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Working Class Hero?

There’s room at the top they’re telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
If you want to be a hero well just follow me

~John Lennon

When I think of a working class hero, I immediately think of Che Guevara. I picture the iconic image of him wearing his beret with the single star, the tousled hair, and a mustache desperately needing grooming. Close on the heels of Che, I think of Superman, the honorable protector standing up to bullies in defense of the peasants, the commoner, the villagers in the movie Magnificent Seven, anyone oppressed.
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I Weep For My Nation

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
~Maya Angelou

Yesterday, for the first time, I heard the poem, On The Pulse Of Morning, read by the Poet Maya Angelou at the Clinton inauguration in 1993. I was stunned at its beauty, stunned at the message of peace, at the celebration of diversity, at the call for society predicated on inclusion.
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Celebrating Differences

It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences. ~ Audre Lorde

Imagine, if you will, a life in which we, you, me, everyone, ate only one thing. There were no other options. Every day, every meal, day after day, year after year, we ate a mush similar to mashed white rice. No sauces. No flavorings. No added meat. No salt. No pepper. Just plain, mushy mush.
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Water Intimacy

Sitting on the porch of our Belize vacation cabana, I find myself happy we decided to pay the incremental price to have our main door open to the ocean. It’s the type of place I have long fantasized about living. Somewhere the crashing of waves would be the alarm clock nudging me from slumber. Somewhere it was possible to come face to face with water first thing in the morning. Somewhere the gentle breezes laden with the fresh smell of water caressed my naked body while sitting on my porch. Somewhere I would be kissed by the sun rising over the Eastern horizon with mind free to accept her wisdom proffered in her luxuriant lips. Somewhere I could grab my pole, drop a line and catch shimmering fish for breakfast, lunch, dinner.
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Faces of God

One God, many faces.
One family, many races.
One truth, many paths.
One heart, many complexions.
One light, many reflections.
One world, many imperfections.
ONE.
We are all one,
But many.

~Suzy Kassem

When I look at the cosmos, the earth, my fingerprint, the smile of a child, I sense the divine. These daily miracles plant me firmly at the end of the continuum that believes God exists. It takes far more faith to believe as an atheist than it does as a theist. The array of religions to which man has prostrated over the millennia tells me we, as a people, are primarily deists. But, why are there so many paths to God?
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Mother of Exiles

“Give my your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” ~Statue of Liberty, 28 Oct 1886

In elementary school, I was taught Lady Liberty stood on our shore welcoming immigrants to join the Great Experiment, to enter the country and become us by immersing themselves in the melting pot that defined the USA, the last bastion of freedom in the known world. It was a great story to whisper into impressionable ears. Unfortunately, this story was a fiction, a fantasy, in today’s parlance, an alternative fact.
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Are You Perpetuating Ignorance?

Those who ignore history tend to become its victims.” ~Carlos Romulo

I was educated in the USA, in quality, private schools. Still, the history in our books was sanitized, devoid of almost any hint of wrongdoing perpetrated by my country against other countries, against its own citizens. It was whitewashed giving the impression that all important world events unfolded from the white palms of Western men. The stories of women were mostly absent as were those of minorities, of South America, of Africa, of Asia except where they were bent to show the superiority of the USA saving the world. It was as if, without the West, nothing worth writing occurred, or if it did, it wasn’t worth noting in our annals of history.
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