And it continued.
"White parents don't have to teach their teenage boys to be extra careful when dealing with police because it's not part of your normal experience."
If you said "e)" you must have cheated. Astonishingly...that is the right answer.
I was too late in securing tickets. And given that the park was more or less sold out that day (of course), all that were available were the nose-bleed seats. The type of location where I had sat only once in my entire life. With my father. 1956.
I vowed that I would never sit in such seats again. And I, a recovering Yuppie, never had. Until that day. And I found myself apologizing for not having planned this outing farther in advance (parental helicopter blades at the time, still awhirl). It didn't phase him. We were in the ballpark. And on the Fourth of July no less. "Sick"!
We had gotten there early enough for batting practice. Up in the third deck. About as far away from home as was Odysseus. (Hey, I traffic in poetics, what can I say? Alright… it was more than 400 feet away if you calculate the distance using the Pythagorean theorem). Yet at 60 years old, here I was, now moving down to the railing to stand maybe 15 feet closer to the field far below, on the fat chance something this way might come. My son stayed behind, opting to not join his Ahab of a father, in the quest for the Great White Ball.
Maybe ten minutes passed. Suddenly... from out yonder... here it was.
Featuring...
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Quote of the Month
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Remembrance of that Fourth of July Catch
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...meanwhile back at the Pequod
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Pop Quiz
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They Were Soldiers
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"You ain't just whistling Ixnay"
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An Open Letter to Archeology
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Quote of the Month
finito
Ron Vazzano
“You ain’t just whistling Ixnay.”
Dixie came from the title of a song originally published in 1859 as “I Wish I Was in Dixie's Land" by a gent from Ohio, Daniel Decatur Emmett (1815-1904). He was also the founder of the first troupe of the blackface minstrel tradition, the Virginia Minstrels. And once again I pause to ponder, as I did in a March 2019 MuseLetter:
"Just why have so many white folk, over such a long period of time, been drawn to putting on blackface? Why the obsession? There is something about it that borders on the fetishistic."
Let me first and foremost apologize for using the word Dixie in a poem that will follow this piece. And though it's used just as the brand name of a small disposable cup in my poem (though how about a Pixie Cup, while things are in the process of being renamed?), it took The Dixie Chicks to make me see the error of my ways. They abruptly decided that heretofore, they would "Ixnay" the Dixie, and simply be known as The Chicks.
Yet, they may not be out of the backwoods on this for too long. I wonder what they will change their name to when the MeToo movement homes in on that sometimes offensive moniker for the female gender? Will The Chicks then simply become The? But then will The The---an English "post-punk" band--- sue for name infringement? (Though settle for half of what they were suing for?). A little tongue in cheek; a little levity. But the subject was Dixie, and it ain't no joke.
"Dixie soon became a popular marching song of the Confederate Army and was often considered to be the Confederate anthem" (Encyclopedia Britannica). Mr. Emmett is purported to have said …"If I had known to what use they [Southerners] were going to put my song, I will be damned if I'd have written it."
With all due respects sir, how did you expect it to be used? Wherein, the song's protagonist, who in comic black dialect implies that despite his freedom, he is homesick for the plantation of his birth?
I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
I mean, really. Though yes, ironically, Abe said he liked it. But who knows if he was being honest here, despite his nick-named reputation. An election year was just up ahead.
And while I’m at it, given as I have increasingly taken to marrying graphics with words, if I ever need to use that flag to make or enhance a point, I’ve taken the “liberty” of redesigning it.
Ron Vazzano©
Even Winn-Dixie, one of the largest supermarket chains based in the Southeast is considering dropping its name after nearly 100 years. It's a move triggered by the death of George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter movement.
And then just yesterday (June 29th), Mississippi took down its state flag which contained the Confederacy emblem. It was the last state to do so.
"The times they are a-changin'," as the lyrics in that Dylan classic go. Yessiree, Bob. You ain't just whistling Ixnay.
I had never even come close to getting a baseball hit into the stands. Not during a game…not during batting practice… not in my dreams. And to someone who isn’t a fan of the game, it’s hard to explain how in the world this matters. But baseball is the only sport in which fans can potentially have such hands-on interaction; literally come away with a piece of the game. That in some small way (3" in diameter to be exact), you were a part of the game and not a mere observer. So there might be something in that.
I’ve seen grown men tussle over a loose baseball up for grabs. Step in front of a kid to nab one. Even bring a glove to the ballpark (as kids do), to increase their chances of coming home with this cherished prize. Boooo! That is all a foul line, too far for an adult to cross ("Oh grow up!" as Joan Rivers might have said).
Remembrance of that Fourth of July Catch
Recently, I saw Field of Dreams for the first time since its original release in 1989. I used a quote from it in last month’s MuseLetter (the hyphen removed from now on). That tear-jerker film---men have been known to sob over that final scene--- in conjunction with the fact that there will be no July 4th baseball this year after all, led me to remember another Fourth of 15 years ago.
What follows, is the piece I had written months after that day (January 2006 Muse-Letter year-in-review). Inspired by the vicissitude of a passing 15 years, it is reprised here with some wholesale changes and a further fleshing out.
When a day does come of “getting a ball,” it is often held aloft to the acknowledgment of the surrounding crowd. As if something of significance has been accomplished that warrants celebration. Or to get religious about it (and Yankee Stadium has been likened to a cathedral), on that day, one has been blessed. Singled out in some way by the baseball gods. A chosen one. Must be. Given the odds so greatly against it. Given the randomness with which it occurs, after never having been close to a reality before.
All a bit silly? Perhaps. But to say this is just a casual afterthought upon entering the park, as I size up my seats relative to the probability of a ball being hit my way, is akin to saying that Ahab never really thought all that much about the whale. And really, who doesn’t practice one silly ritual or another? Have one silly obsession or another? (Maybe Mark Zuckerberg? The revenge of The Nerd!). And can't we all use a sprinkling of silliness now. Or doth I protesteth too much?
Rewind to that Fourth of July when I took my son to a game at old Yankee Stadium. Is there a better place to witness "...this certain game of ball" as Walt Whitman put it, and on such a day? The personification of Americana!
We lived in LA at the time but were “back East” to check out some colleges. Such an expedition signals that going forward, the time spent between father and son will soon begin to wane. And the window of going to a ballgame together, among other shared experiences, is no longer that wide open. College to a parent is about a dramatic--- aye, at times melodramatic--- separation. The anxiety is palpable on the day your kid goes off to stick his or her big toe in the water of adulthood. But I hyperbolically digress.
Off the bat. Of a guy named Jay Gibbons. Soaring. Climbing. Growing larger. Heading in my direction, with no one around me. I stand transfixed; not an inch of body movement required. It’s right at me. As if preordained. I put up my bare hands... and in the palms it firmly sticks. Caught! On the fly! Lo so far that distance from point of contact!
“Dad!"
"I can’t believe you caught that!” he said,
abandoning his prescient social distancing
from me.
I suppose a poem lies somewhere in there that cries out for the writing. Though hopefully with less leaning on the crutches of apostrophes. But like the catch itself, it might have to wait. Perhaps for the day when The Son—in lieu of The Father— might sit down to write it. Using the poetic license, the old man left behind.
As for now, he would go off to Syracuse University that fall, and later become a sports writer and broadcaster following graduation. Oh, and the Yankees won that day.
o meanwhile back at the Pequod ...
Pop Quiz
In an article four years ago this month--- the July 25th issue of Time magazine to be exact--- someone is quoted saying what sounds like it could have been said just yesterday:
“If you are a normal white American, the truth is you don’t understand being black in America and you instinctively underestimate the level of discrimination.”
Who was being quoted ?
a) Spike Lee
b) Al Sharpton
c) Alicia Garza, one of the founders of the Black Lives Matter movement
d) John Lewis, Civil Rights activist, U.S. Representative
e) Newt Gingrich, former Republican House Speaker
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They Were Soldiers
Just prior to this past Memorial Day, a book was released that profiles forty-eight veterans who bravely served in Vietnam in various capacities. Yes that war. Again. It will always hover in the background of a collective consciousness of those of us of a certain age. They who went; we who didn't.
This book brings it uniquely to the foreground, by way of first-person recountings, not only of the war, but the positive directions in which lives went in the aftermath. Often the two were interrelated, as the latter played off the lessons learned in the former.
It is best summed up by one of the co-authors, Marvin Wolf, in the book's Introduction. He faces forthright, the indictments of the war, while dispelling that which has all but calcified into mythology regarding its veterans. Which is the raison d'etre of the book. He writes:
"If Vietnam was a lost cause and 'a bad' and 'unnecessary war,' that was hardly the fault of those who left homes and loved ones behind to fight for objectives that a lawfully elected government chose to pursue. Nevertheless, the false and misleading generalization persists that Vietnam veterans are a legion of broken soldiers, sailors, and marines, a lost generation, warped and wounded by wartime experiences and rejected by the greater society.
Only now, some fifty-five years after the first of our fighting men went off to that war, is it possible to see the real accomplishments of America's Vietnam generation. Like our parents, the so-called Greatest Generation, our efforts have transformed America in a myriad of ways: America is immeasurably richer, fairer, and better because of the Vietnam generation's contributions."
To which award-winning filmaker Ken Burns, adds in a review...
"We have conveniently and collectively erased the Vietnam War from most of our memories---it didn't work out the way our myths tell us American wars should---but we cannot erase the experiences of those who fought in it. They are brought to life magnificently in They Were Soldiers, which is a vivid and heroic reminder that we forget at our own peril."
Mr. Wolf's perspective on the war (as is true of co-author Joseph Galloway), is not merely shaped by third- person recounting, but through his own extensive boots-on-the-ground experience. He served for several years in the military, concluding with Vietnam in '74, where he was a reporter and press chief, and was only one of sixty men to receive a battlefield promotion to lieutenant.
Beyond the battlefield, he is well versed in Vietnam's history. A knowledge further enhanced by having collaborated on a book with Nguyễn Cao Kỳ (Buddha's Child, My Life and War in Vietnam). Kỳ was the Premier, and later, the Vice President of the Republic of Vietnam under President Thiệu. This was during some tumultuous years, to say the least. Talk about hearing it from the horse's mouth.
The "They" in his and Galloway's book, are but a sample of accomplished veterans who went on to some interesting
and significant post-war achievements. Most of them, you've never heard of. Others you may have, if only in passing. Such as Frederick Smith, the founder and CEO of FedEx... Max Cleland, former U.S. Senator from Georgia, an amputee who lost both legs and an arm in the war...Chuck Hagel, a Republican who served as Secretary of Defense under Obama in a Democrat administration. Then there's Oliver Stone and Colin Powell who of course, need no introductions.
A sidebar on Powell: We begin to get a sense for the first time (at least for me), of the man beyond the uniform. As in: "Within this complex man is a long-suppressed desire for social justice for all Americans, along with the hard-won knowledge that social justice for minorities is rarely bestowed through benevolence." Which jumps off the page given today's news in the wake of George Floyd's murder. I had never heard such sentiments attached to Powell, as he always struck me as a man with unequivocal belief in the system, and not one to delve into its inconsistencies.
I first met Marvin Wolf some fifteen years ago as we were both members of the Independent Writers of Southern California, (iwosc.org). He now resides in North Carolina. I was honored to hear from him asking if I might take a stab at writing a poem, which would appear at the book's opening to serve as a prologue of sorts. I was not told what to write, or how to write it. Though I was given a sense of the direction the book would take.
I'd written of Nam before on a few occasions (notably, May 2016, A Year in Nam: Fifty Years After in a lengthy book review). Though never anything in verse. And in sonnet form no less. Which is ultimately how this one came out, though in no way initially intended. Marvin liked it, as did his publisher. I reprint here exactly as it appears in the book.
Veteran Reflections at the Wall
Remains of casualties were sent back home;
Their names now in Optima typeface in granite.
The whys and wherefores of war end in tomes
While inscribed in this black wall, mirrored and mammoth,
Tapered head to foot and full:
58,000 who signed up or were summoned.
For the vets who come here there's never a lull
In remembrance of Nam nor their shabby homecoming.
Faces lined with living through generations
Sons turning into fathers; the American dream.
Though others still wounded seek compensation
Denied the proverbial peaches and cream.
"Those who forget history..." we know the rest
Sloughing through rice paddies they passed that test.
*
Product Detail
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ISBN: 9781400208807
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ISBN 10: 1400208807
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Imprint: Thomas Nelson
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On Sale: 2020-05-12
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Pages: 416
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List Price: $34.99
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Publisher: Thomas Nelson
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Publication Date: 2020-05-12
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Trim Size: 160.000mm x 236.000mm x 36.000mm
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Weight: 562.000gr
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Category 1 :HISTORY / Military / Vietnam War
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Category 2 :HISTORY / Military / Veterans
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Category 3 :BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / General
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Category 4 :BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Military
pre November 2018
Remainder of from January 2019-March 2020\
under reconstruction
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Quote of the Month
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Remembrance of that Fourth of July Catch
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...meanwhile back at Pequod Park
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-
Pop Quiz
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They Were Soldiers
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"You Ain't Just Whistling Ixnay"
-
An Open Letter to Archeology
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