Diversity Song

Yesterday, I walked to a little park near my apartment. It was a beautiful day. People of all ages, shapes, and sizes were out walking and riding bikes. A gray-haired woman sat on a bench in the sun next to a young woman with Down syndrome. A bald man on a recumbent bike sat quietly next to a statue, a memorial to children in the community who have died. Children played on a rainbow-colored slide. I noticed that it was also a rainbow-colored variety of children; their hair was black, brown, and yellow. It got me thinking about America.

It’s hard NOT to think about America these days (especially if, like me, you happen to be an American). We’re in the news every day, and most of it’s downright embarrassing. But at the park, I started thinking about what I believe truly makes America great. To me, it’s our diversity.

Maybe this Thanksgiving, Americans should make more of an effort to give thanks for our diversity. And maybe we should celebrate it this Fourth of July, too.

Tonight, I’ve written some lyrics about diversity in America. You might want to sing them to the tune of “America the Beautiful” while sitting down for your Thanksgiving dinner this year.

DIVERSITY

Oh beautiful for this our home
For mountains, rivers, trees
For buffalo so plentiful
Fish swimming in the seas
For Native people living here
Respectful of the land
The beans and corn and squash adorned
That perfect feast so grand

Oh brave the many immigrants
Who faced the ocean storms
With hopes of finding better lives
Wishing to be transformed
And braver still the stolen ones
Robbed of their liberty
Our country’s been a melting pot
Though not completely free.

We stand for nothing if not this:
We are diversity
A land of many colors proud
That is our legacy
America, America
Our strength: our many shades
A garden where all flowers grow
Where every grain can wave!

© Lori Bonati

Thanks to Joan, Heather, and the NFL

Last night, I dreamed I met Joan Baez.

I was standing just outside of her dressing room, a small trailer with an open window (as in a food truck) on one side, and the door on the other. With tears in my eyes, I stood in the doorway and told Joan Baez that I’d been a fan since I was 12 (that’s not really true; I was about 15). Then I told her my current age, and she said, “Well, that says a lot.” (She’s older than me, actually, but I refrained from telling her so.)

Even though a throng of fans was crowded around the open window, she turned away from them to have a private chat with me in the doorway. Still, I had the awkward feeling that I couldn’t quite express myself to her. I told her I loved how she sang a certain song (one of her earlier folk songs) but in my dream I told myself that I really loved another one better, and if only I could remember its name I’d tell her I loved that one, too. I felt like I was acting like a typical gushing fan, the last thing I wanted her to think of me, and that maybe she was just humoring me.

But then she handed me something — a gift of some kind — and as I walked away, I said to someone, “Now I can send her a thank you card!”

So here it is. Thank you, Joan, for inspiring me as a young woman to buy a guitar, to learn your songs, to play along with your records, to try and hit your high notes (both musically and politically). Thank you for introducing me to pacifism and protest marches. And thank you for that gift, whatever it was, in my dream.

Maybe I dreamed about you last night because this weekend is the one-year anniversary of the racist Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville — the one that resulted in the murder of Heather Heyer, a believer in social justice who was there protesting the rally.

So here’s another thank you — this one is for Heather Heyer.

Thank you, Heather, for helping to keep the spirit of protest alive, and for standing up against racism and injustice. And thank you for your last post on Facebook, which was: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”

And, while I’m at it, thank you to the NFL players who’ve been taking a knee to protest racism and injustice. Shame on you-know-who for criticizing their peaceful form of free speech.

Unbelievably, another white supremacist Unite the Right rally is scheduled to take place in Charlottesville this weekend. What a slap in the face to all that’s decent in the world.

I think I’ll spend the rest of today practicing my guitar (until my fingers get sore, anyway) while thinking about peace, justice, love, and protests. Maybe a new song, or at least another dream, will come of it.

Do You Like Ike?

In the midst of all the turmoil surrounding #45, I’m thinking today about a different man: #34. What would he have thought of the current state of American politics?

Dwight David Eisenhower was the U.S. President from 1953 – 1961. He defeated Adlai Stevenson in a landslide. (The electoral vote was 442 to 89.) His campaign slogan, “I Like Ike,” caught on because, by and large, it was true. Ike was a very likeable guy.

Did you know that he had six brothers, and that all seven of the boys were nicknamed “Ike”? For some reason, his was the only one that stuck. It’s a good thing his nickname wasn’t “Dwi.” “I Like DWI” may be true for some people, but it isn’t a very good campaign slogan.

On our recent road trip from Arizona to New York, we stopped in Abilene, Kansas (Dwight’s hometown) after eight hours of driving. Just before entering the town, we passed a billboard advertising the Eisenhower Presidential Library.

Only a week or so before, our friends Kathy and Ray had mentioned that we should check out presidential libraries if we ever came across them in our travels. We decided to take their advice before leaving Abilene the next day.

But first, we had dinner at Joe Snuffy’s Old Fashioned Grill. If you’re ever in Abilene, Kansas, you really should grab a bite there. For a family diner, they have excellent wine! And food! And most of all — service! I can’t say enough about old Joe Snuffy’s. My favorite part was our teenaged server, who, like Frank Mills in the musical Hair, “resembles George Harrison of the Beatles.” He (our server) was very sweet, standing next to me while I took the first bite of my meal to make sure it was okay.

But back to Ike. At the Eisenhower Presidential Library, I learned a lot about #34’s life as a boy, man, and world leader. I even got to tour his childhood home, complete with all the original furnishings.

On the tour, I learned some surprising facts. The family was far from wealthy (they’d moved to Abilene with only $24 to their name). His mother was a former Mennonite who was opposed to war. His family valued education highly, but the only way Dwight could attend college was by going to a military school (West Point) where tuition was free.

The boys were assigned rotating chores, all learning to cook and to sew. Here’s the “dough box” where the Eisenhowers placed their bread dough to rise.

Although I know his Presidency is probably not without controversy, here are some of the positive things Dwight D. Eisenhower (a self-proclaimed “progressive conservative” and a Republican) managed to accomplish while President:

• continued and expanded New Deal social programs
• helped end McCarthyism
• signed the Civil Rights Act of 1957 (and sent Army troops to enforce school integration)
• authorized the Interstate Highway System
• promoted science education
• emphatically expressed his concerns about what he called the “military-industrial complex.”

In spite of all his achievements, Eisenhower once said that “the proudest thing I can claim is being from Abilene.” You’ve got to like that, especially when humility is in such short supply at the White House these days.

Coffee House with a History

Quick, what words pop into your mind when I say “coffee house”?

Did you think of Starbucks? Pumpkin lattes? Cold brew? Okay, now step into my time machine, set the dial to 1960, and transport yourself to Saratoga Springs, New York. What do you see?

There’s a two-story brick building on Phila Street, a red awning over a narrow door, an even narrower staircase leading up to the second floor, a room with chairs and tables and a small stage, a couple of long-haired folks carrying their guitars up the stairs, and a woman with a dark bun holding the door open for them. Her name is Lena.

You are standing outside of Caffè Lena, probably the oldest continuously open coffee house in America. And by coffee house, I mean the legendary spot referred to by the New York Times in 2013 as “Folk Music Heaven.” It’s where Bob Dylan tried out some new songs in the early 60’s, and where musicians, poets, and other performers continue to keep the place in business.

Lena and Bill Spencer opened the place in 1960. Lena’s warm hospitality kept it going after her husband left. It seems that Lena struggled to make ends meet but was always generous toward the folk musicians that she hired, one time paying Don McLean (who wrote and recorded the song, “American Pie”) $300 instead of the promised $150 because he “did so well.” Sadly, Lena Spencer died in a fall down the narrow stairs in 1989, but Caffè Lena lives on.

As of today, a total of 35,231 artists have performed there over the years. I had the pleasure of attending a show at the coffee house last July, and I saw two amazing musicians (Happy Traum and Del Rey). I hope to get back there again soon. If you want to learn more about the history of Caffè Lena, I recommend reading “Caffè Lena, Inside America’s Legendary Folk Music Coffeehouse,” by Jocelyn Arem.

More Clues

My last post (Where Am I?) included two photos and posed the question, “Where Am I?” So far, none of my readers on WordPress, Facebook, or Twitter have come up with an answer. Either you haven’t clicked the link, are too busy with Thanksgiving preparations, or you truly don’t give a crap. It’s understandable. There is just too much crap out here to read right now, and more important things to do. But in the meantime, I’m still hanging out here somewhere, wondering where in the hell I am. So if you happen to know, please tell me so I can find my way home in time for Thanksgiving!

I do have another clue for you. Remember the first clue was “coffeehouse.” The next one is “1960.” Oh, and here’s another photo.

Good luck. Hopefully, I Shall Be Released from this mysterious place soon. (That was another clue, by the way.)

Thought Bubbles

On January 22, 2017, I was standing at my kitchen sink doing dishes. It was Inauguration Day. I scraped, I scrubbed, I scoured (I don’t own a dishwasher), and for some reason I started thinking.

Maybe it was the inauguration that made me want to wash something. Or the news about Monsanto bidding on some farmland just west of here, so they could build a seed research facility. Or possibly, just the sight of all those suds in the sink had set my mind to wandering. It was as if my head were full of thought bubbles.

Just as one popped, another one would form. I was thinking about pesticides, and the election, and my children’s future. I felt a sudden urge to scream, but instead I quietly turned off the water, dried my hands, and walked down the hall to my office. Sitting at the keyboard then, I felt a faucet turn on in my consciousness, and my thoughts dripped out through my hands and onto the screen.

Here’s what I wrote that day, word for word:

———-

“So here is what I was thinking while I washed dishes:

I was thinking that some of the world’s biggest problems can best be solved if we do just one thing: simplify.

Break them down into their bare bones.

Start thinking like a child.

Now I know very little about Monsanto, and the science, which makes me feel like I’m not qualified to write to the newspaper expressing my opinion about Monsanto. I’m sure I would get shot down or receive hate mail due to my ignorance. But then I realized that I actually know quite a bit. Here is what I do know about Monsanto:

Aren’t they the company that produces Roundup?

Isn’t Roundup responsible for the decline in the bee population?

Isn’t the decline in the bee population something that threatens our crops and all manner of life on this planet, eventually?

Isn’t Monsanto turning a blind eye to that despite scientific evidence?

Isn’t Monsanto also responsible for creating special seeds, genetically modified, which they are forcing farmers to grow, and isn’t Monsanto prohibiting farmers from growing their own seeds?

Isn’t all of this crazy?

Then I realized that, even though I don’t have too many scientific facts in there, I do have an even more valuable commodity … common sense. Well, maybe just as valuable. And science is, in fact, predicated on common sense, logic if you will.

I was thinking much as an innocent child would, who is often times even closer to the truth of the matter than we realize.

Then I started thinking about politics. Uh-oh. Don’t get me started. It’s inauguration day, after all. But now I am started. And I just can’t stop.

I just can’t stop thinking about how a child would see this whole Donald trump thing. A child would probably say, why would we want to put a bully in charge of anything?

And isn’t it bad to grab, and point, and make fun of people?

And why does he call someone “my African American” … he doesn’t own him.

And why is Donald trump so rich, and all of his friends so rich, and why are only the rich people in charge? And isn’t it better to share?

And why do people want to hurt each other?

Why do they argue so much?

Isn’t it better to get along, to be nice and kind and friendly?

Why do people vote for someone who says he grabbed someone? Or that he could shoot someone and that people would still like him? None of this makes any sense at all.

And why do people think that war solves problems? We have been having wars since forever and they haven’t stopped yet. Maybe adults should try something new instead of repeating the same things over and over again.”

———-

So there you have it – recycled thought bubbles from a little over nine months ago. Unlike regular bubbles, thought bubbles can be saved in special places, like notebooks and hard drives. I take them out sometimes and I shake them like snow globes just to see what happens. Sometimes the scenes come to life, rearranging themselves in newer, smarter, or more interesting ways. Other times, it just snows.

Either way, it’s a much better way to spend my time than doing dishes. And who knows, maybe January 2018 will turn out better. I might have a dishwasher, at least.

 

 

American Dreamer

Early this morning — around 3 a.m. in fact — I started my new job as a tax preparer. I went out into the busy waiting room and asked, “Who’s next?” A tall man in the front row eagerly raised his hand. It was Ronald Reagan.

I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face while racking my brain for a way out. I could pretend I hadn’t seen him. I could announce that we were closing for lunch. Or I could just quit. But in the end, I knew that I had no choice. I gave him a nod and we walked back to the cubicles.

I asked him if he’d like a more private office, and I was overcome with pangs of guilt for doing so. Why was I giving him royal treatment? I should just treat him like everyone else, I told myself. But it was too late. My co-workers had gotten wind of our special client, and they were hustling to vacate the director’s office so that we could use it. We entered the cushy room with its mahogany desk and velvet chairs, and sat down across from each other.

Suddenly, Reagan pulled out a ragged old newspaper with a shocking headline and risqué photograph of a woman. He thought it was hilarious. I told him that he was being inappropriate. Then I mustered up the courage to say that I really didn’t think I should be doing his taxes, because it was my first day on the job, and I’d never prepared anyone’s taxes before. “And besides,” I said, pausing for effect and looking him straight in the eye, “I’m not at all a Trump supporter!”

Reagan wasn’t fazed at all. He still wanted me to do his taxes, but first, we had to do his laundry. So down into the basement we went. I don’t even remember how we got there, but suddenly we were standing in front of an old washer and dryer in a dark, musty basement, filling up the tub with his dirty clothes. I turned on the machine and almost immediately flooded the basement. Realizing that we were standing in six inches of water, we abandoned our project and rushed toward the stairs. Once safe on the first floor, I pulled out my cell phone, called my mother, and asked her to help.

And then I woke up.

It’s only a dream, I thought with relief. And whatever you do, I told myself, do NOT close your eyes and go back to sleep!

Once fully awake, I tried to analyze the symbols in my dream. New Job. Taxes. Dirty Laundry. Flood. Ronald Reagan. What was my dream trying to tell me?

My first attempt at dream analysis resulted in the following possibilities:

• New Job = I just started a new “career” (retirement).
• Taxes = Identification with my father (who worked for the IRS).
• Dirty Laundry = Scandals in the presidency.
• Flood = Trickle-down economics.
• Ronald Reagan = See Flood.

All of that made sense. But then it hit me. Last night, just before bed, I’d been practicing my guitar for the first time in a while. One of the songs I played was “American Dreamer,” something I wrote in 2009, right after the American housing bubble burst. (You can listen to it here.) The song tells the tale of someone who got in over his head because he believed what the banks and the real estate developers were telling him. He’d purchased a home with a balloon mortgage and then had lost his job and his home. People were blaming him for being greedy, but he says his mistake was following someone else’s dream.

So on a deeper level, my dream might symbolize what happens when you’ve gone along with the crowd and then are faced with a dilemma. Do you continue to follow the rules, despite your beliefs, or do you stand up to authority? Because if you don’t, you may find yourself in hot water. With Ronald Reagan.

I once dreamed that Bill Clinton kissed me on the cheek. Luckily, I did not have sexual relations with that man. I haven’t had any Obama dreams yet, although that would be nice. I wouldn’t even try to wake up!

Lost at Sea

Once upon a time there was a ship. It was a big, beautiful ship. The ship had many design flaws, but it managed to stay afloat. One of its brilliant features was the multitude of steering mechanisms that it had on board. It had four different steering wheels — one in the bow, one in the stern, one in the center, and one toward the southeast. It had rudders. It had sails. It even had a gasoline motor.

Every four years, the ship would have to be overhauled. Some people thought it would be wise to make the steering wheels in the center and the southeast a little stronger than the other wheels, because they couldn’t see ahead as well as the other wheels, and that this would give the ship balance. And so it was done.

One morning, a bright, shiny rock appeared in front of the ship. It was so enormous, so tremendous, that it didn’t even look real. It swayed this way and that, hypnotizing some of the wheels on the ship. At times it seemed to mock the ship, but then it would promise the ship great things, and the ship listened.

‘We need to get to that rock!” the center wheel said. “Yes!” the southeast wheel agreed. “No, no,” said the wheels in the stern and the bow. But the central and southeastern wheels were stronger because of the way they were weighted. They pulled the ship along, right toward that bright, shiny rock, until it was too late. The ship shook and shuddered, and slowly sank to the bottom of the ocean.

The waves and the fishes saw what had happened to the ship. Some of the waves left as quickly as they could. Other waves decided to hurl themselves against the rock. It would take some time, but they knew they could eventually wear the rock down. The fishes just didn’t know what to do. Some of them went low, others went high, jumping right out of the water into the pure, pure air. And some (the ones who had been to school) pooled their efforts and pulled that ship back up to the surface.

(I wrote this shortly after waking up this morning. I’m not sure if I’m one of the fish that went to school, or a wave. Right now I just feel like I want a time machine.)