As I would have said at the time: Note to folks living below the Mason-Dixon Line: It’s time to remove the Confederate monuments. They look too much like a sore loser.
Let’s remember, those shafts (at least the ones I’ve seen) have to be offensive to every descendant of every slave in America.
Think of all the German-Americans who never erected Kaiser monuments in honor of their dead kin. Japanese-Americans who could have placed Hiroshima/Nagasaki reminders. Italian-Americans, with Mussolini railroad efficiency. Vietnamese, Native-Americans, French?
It’s one thing to respect the dead, but this has felt defiant. From my view of history, it was a rich man’s war fought by the poor who continued to suffer poverty long after. Including many of my ancestors.
Now, what do I make of the statues of Civil War soldiers found on every town green in New England?
The wounds linger, don’t they.
Catalan Canto even after all our letters and late-night (early morning there) conversations I still speculate how she spent the year in a traditional Spanish village more than any further Nueva York complete with subway and jammed apartments no postcard, these slides she projects in rural Ohio, so disorienting me hardly the Old Order Virginian […]
Points of No Return Driving Back From Ohio night delirium before dawn reflecting some late-night return gratefully, the heavy drowsiness failed to take hold past that point too late to find a motel open or prices doubling, approaching the city a collision, of course the road of faith rarely runs straight past the idols even […]
Ferryman, on the Way Home the colder the air the heavier the water turning choppy the boat shimmies under the strain eight to ten inches on deck frankly, cars slide into each other so much the chief engineer would have shut the run down returning, I just missed the ferry twice in a row now […]
I lay out solitaire cards like a fortune I’ll quickly forget then remember how I once thought drunkenness would lead to poetry back when I was always at the edge of despair or worse rarely was I fully present assuming each task would lead to the next reward or recognition just around the corner all […]
confrontations with submerged experience: the painful history I repeat this time as the authoritarian remembering in horror the flyswatter and the yardstick I thought I could never use and thank God, haven’t, though she has a liberty within the refrigerator I never imagined a child could touch anything more than milk margarine the occasional bacon […]
as well as the sanctuary of art in a maze of sculpture galleries a lithe, long red-haired teen copies the curly hair while hunched in low-hung jeans such gaping in the calm again how timeless the marble remains ~*~ That’s what Woodpecker said.