Blog Archives

There is a Monster in the White House

thomas-mannThere is a monster in the White House, and I refuse to sit back and let him implement his hateful and xenophobic agenda.

That means I’ve gone outside of my comfort zone and called out his minions

And yes, I’ve paid the price.

This weekend Facebook reflected the battle being waged against a President who appointed white supremacist Steve Bannon as national security advisory and implemented an executive order that hurts good, honest immigrants and refugees.

For the past eight years, I have believed that people have the right to post what they want on their own Facebook page. Even when people made nasty comments on my posts, I held firm that people have the right to say what they want on their own page.

tutuBut that changed this weekend. I can’t let evil prevail.

I started calling out people who posted “alternative facts” or hate speech under the guise of news. I called out people who slammed credible news sources while posting propaganda.  And I noted that people who obviously aren’t well-versed or well-educated  shouldn’t be spewing hate against others.

For the most part, I did this with facts. Not mean words, Not name calling. Facts and an occasional comment about people’s ability to discern truth from alternative facts.edmund-burke-quote

One particular person kept deleting every comment I made on her posts of unwavering support of President Trump.

Again, I wasn’t being rude. I wasn’t name calling. I was posting facts and information. I also noted she deleted any comment by others who called her out.

As my husband well knows, the more you ignore me the more I push back. I am the proverbial dog with a bone.

einsteinSo when she kept deleting instead of acknowledging my posts and instead of private messaging  me politely asking me to stop, she tagged me in a post calling me rude. Then other people starting liking that post.

So I unfriended and blocked her.

She is so blinded by the need to justify who own beliefs that she can’t even acknowledge that there may be a reason so many people in our country are protesting.

So now, her Facebook friends think I’m rude and inappropriate.

Let them. I’d rather be considered rude than to sit back and watch an evil man destroy our country.

There is a monster in the White House, and I’m going to do everything I can to fight it.

Even if it means offending his minions.

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The Worm Farm, Freedom of the Press, and Journalistic Integrity

worms-2I’ve never had a life when a pressing news story might not interrupt  it.

When I was about four-years old, my mom would get me up before dawn and we’d walk to a kiosk-like structure (to this day I have no idea exactly where we went) so she could scrutinize a bunch of dials and jot numbers in her notebook. When we got back home, I would stand at her feet twirling the cord on the rotary dial phone that was attached to our kitchen wall as she called radio station KRCO with the local weather report.

That was the beginning of her journalism career, which would span more than four decades.

By the time I entered kindergarten, my mom didn’t go anywhere without a pen, a reporter’s notebook and her camera.  She sought out anything and everything that could be meaningful in a small town: government meetings, human interest stories, horrific accidents and political issues. And I tagged along while she pursued that truth.

By the time I entered junior high school, I had been chastised for not shaking Senator Bob Packwood’s hand appropriately, had gained a more thorough knowledge of human behavior from a bunch of open-minded hippies at a commune, been a passenger in a small plane performing some scary dangerous aerobatics, and been the human subject in one-too many staged photos. Because if my mom wasn’t writing a story, she assumed the role of photographer for her friend Carolyn Grote.

And that’s how my best friend and I ended up posing for a photo with a man who thought worm farms would be the wave of the future. And, to add insult to injury, the newspaper didn’t even get my name correct. Apparently, when my mom had submitted the photo in her usual forthright manner, she had noted that I was the photographer’s daughter. At some point in the pre-computer era of information transfer, I became the writer’s daughter and my last name changed.

I noted my anger in the scrapbook in which I documented everything I considered important in my life – from class photos to reading awards to wedding announcements. I obviously felt quite offended that a newspaper, an institution I had come to believe was all about the truth, would get my name wrong.

Forty years later, I am not only amused by my childhood indignation, but I still strongly believe in the integrity of institutions that are truly dedicated to pursuing the truth and sharing that truth with the rest of the world.  I also know that there are wolves in sheep’s clothing who have built their business on the backs of genuine truth seekers.

There are businesses that market themselves as news organizations but have little, if  no, interest in the truth. Instead they exist solely for profit or for political purposes.

There are people who market themselves as journalists but are really only peddlers of muck.

And there are citizens who will believe in anything that justifies their own belief system while dismissing anything else as fake. Even worse, they have begun to label journalists as dishonest or self-serving.

I am now married to a journalist and as a journalist’s wife, a journalist’s daughter, and as the mother of a journalism student, I am angered and frightened by the inability to distinguish between truth and lies.  I also know that some people don’t believe I can make a non-biased case for journalistic integrity.

But for those who will listen, I can tell you the truth about real journalism.

Real journalism isn’t about making people happy – it’s about helping people better understand the world in which they live and to make the decisions accordingly.

Real journalism doesn’t fit easily into a family’s schedule. My husband keeps crazy hours, and my mother never knew when a breaking story would tear her away from her family.

Real journalism doesn’t involve turning  information that comes from only one source into fact. Real journalism requires more than one source and documentation. Anything less is just a quote from someone who may or may not be telling the truth.

Real journalism doesn’t recognize holidays. Every year, I see the social media posts about stores that require employees to work on Thanksgiving or other holidays. No one ever suggests that journalists should ignore world events to eat turkey or open Christmas gifts. My mom and husband often worked on Christmas because, well, someone had to.

Real journalism is careful to distinguish between opinion pieces and news.

Real journalism is about accountability for those who deliver the news as well as those who read or hear it.

And real journalism is about uncovering the truth and sharing that truth with others no matter the implications.

And now, that pursuit of the truth is in jeopardy.
Last summer, I had the privilege of attending an event at the National Press Club. While I was there, I saw an announcement that then-presidential candidate Donald Trump had banned the Washington Post from having access to his campaign.trump

And that is the day I got really, really scared.

There is a huge difference between cracking down on fake news and cracking down on legitimate news sources. Those legitimate sources are what make the difference between living in freedom and living in oppression. And those who control the media control access to the truth.

It’s time we  all begin to evaluate from where our information comes, arm ourselves with that truth, and defend those who share it with us.

Anything less is just not American.

There Is No Fear in My Anger

Today, I am stepping out of my comfort zone and attempting a different type of blog.

Since I recently saw Maya Angelou, I’m writing poetry for the first time since adolescence (for the record, that’s about 30 years ago).

This challenge requires taking a deep breath and jumping in.

Here… I… go…

There Is No Fear in My Anger

The workshop leader told us

That anger is always rooted in fear.

That helping people address their anger

Always requires helping them confront their fears.

I, the student, told myself

That my anger is never rooted in fear.

That dealing with my anger

Always requires confronting the source.

There is no fear in my anger.

My anger is rooted in a sense of fairness.

When people are treated differently because of the way they look or because of their perceived social status

Then I am red, hot angry.

But I am not fearful.

My anger is rooted in a desire for benevolence.

When a person with money or connections is regarded more highly than a knowledgeable person

Then I am rebelliously angry.

But I am not fearful.

My anger is rooted in a hard-earned sense of self-worth.

When I am ignored because someone wants to build his own ego on a false sense of self-importance

Then I am howling with anger.

But I am not fearful.

My anger is rooted in a cry for compassion.

When I hear people ridicule those who have less

Then I am sadly angry.

But I am not fearful.

My anger is rooted in respect.

When people spend years building a strong foundation and it is destroyed by those who want to build an empire

Then I am frustrated with anger.

But I am not fearful.

And when I am told that I am fearful rather than angry

I am full of fighting words and the need to persevere and speak the truth.

But I am not fearful.

For there is simply no fear in my anger.

(Wow.. that WAS like jumping into a cold pool and enjoying a great swim… invigorating.  I had forgotten why I wrote poetry as a teen.  I may now write more!)