal law, these children must be placed into the care of a parent or guardian as quickly as possible, or kept in a detention center.

Apparently, the government’s failure to reach these caregivers made it seem the children had slipped through the system. Also, some advocates argue parents and family of these children don’t want the government to know their whereabouts.

Compounding the issue, on May 7, Attorney General Jeff Sessions, in an attempt to discourage illegal border crossings, also took aim at those seeking asylum: “If you are smuggling a child, then we will prosecute you, and that child will be separated from you as required by law.”

White House Chief of Staff, John Kelly then told NPR’s John Burnett that “the children will be taken care of — put into foster care or whatever. But the big point is they elected to come illegally into the United States and this is a technique that no one hopes will be used extensively or for very long. “

Since, there have been troubling reports of parents being separated from their children, who are then reclassified as “unaccompanied,” and placed into detention centers, where there have been numerous complaints of child abuse, including rape and beatings.

Additionally, the ORR’s Scott Lloyd, a pro-life attorney, appears to be flaunting federal law, reportedly refusing medical care to minors seeking abortion after being raped, and holding detainees longer than is legal.

The Trump Administration argues that these minors are the children of “criminals,” and therefore should be separated, placed in confinement while their parents are sent to  detention facilities or prisons, where they will eventually be deported.

During my conversation with Congalton, a listener asked why I wasn’t petitioning the Mexican government for all this illegal immigration. Mexico was coddling the immigrants, encouraging more criminals to enter the U.S. illegally.

“I’m not a citizen of Mexico,” I told him, and my complaint has more to do with how the U.S. is treating children looking for a safe place to go. Mexico has shown more humanity than the U.S. in the matter.

Advocates say these refugees are not criminals, they’re not breaking the law, but are seeking asylum from gang and street violence in Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador.

The Trump Administration claims it’s separating children from their parents to discourage this flood of immigrants seeking safe haven in the U.S.

Meanwhile, child advocates like attorney Megan Stuart, writing in Rewire.News, argues: “We need to think twice about asking any government, especially one that proudly equates immigrants with gang members and calls them “animals,” for more scrutiny, more monitoring, and more targeting of kids and their communities.”

Also, “We don’t expect or want local jails or prisons to track folks once they are released to loved ones.”

The Trump Administration, she says, is turning this into an immigration crisis, claiming that these children are being placed with families to escape scrutiny, thus enter illegally.

Finally, false reports, as expected in a Trumpian world, will continue to circulate the interweb regarding the status of these children, their reason for coming here and the so-called criminality of their parents. §

Stacey Warde is publisher of The Rogue Voice. He can be reached by email: roguewarde@gmail.com Twitter: @roguewarde.