Our country’s response of togetherness and patriotism in the immediate aftermath of the terrorists bring down the Twin Towers with airplanes was the last time I remembered feeling a sense of unity in our country.
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Diversity, It’s on Tap
On Nov 19, 2022 a 45 year old Army vet named Richard Fierro was with his wife Jessica, their daughter Kassie, and some friends at Club Q, a gay bar in Colorado Springs. They were on the dance floor when a man armed with an AR15 -type weapon entered the club and started shooting.
Fierro, a Bronze Star recipient who had served 15 years in the military with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, showed his courage that night. He and another patron tackled the shooter and brought him down. Five people – including Kassie Fierro’s boyfriend – died and two dozen were injured, but the body count would have been much higher had Fierro not acted. “I needed to save my family,” he said later , “and my family at that time was everybody in that room.”
Richard and Jessica Fierro, who are Latino, are the owners of Atrevida Beer Company, a Colorado Springs brewery. They sell not only their craft beer, but T-shirts and other merchandise that celebrate their philosophy of inclusion and bear the motto Diversity, It’s on Tap.
With hate crimes and mass shootings on the rise, our country often seems more disunited than united, but blessedly some of the good and the brave are still among us.
Richard & Jessica Fierro
– Dana Susan Lehrman
A Modest Proposal to Address the Problem of Homelessness in the Modern World
By Jonathan Swift’s Ghost
I am Jonathan Swift, and I have returned from the dead to address the most pressing issue of our time: homelessness. I am not here to offer a serious solution, but rather to satirize the absurdity of the problem and the inadequacy of our responses to it.
In my day, homelessness was a serious problem, but it was nothing compared to the scope of the crisis today. In the United States alone, there are over 550,000 people who are homeless on any given night. And yet, our politicians and policymakers seem content to do nothing about it.
One of the most common excuses for inaction is that homelessness is a complex problem with no easy solutions. But is it really that complex? Isn’t it simply a matter of providing people with a place to live?
Of course, there are other factors that contribute to homelessness, such as mental illness, addiction, and poverty. But these are all problems that can be addressed with the right resources and policies.
The real reason why we don’t end homelessness is because we don’t care enough about the people who are homeless. We see them as a nuisance, a burden, or even a threat. We dehumanize them and make them invisible.
If only homelessness was a problem that could be solved by looking away rather it is a problem that is staring us in the face every day.
So, here is my modest proposal for addressing the problem of homelessness:
We should start by rounding up all of the homeless people in the country and putting them in camps. We can call these camps “Homelessvilles.”
The Homelessvilles would be self-contained communities, with their own housing, schools, hospitals, and businesses. Residents of the Homelessvilles would be required to work, and they would be paid a small stipend for their labor.
The Homelessvilles would be funded by a tax on the wealthy. After all, the wealthy are the ones who have benefited the most from the economic system that has created homelessness.
Once the Homelessvilles are up and running, we can start to think about ways to transition people back into the mainstream society. But for now, the important thing is to get them off the streets and into a safe and supportive environment.
Rainbow Row, Charleston SC
Brass Ankle
I was raised in the Bronx, New York in 50s and 60s when the demographics were such that families in the borough were predominantly Jewish – like mine – or Catholic. In fact my friend Kathie, whose family was Moravian, tells me she was often the only WASP in her class!
And growing up in those relatively innocent post-war years I don’t remember being affected, or even aware of antisemitism.
Earlier, during WW II my dad served in the Army and was stationed at the Charleston, SC port of embarkation. As an officer he was given housing and allowed to bring family, and there in an Army hospital I was born. (See Captain)
My father spoke little about the war and regrettably I didn’t ask, and I don’t know if my folks encountered antisemitism on that Charleston Army base. But I think they did not as my mother spoke of friendships with both Jewish and non-Jewish families, and of the celebration for my father at the Officers Club on the night I was born.
But my mother Jessie, the daughter of Jewish, Eastern European immigrants, happened to be dark complexioned with dark eyes and very dark hair. And as a baby I had a head of dark curls, and both of us tanned by the Carolina sun.
Pushing me in my baby carriage my mother often heard taunts of “brass ankle” and “pickaninny”. The former she learned was a pejorative term for a Creole or a woman of mixed race; and the latter a derogatory term for a Black child.
While we were fighting hate abroad, here at home hate continued to raise its ugly head, and sadly it does still.
Jessie and me, Charleston 1945
– Dana Susan Lehrman
Sadly, many people who need care and supervision end up as part of the homeless population living in the streets.
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I don’t really believe in “ex” friends. There is an ebb and flow to friendships, but once established, they can usually be revived, even if dormant. Some can be intense for a while, then circumstances change – one of the parties moves away, changes jobs, or life interferes (I have seen an instance where politics got in the way; in this polarized world that can certainly happen). But once the basis is established, most can still be friends.
I put up the photo of my childhood birthday party because Debbie Felsot is in it (the girl with her eyes closed). Her birthday is one day after mine and our mothers negotiated which weekend each of us would celebrate our birthdays. We had the same group of girlfriends, lived in the same neighborhood and were quite friendly. Then the family moved away. This would have been around 1960 – long before social media (or a concerted effort for little girls to stay in touch). And, indeed, we lost touch. But I belong to a Facebook group for those who lived in a certain Detroit area code. It seems to be inhabited by folks a bit older than I, though I recognize some of the last names. One that cropped up some years ago was “Ron Felsot”. I messaged him, asking is he was related to Debbie, explaining who I was and why I was interested. He was, indeed, her older brother and gave me her email address. I promptly wrote, sent a current photo and was delighted to be back in touch.
We exchanged a few messages and birthday greetings, then fell out of touch again. It seems, after all those years, we really didn’t have much to say to one another. People do grow up and life moves on. Is she an “ex-friend”? I suppose so. If we lived close to one another, perhaps things would be different, but it did not turn out that way.
For years I have worked on, or chaired my college reunions. So every five years, I would call a long list of friends and catch up. After the Internet came along, I’d email, but that was less personal and I wouldn’t always get a response. For our 40th reunion (now almost 10 years ago), I made a concerted effort to get great turnout and really reconnect to some old friends. And I was successful at both, much to my delight. I got a few friends to show up who had never come before and we’ve stayed in touch.
My Brandeis friends crossed a lot of peer groups and I continued to pestered one fellow (who had never come to any reunions, but I always wanted to stay connected) long after the event, until I finally got a “yes” to meet for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other in over 40 years and had so much fun telling our life stories. We stayed in touch. I was delighted to discover that he had grown into a genuinely nice person, someone I enjoyed speaking with. We’d text or he’d call if he was out and about. So I stayed up-to-date on his life.
Until recently. I know he has been busy, between a big renovation project to his summer home, helping out with the grandkids, other family obligations. I hope that I haven’t done something to aggravate him. He no longer responds to most of my texts (which are not frequent). We do “like” each other’s Instagram posts, but there is not real contact. Does this make him an “ex-friend”? I hope not. It just makes me sad to again not be in close touch. Perhaps we had different expectations for this renewed friendship.
As I said when I began this story, friendships ebb and flow. I guess we are at a low point. I look forward to the time when we are flowing again. We are now in our 70s. The clock is ticking…can’t wait too long!
Here is a short analogy that illustrates how perfectionism is a form of imbalance:
Imagine a seesaw. On one side of the seesaw is perfectionism, and on the other side is self-acceptance. When we are perfectionists, we are putting all of our weight on the side of perfectionism. This causes the seesaw to become unbalanced and tip over. When this happens, we fall off the seesaw and experience negative consequences such as stress, anxiety, and low self-esteem. Ouch!
To achieve balance, we need to shift some of our weight from the side of perfectionism to the side of self-acceptance. This means accepting that we are imperfect beings who are capable of making mistakes. It also means celebrating both our successes and learning from our failures. When we achieve balance, we become more resilient and less vulnerable to the negative consequences of perfectionism.
A Crack in Everything
“Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.”
I love the lyric but it took me awhile to get the songwriter’s message.
I thought when I got married my life would be perfectly and eternally blissful, after all what could two people madly in love ever find to fight about?
But when I realized how many differences we actually had, I despaired that ours was a bad marriage.
And then I saw how much light there can be between perfect and irredeemable.
Thank you Leonard Cohen!
RetroFlash / 100 Words
– Dana Susan Lehrman
My father joined the Army Air Corps in January, 1941, a full 11 months BEFORE Pearl Harbor. There was no separate Air Force at this time, it was still a division of the Army. He longed to be part of something bigger than himself. He had worked for the Chevrolet division of General Motors since 1937, but I think enjoyed the structure of the military. It was like being in a large family. Since he was the youngest of 8 children and his family had its fair share of dysfunction (his mother was bipolar and had been institutionalized since he was 12), this gave him that structure.
I have a letter from his oldest sister admonishing him; advising him to NOT join up. “What happens is we do not enter the war?,” she queries, “what then?” But he was on the older side, in fact, just under the age when he could join, so he disobeyed his de facto mother and enlisted. Since he was already a college grad, with useful management experience, he went to officer training school, was taught to be a navigator and wound up teaching that at Mather Field in Sacramento for the duration of the war. He truly loved his time in the service. He saved all his training manuals and stayed in touch with lots of Air Corps buddies for the rest of his life.
Diploma from Cadet School
Mather Field 1943 yearbook
Dad’s yearbook photo
Instructor Training Manuel
His handwritten notes remain inside this bound book, yellowing but legible.
He carried a little wallet with him that included his ID card and a card with basic training instructions. As a former teacher, I can assure you, they are still valid methods.
What he carried.
I’m sure he was an excellent teacher, as he was always patient with me. He would take me out in the backyard to look up at the stars, telling me how to figure out my position through the location of the constellations in the night sky. I no longer remember the details of the lessons, just the wonder of being out in the night with my father and how special that was.
Col. John Egan
This professional portrait of his commanding officer was in the front of the yearbook. He stayed in touch with Col. Egan for the remainder of his life. Dad died on Jan. 3, 1990. When my brother and I went to his condominium in Laguna Hills, CA to clean it out and close his estate, we found his holiday card list on his desk. Col. Egan’s name and address was on it. I wrote to him to tell him of my father’s death and added him to my annual holiday card list. I heard back from him once. He said that my David looked a lot like Kenny (my father had been named Conrad, but his parents changed his name to Kenneth a few days later when his Grandfather Kahuth died. They just didn’t bother to officially change his birth certificate, so he became “C. Kenneth”, but was always called Ken). It made my heart leap to think that my 4 year old son resembled my father. May that boy be as good a man as my father was.
Dad died with his captain’s ring on his finger, though he was promoted to Major by the end of the war. I have all his official promotion documents, which are fantastic testaments to his skill and dedication.
Promoted to Major in 1946
I’m one of those people who gets a task 95% completed and decides it is good enough.
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