What does it mean to ba an American?

Many Americans believe we are a nation blessed by God, and subscribe to the notion of American Exceptionalism.  They argue that we were founded on Christian principles, and consider us to be a Christian nation, ignoring the language of the US Constitution reads. 

If we are indeed, a nation under the God of Abraham, rooted in the principles of the Old and New Testaments, then we must adhere to the concepts of love and compassion, both as a nation and as individual citizens.  Neither love nor compassion is mentioned in the constitution, but arguments can be made for their inference.  They are easily embraced as abstract notions, until we are faced with the risks and responsibilities associated with them.   A case in point – the Syrian refugees, men, women, and children fleeing their country for fear of their lives.  They are not running away from an occasional terrorist or deranged individual with an assault rifle. They are escaping the military devastation of their homes and communities. In February the NY Times reported: “at least 470,000 Syrians had died as a result of the war, almost twice the 250,000 counted a year and a half ago by the United Nations.”

Over 4 million Syrians have fled their country, and their destinations reported by CNN last September are as follows:

Turkey: 1.9 million, Lebanon: 1.1 million, Jordan: 629,000, Iraq: 249,000,Egypt: 132,000, Germany: 98,700, Sweden: 64,700, France: 6,700, United Kingdom: 7,000, Denmark: Hungary, 11,300, Australia: 12,000 resettlements, and the United     States of America, the country blessed by God, and founded on Christian beliefs - 1,500 resettlements.

And why have we responded so shamefully to this humanitarian crisis?  Because we are afraid of the risk of having terrorists sneak into our country.  Yes, it is possible that one or more terrorist could slip by our screening process, and could eventually plot an act of terror against some of us, somewhere, in this vast country of ours. But no terrorists can destroy our country. The only people who can do that are you and I  by allowing our fear and anxiety to escalate to the point that we behave in ways that refute everything that America stands for.

America has survived the 9/11 attacks, and we can survive more if necessary.  Terrorists can damage our sense of security, but not our will and our moral courage.  Lives can tragically be lost, but that happens here every day in our homes, highways, streets, and work places, and we go on.  Of course we must be vigilant, and act to protect ourselves, but we need to keep the threats and the risks we face in perspective.

We recognize the men and women in our military, and our first responders as heroes because of their courage and willingness to take risks for our benefit.  They do all they can to minimize their risks, but the risks are never completely eradicated.  They place themselves in danger for what they believe in. But as citizens and politicians, we are unwilling to do the same. We refuse to help the families whose lives have been upended by war because we cower in fear at the possibility of a terrorist entering our country.  It is shameful.

We have allowed fear to override compassion.  If we are unwilling to accept these risks and the responsibilities, we are not the country we like to think we are.  Donald Trump is diminishing our country.

THE MOTHER OF ALL SANDWICHES

Once more food is providing me an opportunity to revisit an experience from my past. The aroma from the Italian peppers I was frying evoked memories of my mother’s kitchen and the sandwiches she made for my school lunch.

For several years in the 1950s my mother was baking most of our bread. It was something of a cross between traditional Italian bread and the sliced bread found in supermarkets, and considerably larger that either of them.  A slice of her bread easily measured at least 6-7 inches in all directions, large enough for one sandwich to be a complete meal.

During my senior year in high school – 1956-57 – my friends and I would walk across the street for lunch, to a sandwich shop where we could bring our own lunch, buy soda and snacks, and eat at one of the many stand-up tables.  It was here, often with my classmate Stanley, that I would enjoy my mother’s epic sandwichs.  Between the two slices of her bread she layered salami and/or Copacola, slices of fresh tomatoes, fried peppers, and mayonnaise. By lunchtime, the oils had soaked through the bread, the wrapping paper, and on more than one occasion, the paper bag.  (There were no plastic baggies then.), It took motivation and determination to manage a soggy sandwich of that size. And I had both, because I believed – and still do – that that sandwich was the most delicious soggy mess ever created.

And Thanks to Patience’s porch garden this past summer with its peppers and tomatoes, I was able to create that soggy mess once more, albeit without my mother’s bread.  One more reason to anticipate next summer.

LOSSES & GAINS

The new year dawns cool and gray, and after quickly dismissing the notion of making one or more resolutions, my mind turns to thinking about what I have lost, not in the past 12 months, but over the last 7 years. I am not talking about car keys, or opportunities, or even the people in my life.  I’m talking about those things that we lose to the process of aging.  Why this has inserted itself into my mind on the first day of 2017 is beyond me.  It just sort of happened.

It does not take much imagination to quickly surmise some of the losses a 77 year- old man might experience.  I have lost most of the hair on my head.  What remains is thin and lacks the substance needed to keep combed, so I have it cut short enough to render me almost bald.  I am convinced that the less hair one has on one’s head, the faster it grows. Interestingly, new hair appears elsewhere – on my ears, nose, eyebrows, and shoulders – one of the few “gains” of aging.  I’m seriously considering a comb over using my eyebrows.

Another gift of aging has been directed at my skin.  It seems every week a new spot occurs somewhere, usually my face, trunk, and arms.  I think I will eventually look more like a leopard than the tiger I like to think I am.

I have also lost a half an inch in height.  But surprisingly that does not bother me so much.  What does bother me is the loss of some mobility.  I can no longer get up from sitting or kneeling on the floor without something to lean on.  And when I do, it is always accompanied by an audible oomph.

Then there is time.  I feel like my days are several hours less than they used to be.  I’m in bed at 9:30 instead of 11:30, and if something doesn’t happen before five o’clock, it most likely won’t happen for me.

But the cruelest loss of all is this: I have gained a belly and lost a waist.  That bothers me more than all of the other losses, including those that sensibilities prevent me from mentioning.  I now wear low riding jeans, which means they are buttoned tight several inches below my non-existent waistline.  The few trousers that fit where they should fit quickly begin slipping down to the “fall back” waistline, and the pants soon gather abundantly around my shoes.  As DT would say - not good.  I can prevent this with suspenders, and I do, if I can cover them with a sweater.  My vanity prevents me from using them when they are exposed for the world to see.

Growing old is a challenging opportunity to be cherished and appreciated.  My role models are friends and acquaintances in their 80s and 90s that I look to for inspiration.