SORRY. Must Rant on Transgenders in the Military. Caution: Adult Language

A pal says this is another distraction, which is true to an extent. I would argue that the blatant and gleeful rollback of human rights regardless of the size or uncomfortable nature of that minority is dangerous to us all. Next, and mark my words, Trump will return the military to forcing homosexuals from the military. Once we get on that slippery slope, we’re on it, baby, and we are on it!

Regarding the transgender issue in the military. I’m hearing two arguments from the right against having transgender personnel in the military. The first is that keeping them out of the military is important for our national security. Number 2 is that the transgender personnel in the military are a tiny, tiny minority less than two-tenths of a percent. So which is it? If there’s such a tiny minority then it really doesn’t affect National Security which would seem to entirely in the gate the administration’s excuses.

Today the administration announced it would remove Transgender personnel from the military. I am confused, because I thought the Right was all about logic and a patriotism which extolls our soldiers-ALL of our soldiers?

I thought that everyone who serves in the military is a hero and we owe them an unending expression of gratitude, and yet not one person is saying the transgender people in the military ALREADY haven’t done their jobs. Like they all lay around all day dreaming of their new taxpayer-paid vaginas and penis’. So they aren’t being discriminated against based on merit.

As for the figure of 250 current taxpayer funded transgender surgeries to military personnel…I’ve known a lot of fat Type II diabetic motherfuckers in the military or spawning one too many army brats, getting hospitalized for drunken brawls, raping women overseas-and here- ALL ON THE TAXPAYERS DIME-I could go on and on about a whole fucking universe of “LIFESTYLE” issues costing me as a taxpayer money so spare me the bullshit propaganda about the cost of a surgery or two, or a couple hundred. Seems some schmuck dragged us into an unnecessary war costing taxpayers about 4000 funerals, better that 25000 injuries and lifetimes worth of rehab and medical costs.

And the final argument regards this fiction of unit cohesion, that in battle LGBTQ soldiers and service members will run away like dainty children or spend their energies checking out fellow service members rather than watching for the enemy. That would come to a great surprise to men like Air Force Lt. Col. Victor Fehrenbach, a decorated airman who flew combat missions over the Balkans, Iraq and Afghanistan, or 10 year veteran and Army Captain, who sought a Texas congressional seat in 2012, or Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben who fled persecution in Europe when his homosexuality was revealed. Von Steuben was instrumental in helping America win its independence. More than 200 homosexual soldiers died in combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, including Maj. Alan Rogers who was killed in January 2008 in Iraq by a roadside bomb while on patrol.

Rush Limbaugh, Denis Prager and Kate Daly all expressed alarm that soldiers might see a vagina or a penis in a shower and lapse into a stupor from which they might not survive. having been to war, in the middle of battles, if those snowflakes are more upset by a non-lethal genital that seeing bodies ripped apart, not to mention the overall misery and trauma of the war experience, then I say, get rid of them all and give me a 100% LGBTQ military!

Mitch and I don’t see eye to eye…

…on much in the way of politics. We grew up in vastly different eras. Mitch cut his teeth on Chicago’s tough near West side in the 1940s and 50s. I am a child of the 1960’s and 70s. Mitch and I are neighbors, and at a glance one might think that’s about all we have in common. Maybe to wave, share a couple of neighborly non-descript words or tip a beer from time to time, but beyond that…

last week Mitch pulled out a Chicago History book, part of a series on Chicago neighborhoods and heritage. He pointed out the house he was born in during the Depression. Much of the rest of his childhood he skips, opting instead for stories from a long career as a Bell Captain and some of Chicago’s most iconic and well-known hotels. that is where he met his wife Helen. That was back when being a Bell Captain at a fine hotel was more than another service job catering to the “I’m the celebrity in my own reality TV” everybody’s Listening to stories about running elevators for President Kennedy, or giving Sinatra that extra little bit of service one begins to understand that it was, with caveats, and thick rose-colored glasses, a time of honor.

I know that world, at least a little bit. Having known city cops, shady politicians, and Made Guys from that era, I understand. My dad knows a bit of that world. He’d grown up in the Depression in a little Iowa farm town, but arrived in Chicago at a young age after the army, around 1960. But the common denominator here is the Depression, which didn’t simply congeal a nation, but underscored the bonds that held communities together. That was evident the other day when Mitch called me over.

For the last several years the Wife and I have been actively working with what seems like an ever increasing tide of homelessness. We don’t have much, so compared to the need or large organizations, it’s a literal drop in the bucket. Several years back we began working to organize HelpHouseChicagoHomeless, a neighborhood non-profit in Englewood and Woodlawn on Chicago’s troubled Southside. In truth, at least for me, it was an effort to help a man I had met amid the Occupy Chicago protests, named Tom Turner.

Tom and I have had these conversations. I tease him about being shot and stabbed so many times that I’m considering nicknaming him “Swiss Cheese.” Tom has a temper and makes bad decisions a bit too often for his own good. Not criminal or dangerous, mind you, but the sort of decisions that keep sliding him back from the progress he so sorely wants and needs. Some of it is his doing. Some of it is living a life in which one solves crisis-Thomas doesn’t have problems- on the fly. That, the hardscrabble life on the Southside, education, a criminal record all have a weight in everything he does, and that hurts him. That could easily engender negativity and frustration, but with so many folks, like Thomas, for a world of reasons struggling at the margins, true friends understand how fine a line that is to tread, and that slipping from time to time is inevitable.

The thing is, I’ve known Thomas for going on 7 years now. I have seen him in damn near every possible mood and state of mind. I would trust Thomas with my life. he is family to me. I don’t babysit the man. We are about the same age. I help when I can, Sometimes that’s a bit of cash. Sometimes it’s advice, mostly it’s just being a friend. That same sense of honor in a seemingly unending crisis that I’ve seen in Mitch or my dad is what I catch in glimpses of Thomas when he struggles. I met Thomas when he was homeless, and though he may not see it, there has been progress. He has a job. It doesn’t pay much, but it does keep a roof over his head. Still there is that margin, and slipping or tumbling from it is all too easy this close.

Mitch came across the yard and said, “Helen and I want to help for all the work you do to help the homeless.” He reached out to shake my hand, a $20 Dollar bill tucked in his palm. He wasn’t interested in making a big deal, though to me it was. Thomas had called just the day before, worried because he was a short on rent a few dollars because he needed food and a bus pass to get to work. It felt like a loop had been closed, that something else wanted to see Thomas catch a little break, if only for a moment…

Giving back: The debut of “Playtime with Sid and Bill”

The debut of “Playtime with Sid and Bill” with me and Sid Yiddish on the 10,000 watt WCGO, AM1590 is slated for Sunday, September 3rd from 11-1pm, following The Mike Nowak Show with Peggy Malecki. Tune in for the deepest green environment and gardening show, then stick around with us. Your radio Sunday magazine! I guess I am speaking a little bit for both of us in saying that the show is our gift to our friends in the Theatre, Music, Comic, Poetry, Entertainment, Food and Arts communities. This is your space. Sid and I will work to bring a vibrant, sometimes unusual and always entertaining look at the arts and performing arts and what is happening in and around Chicago and beyond. We will need you to help support the show as listeners and participants. You are the marketing and outreach wing of the show, helping keep us informed on what you and other artists are up to so that we can get the word out. No one else is doing this in Chicago commercial radio. WCGO’s signal currently reaches Northern Indiana and South to Kankakee, West to Elgin and Aurora, and North to the southern suburbs of Milwaukee. The station will move to a 50,000 watt signal, meaning your work will be heard nationwide. More to come… 

A Mystery of Languages Solved?

After more than two decades studying and travelling in the Balkans there was one recurring question. I can honestly say that I had the same vexing conversation with dozens of people throughout the former Yugoslavia over the years, from acquaintances at cafes to various professors, intellectuals, artists, historians and a philosopher or two. Is it possible that the answer lay right under our noses, or more specifically, under our tongues?

For all of my Slavic friends, family and acquaintances: I have long wondered where the Serbo-Croatian and overall Slavic languages designation for German and Germany come from, Nemački, Nemačka, respectively in Serbo-Croatian. travel back in time to the 3rd through the 6th Centuries AD when Slavic tribes migrating into Europe came into fuller contact and competition with Germanic tribes whose language they could not understand. The S-C word for mute is Nem or Nemy. Possibly the term was a bit of a perjorative by Slavic nations as they came into contact with Germanic tribes. It is the best theory to the origin of the word whose derivations extend to the Hungarian német, who arrived in Europe around the time of the Slavs, the Turkish, Nemçe and Almanca, who borrowed from the Bosnian/Serbian in the 12th and 13th centuries as the Ottoman Empire occupied souther Europe to the gates of Vienna.

Loneliness: The most powerful photo I’ve ever taken

Loneliness: The most powerful photo I’ve ever taken

A few years back, hurrying to work, I nearly missed him. He was sitting along the wall beside the AT & T building in Chicago’s Loop, stoic and still among rushing throngs of office workers, tourists and students. To either side were his two dogs, A cart with the man’s world belongings were beside him.

I didn’t know his story or where he came from, and I have not seen him since. It was a moment in which the paths of our lives crossed for a perfect and powerful moment.

What I find in looking at this man becomes less of a narrative about him as it is an insight to my own heart. Still, it is impossible to escape the torture of his eyes, one that speaks to pain and lonesomeness. In that face are a thousand stories and possibilities. Perhaps he ran afoul of the law when he was young, or made poor choices in life that brought him to this place. Maybe it was drugs or alcohol, or even mental illness. Maybe it was none of these things. Life can bring any soul to the precipice of despair. Not everyone comes to that fight with the same strengths. Some are crushed under the weight. I have felt that strain before. I have people who love and support me. Those blessings are simply not the case for all of us.

There is a certain wisdom tinged with exhaustion in his eyes that suggests at a life of tough breaks and  a lack of family and support. It could well have been an illness or the loss of someone close that he could not recover from. In the end, the story one makes about the man tells more about them than about him.

One thing that is without question is the loneliness in his stare. The dogs are his companions and family, but there is little to suggest in the evidence that the story of their shared lives will end happily. And that is where I will leave it…

hierarchy of suffering

An interesting post from a friend about pain and victimhood and the dangers of hierarchical assignments of suffering and pain by individuals, communities, groups, nations, what have you. This was my brief reply:  Was interesting in Rwanda during the genocide, and in Sarajevo during the siege the very natural human tendency towards competition of suffering. However, can’t throw the bay out with the bathwater. There is a therapeutic aspect on some level of understanding, acceptance and perspective gained by the individuals suffering. Also seen this, and it is actively encouraged among vets suffering PTSD, but I get your point, verbalizing and communicating one’s pain should not become a hierarchy of suffering. Always someone, somewhere suffering worse than you. That doesn’t diminish your pain or mine, but means your pain is as valid and substantial to you in your life as my pain is to me. That should be the place where we negotiate the community of our pain; the ultimate truth for each of us.