Every week I go to Mendez High School in Boyle Hts., CA. Between meetings with my students, I take a walk in one of my favorite neighborhoods. Frequently when a person mentions low income housing, a negative image comes to their minds. Wrong. The neighborhood where I walk is beautiful, lovely places full of flowers. In one area the buildings are painted in joyous colors that make me smile every time I walk there. Here are photos for you to see for yourself.
Downtown LA in the background.
One of the saddest books I’ve ever read, this short piece of nonfiction details not only the life of Crazy Horse but also the demise of the traditional lifestyle of the Plains Indians. Crazy Horse has been the subject of endless legends and myths, many of which apparently have nothing to do with reality. He was not a chief; he often defied traditional Sioux customs. He was very much his own person. Among his people, he was especially known for his kindness and support of the poorest and weakest and for his prowess as a warrior. Crazy Horse died young due to not only white betrayal but also that of some of his own people.
I highly recommend this book if you are interested in this particular period of US history. At the end is a comprehensive list of sources with notes about each one of them.
Johnson, a columnist for The Washington Post, notes that the US was founded on a set of ideals but for much of its history agreement on what those are ideals are has not existed. What are these ideals, who are they for? Today there is little agreement on much of this. There seems to be a lack of a common vision on what a democratic system is and should be and for whom. The essays in this book address these questions both today and from the origins of the country when only white men who owned land could vote. This book also discusses how different races in the country and the changing predominance of cultures affects the ideals people hold and the kind of country they envision for themselves.
As a Black man who is a retired Navy Commander, he also discusses his own experience, extensive research, and personal views. This short book is an excellent primer on how different races and cultures experience living in this country and their varying visions of the meaning of democracy.
bountiful autumn
pomegranates
scarlet lusciousness
The title tells it all. The author is an investigative journalist. The book is filled with details of varying science reports and studies. A lot of what she quotes is the opposite of the official narrative and science for vaccines in particular, especially those related to childhood vaccinations and Covid vaccines. Technically, both flu and Covid shots are not vaccines in that they do not keep the recipient from getting the disease in all cases like the vaccines for smallpox, measles, and polio do. This does matter in considering whether individuals should get the shots. She also discusses general public immunity in regard to flu and Covid, especially the latter. She also questions the claims that childhood vaccines as they are currently given never cause autism and whether some children are susceptible to extremely negative reactions to these vaccines when the majority of children are not. The main claim is that the giant pharmaceutical companies have enormous power to control the narrative about medications they produce, have huge influence with elected officials of both parties, and will do whatever it takes to make a profit on the drugs they manufacture.
As a summer person, I’m less excited than others I know to see it end. This abecedarian poem allowed me to experiment with words without searching for profound meanings, allowed me to play.
Autumn
brings
chills
dreary
evenings
fog.
Gone
heat
intense
joy.
Kindness
lingers while I
meander
near
oceans
playing
quickly,
running in
sunshine.
Tomorrow
under a
vanishing
wind in a
xeroscape
yard, I will
Zoom my next meeting.
Shafak is a popular Turkish writer. One of my all time favorite books is her novel about the life of Rumi.
“Three Daughters of Eve” takes place one evening in Istanbul in 2016. Peri, one of the daughters from the title, is on her way to a fancy party when a thief snatches her purse out of the back seat of her car which is stalled in traffic. She parks the car and chases him through back alleys. As she fights him for her purse, an old photo falls to the ground. It portrays three young women and their university professor. This photo jars her mind, takes her back to her time at Oxford University when she was a student there in 2000-2002, her childhood in Istanbul in the 1980s and 90s, and her life. She thinks back to her life with her two friends, Shirin, an adventurous Iranian young woman, and Mona, a devout Egyptian Muslim who word a headscarf out of choice. And then there is the famous professor Azur, whose class on God either makes students hate or love him and the scandal that caused Peri to return to Istanbul.
Until her daughter, who was in the car and eventually chases her mother down in the alley, sees the photo, no one, except her husband, seems to have known Peri even went to Oxford. Her daughter mentions it at the party while everyone is arguing about East and West and politics and who has the most money and how they acquired it. Peri tries to deflect questions, changes the subject, and keeps remembering her past: her parents, a father quite irreligious, her mother a devout Muslim, their endless arguments and hostility, her brothers, her childhood and her stint at Oxford.
Through the story of Peri’s life, this novel explores personal identity, East-West history and politics, the meaning of marriage and friendship.
This book contains 20 fantastical and dystopian short stories. I found them fascinating with topics ranging from selkies to ogres to ghouls to jinns to witches (in this case positive ones). The settings range from US to Africa to a settlement in outer space (the story “Fallow”). Divided into two sections, Tender Bodies, Tender Landscapes, these stories address human frailty, anger, greed, extreme religions and how humans treat each other (both good and bad) and what might occur in the future if people do not behave better. “Fallow” is a sort of handmaid’s tale where instead of being on Earth–which has been basically destroyed–a group of extreme religious folks have made a place for themselves on another planet after escaping Earth. If anyone from Earth accidentally shows up, they are in big trouble unless they become just like the people already there. Otherwise, they do not kill them–that is wrong–but just sort of let them slowly die. These stories, both brutal and lovely, display an incredible imagination.
While a lot of the world is focused on Ukraine and Israel/Gaza, since April 2023, two groups, the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces, have been fighting for control of Sudan. 11.1 million people are displaced and more than 17,000 killed, mostly civilians including children. Currently, for the second time since 2003, famine lurks at the door of Darfur state. Although I wrote the poem thinking about Sudan, a lot of the same conditions apply to Congo.
Amidst the denuded trees along a wide
boulevard walked a tall, dark-haired girl
carrying a large basket filled with a few
deep red pomegranates, two brown
eggs and three delicate pastries
filled with pineapple, cinnamon, and
guava, her favorite. She felt lucky.
Her mother sent her to the market, her mother
ill with ague, shivering, fevered,
jaundiced, too young to be dying, her father
killed in the endless wars which had
leveled so many cities and villages.
Men filled with the desire for revenge, for power,
never thinking how forgiveness and love could
overcome the endless devastation.
People plagued by angry men, men so
quick to condemn all not their tribe, their own,
retribution driving them week after week.
Some lay dying on the streets or dead as
the girl walked around their bodies
under the relentless, tropical sun.
Void of relief, fearful but determined, she
walked on toward the remains of her home.
Xenophobia once again stalked the streets,
young men brandishing assault rifles. Animals in the
zoo seem kinder, more caring.
A tale based on a Bengali legend about a merchant called the Gun Merchant, Bonduki Sadagar, this novel not only takes place in the mangrove swamps of the Sundarbans but also in Venice. It has nothing to do with guns but demonstrates how differences in language use among languages and translations can lead to total mistranslation. The narrator is an older, male, Bengali, rare book dealer who grew up in Kolkata but now lives in Brooklyn most of the year and goes back “home” occasionally. When he meets a distant relative by chance at a party, he finds himself enmeshed in the Gun Merchant tale and finds himself in search of a remote shrine where a king cobra lives. His adventure leads him to meet two young men and reconnect with an old friend, an Italian woman who is a famous historian.
What fascinated me most about this novel was learning all about the immense number of historical connections between the Bengali part of India and Venice especially related to trade and persons of Jewish descent. It is also filled with lessons in relationships among languages and history. For example, I learned the origin of the word ghetto. During the 17th century a part of Venice, Getto, was where their large and prosperous Jewish population was forced to live, Venice being one of few European cities where Jews were safe. Thus the word designating a part of the city became the word ghetto.
It is also a story about the risks and dangers of immigrants trying to get to Europe. I learned many Bengalis, mostly from Bangladesh, live in Venice and the numerous historical connections between the Bengali speaking areas of the world and Venice.
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