Preaching to the Choir

Amen, Brother Moore

Here I am - preaching to the choir. Not everyone will be familiar with this hoary expression. It means I’m wasting my breath by venting to people who are already inclined to agree with me.

Which is true.

Except I’m not wasting any breath, just keystrokes and mental acuity. It is also true the preaching is cathartic for me.

I was born about a decade after the second great war against fascism ended. As it turns out, maybe we weren’t really opposed to fascism. Maybe we were just opposed to someone else telling us we needed to be fascist.

I was 14 years of age when the ‘60s ended after a summer of love, years of inner city riots and ten years of political assassinations. Communes were a ‘thing’. LBJ altered the course of history by signing the 1964 Civil Rights Act assuring Democrats would forever be considered “minority” lovers. Tax rates were high enough for the golf pro Jack Nicklaus to openly complain.

I was 24 years of age when the ‘70s ended with a whimper after a decade of disco, political turmoil, oil shocks and Americans held hostage in Iran. We’d endured a president AND a vice president who were crooks, another president who was a klutz and pardoned a crook and a new president who was too goody two-shoes for red-blooded Americans who only wanted to drive big trucks, shoot off their guns and wave flags to stomach.

I was 34 years of age when the ‘80s ended after a two-bit actor who peddled powdered detergent on late night drivel spent eight years in the Oval Office doing everything within his power to belittle the potential of government. Income taxes continued to dwindle as the rich, sort of rich and ultra rich did everything within their power to avoid paying them. Even as communism gave up the ghost, capitalism was sowing the seeds of its own denouement - at least for those on the margins.

I was 44 years of age when the ‘90s ended and - yes - blowjobs were no longer considered “having sex”, right wing discourse was growing exponentially thanks to hate radio and a ‘news’ channel dedicated to propaganda and, even liberals were bad mouthing portions of the social safety net and declaring the era of ‘big government’ was over.

At 54 years of age, the first decade of the 21st century concluded. Following the Y2K non-event, the Supreme Court, essentially, installed an illegitimate village idiot as president and, after ignoring, or down-playing, intelligence briefings found himself agreeing with other future war criminals to declare war against an ideology and an entire region. For America, it’s people and the country, it was the dumbest decision ever made. For the 1%, it was - and still is - a bonanza.

Never have American resources been wasted so profligately than during the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East.

At 64 years of age, I look back over the decades and weep for all the time lost, all the lives wasted, all the vitriol spewed, all the money squandered and all the good intentions quashed. Yet - even still - I have hope that it is not too late to alter our trajectory.

I know too many good people. I know of their fight to make the world better. I know their hearts are in the right place.

I failed to mention the election of Barack Obama. That was purposeful. Because, just as we wasted resources, lives and money, fighting Middle Eastern ghosts, we wasted his eight years in office. We got complacent while the fascists did not.

My message is - we can’t let that happen again. We can’t let it continue.

We all have voices and we have the means to inundate those who are in office with our daily concerns. It is our last best hope. Complacency is now an original sin in my hierarchy of sinning.

Maybe you don’t need to hear this, but someone in your Facebook feed does. The disaffected. The dispirited. The discouraged. People who want the American Dream, who dream of a post-racial America, who thrill to a musical like “Hamilton” but never speak up and let their employees in Washington D.C. know.

It used to be laborious and intimidating to have your voice be heard, but not any longer. Your voice and your vote is all you have left - you need to use them and bring the members of your choir along with you.

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Faithful reader and good friend Pauline Kao sent this article out of The Atlantic along to me this morning. Way more clarity than I could ever bring to the subject. Highly recommended. As I told her, I want to have a beer with Mr. Packer!

Also, two films I recommended to another dear friend, Ariahna Jones - who is back from a Grand Canyon trip and quaran-teaming on her and Colin Sternagel’s property called the Chumbillie - The films? Peanut Butter Falcon and The Biggest Little Farm. Spoiler! They both are feel-good flicks.