Tag Archives: empathy

We Kill the Children

(the following was written a few months back, but as the US still fails at adequate, humane treatment of asylum seeking families at our southern border, I find it to still be relative)

We Kill the Children

by Joel Howard

 

Her name was Marilyn DeMont.

Her father was called August. Their time of notoriety, of infamy, was 1945, specifically July 23. It was on that day that Marilyns died. Her death immediately preceded her father’s, both occurring in the roiling waters of San Francisco Bay. The Golden Gate Bridge has forever served as a towering character in their story, as it was from that fabled structure that they leapt to their deaths.

Marilyn was two weeks shy of her sixth birthday. Many accounts at the time were lurid with sensationalism, yet every voice echoed both sadness and outrage.

Today, many are justifiably outraged when learning of children at our southern border being wrested from their parents’ arms, the wailing – ours and theirs – a reaction to the inhumanity perpetrated by the uniform-clad servants of our government. These current atrocities are in too many ways like Marilyn’s story, it being adults who inflict inhumanity upon a child as border patrol officers and their overlords bring terror and even death to children in their charge.

For little Marilyn, she may have felt as if she was stepping onto a cloud, or perhaps falling into the tranquility of a backyard pool. It’s a struggle to understand why she took that step from the bridge, her foot landing upon nothing but air and death. One can assume that she found a day with daddy to be an adventure, likely as unexpected as it was thrilling. Here is the man who guided her life, and in whose trusted bond did the five-year-old depend for her safety and serenity.  

Her father gave no indication of his intentions. While he had been under a doctor’s care, he seemed none the worse for the bump on his head, an injury he’d suffered on a work site. As the foreman of an elevator repair crew, and by all accounts a man of good humor, one can imagine that he may have joked that his days had their ‘ups and downs’. All seemed okay to those who knew him. Yet on that ominous day during the heady days of victory after the second world war, set high upon the Golden Gate Bridge, August committed his heinous deed.

Whether August was of sound mind can forever be debated. Such cannot be said of the men and women who perpetrate today’s cruelties upon those seeking asylum from our great and compassionate country. The issue, rather, seems to be one of indifference, a cessation of morality that has its roots in jingoistic nationalism and this country’s lingering racism. The Trump administration uses fear of “other” to bring out the very worst in us.

On that July day in 1945, when father and daughter succumbed to the relentless currents of the Pacific Ocean, the event was called out for its unfathomable brutality. As the police investigated, they found parked nearby an abandoned car. Inside lay a note, part of which read simply ‘I and my daughter have committed suicide”. Those final words, as perfunctory as they were chilling, serve as their final farewell.

As father and daughter stood on the bridge’s edge, witnesses claim there was no command, nothing spoken, from the father. The girl simply walked a few paces ahead, turned toward the railing, and made that final, hollow step. His authority as a father appeared to rule Marilyn to the end.

The story was not yet over, as we further learn from witnesses that August, having seen that his daughter was falling to the cold waters below, then took his farewell by also stepping casually from the ledge beneath him. It was, it seems, the simplest act, as if he was fulfilling a directive from some unseen commander. His action was said to be one of nonchalance, like tipping his hat to a passing friend.

Today, it is excruciatingly painful to think of young children not knowing if they will ever return to their parents’ warm embrace. Unlike father and daughter of so long ago, there is no doubt as to asylum-seeking kids’ unwillingness to participate in their own suffering. It can be seen in the deep wells of pain evident in their eyes. For those youngsters seeking asylum, their steps are orchestrated by the adults in their worlds, first as they flee with their families the violence of their native homes, and then again as they’re pushed into cages by our abusive government and its vindictive supporters. As a society, we today bear witness to our own freefall into our lesser – absolutely worst – selves.

The border children likely see the darkness of the waters below, and are justifiably scared. For our part, we should all be not just ashamed, but also outraged, as we allow our elected officials to continue pushing children into the abyss.

 

 

WWJD? Not This, One Hopes

I guess the days of the Christian Right asking themselves WWJD are gone. Now it’s more STIN  –  Screw Those In Need. Source: Attorney General Barr Issues Rule To Keep Some Asylum Seekers From Posting Bail | HuffPost

Puerto Rico: A Poem

The poem below is not mine. It was written by Juan Saez Burgos, a Puerto Rican by birth, a poet in spirit. I found it very prescient in light of dear president’s recent comments about PR being an island, coupled with the horrible response to the crisis there. We Americans have a history that is sometimes far from honorable.

        Historic Tale in One Language Without a Moral                        

                        Part I

Once upon a time
and twice are three
and still is
    a small piece of the earth
in the middle of the sea:
    that piece was filled with Indians
naked like bronze under the sun.
Winds passed and waves passed 
and in boats some whites arrived, and the Indians of
     bronze
under the sun
     fought and fought and died, and the whites with beards
under the sun
     killed and killed and conquered.
Long live the Cross and long live the King
     full of blood because that is the law!
From a larger, more people land, the whites brought
     some blacks
naked, mahogany under the sun. They chained them,
     they branded them,
they made them drink their sweat.
For the King and for the Cross filled with hate they pray
     to Jesus.

                        Part II

Once upon a time
and twice are three
and still is,
     that same piece of earth
in the middle of the sea;
     that piece is filled with people
dressed and mixed under the sun.
     Struggles passed and wars passed
and some blonds arrived in warships, and creoles dressed 
under the sun
     fought and fought; they surrendered, and the pink
       blonds
under the sun killed and killed, they laughed.
Long live Wall Street and Santa Claus "and obey bastards
     this is the law"
From their larger, more people land the blonds brought
     some bases
full full full with bombs under the sun; they put there
     soldiers and cannons
and they did all this for "sport".
For Santa Claus and for Wall Street "dirty spiks" march
     off to war.