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Faded Memories

Fifty years from now, people will not have the pleasure of going though old photographs at a flea market, garage sale or antique mall. There will be basically no hard copy photographs. All our photographs are now digitized and stored on hard drive or discs. You will not be able to rummage through a shoe box or album of photos. You will not experience the discovery of a unique image of a child and its pet or favorite toy. Vernacular photography will have become obsolete.

Existing photographs of generations before will have increased dramatically in price and be available to the few who can afford such an antique collection of 200-300 year old images. Hard copy images have become a thing of the past and rather than a personal collection, you will view them on specialty sites or order discs with enhanced images from the past. Today, family photos of relatives, vacations, fun time with the kids, are all in file on the iphones and pads. No more the bulky family albums we used to pull out of the bookcase and spread on the table to look at grandparents and childhood pictures. No longer the fuzzy, out of focus images with heads cut off and faded colors.

We lost something along the way to better technology. We lost the intimate social aspect of life. This is true in general as we see folks getting together for an event but spending more time on their phones texting and sharing. We share our happy times at the restaurant or bar but it is momentary as far as the images go for they will be erased to make room for the next event.

For years I have collected vintage images by going to estate and garage sales when families discard the portraits of family and relatives they no longer know or care about. I have on occasion gone back at the end of a sale to make an offer on the box of photos and albums no one wanted. I had been rewarded with most interesting images whose participants have no name or history other than they once existed and the black and white photo represents that moment in time when an experience was shared. I view these photographs not as someone I do not know, but rather a distant relative in the family of humankind whose name has been lost to me. A few images I have do have names so I can share that moment of time with Sarah, Thuy, Asako or “Uncle” Fred. and acknowledge their existence. We are all one family.

It is sad, at least to me, future generations will not have this privilege. Peace.

Hope in an Alley

Hope in an Alley

As a pre-teen, I walked down many an alley. I guess it was more interesting than walking on a sidewalk on the street. I saw things people threw out and, as I walked down the cinder strewn path, I was able to look into the back yards of some buildings and see swings and bushes and toys left out overnight. I saw open garbage cans filled with junk and rotting food; I saw rats scurrying out of the way, having their lunch disrupted by the scraping of gym shoes on the cinders, making a crunching sound as I walked past. But I also saw scribbling and writing on the backs of buildings and garage doors; sometimes a piece of crude artwork. I saw hearts with initials within and what appeared to be cryptic gang signs at times, marking the area and perhaps warning others they are in sacred territory.

The alley was a place where pre-teen and teens could hang out behind someones garage and smoke a cigarette and carve their initials on a telephone pole. It was a path you could walk and perhaps find something of value (one man’s trash is another man’s treasure). It was a place adults were rarely seen except when backing a car out of the garage.

As time went on, alleys were paved and garbage cleaned up. But they were still alleys and young folks still walked down them to school or store or just to hang out. Some became unsafe and threatening while others began to express a personality of the neighborhood. Shoes were seen dangling from overhead cables and, replacing scribbles and scrawls, carefully executed artwork began to appear. It was called grafitti, but much of it was beyond the typical defacement, and paid homage to people, places and things. The alleys began to express the desires, frustrations and hopes of a generation of young people.

Today, if you walk down the street, you will see murals, financially supported and produced by artists brought in from outside the area. They are mostly corporate murals designed to attract folks and upscale the community. But if you want to see the personality of the hood and hear the voices of the young folks who live there, then you have to walk down an alley.

Unsanctioned artwork, mostly by self-taught graffiti artists, reflecting disillusionment, injustice and inequality, produced by young people expressing their feelings in a society that offers them little hope of change, these artists pay homage to fallen local heroes, iconic role models who have passed away; victims of brutality and oppression, and they share their feelings and concerns with others who live in the hood. They unify their peers and tell their story on the back and side walls of the neighborhood. Yes, you can look but you also have to listen.

If you want to see the soul of a neighborhood, forget about the butterflies and flowers lining the fronts of buildings on a busy street and take a walk, if you dare, down an alley where the artists are not paid and the subject matter does not need approval. But don’t take too long because the work may be whitewashed over, and another attempt at honest communication, thwarted by gentrification, erased by those who do not wish to see or hear what they are destroying.

My Little Soldier


John died at 19, two years younger than his father when I was drafted into the Army. I will never be able to sit at the table and have a beer with my son on Veteran’s Day and share my experiences in Viet Nam (distorted as they may have become over time) and he will never go off to a war someplace no one ever heard of until bombs and bullets gave it the dubious distinction of being recognized.

Even so, John, though he wore no uniform; though he was not in the military, was a soldier, an urban soldier, fighting against the injustice that permeates our society. His weapon was the microphone and his ammunition were his words, spit out faster than the rounds of a Thompson sub-machine gun, hitting the target dead center. His banner was Love and he practiced it; not the carnal or the meaningless façade of caring when you don’t. No, John was there, in the middle of the night to answer a phone call from a distraught teen, like himself, who had doubts and anxieties and needed someone to speak encouraging words. He was there to leave his bed and drive over to the house of someone who needed comfort because they were rejected or bullied. And, he would travel a hundred miles or more, at his expense, to deliver his message to anyone who asked, usually without any honorarium.

He left his mark in this world, from Chicago, Atlanta, California, Manchester, Minnesota (to name a few), in the hearts of those he touched, while others, even much older, left only a scar in their wake of ignorance and hate. For John, no one had to earn respect from him. They HAD his respect…everybody. He was a warrior fighting injustice, oppression, inequality, racism and, most important, reaching out to his fellow “hapas” who were of mixed descent, to inform them that they had a voice, were not inferior; that they had opportunity and that they could make a difference if they worked within the present culture while remembering and honoring their heritage, never forgetting where they came from and how they got here.

He spoke for and to the ones whose parents arrived as refugees, just barely able to speak English and who worked 10 to 12 hours a day in minimum wage (or less) labor so they might raise their children with opportunities they could not get in their homeland –the ability to break out of the cycle of poverty and oppression through education and personal commitment and recognizing and seizing opportunities. He gave awareness and hope. John was a warrior and a healer. He had water to give (as he said), water that refreshed and rejuvenated his peers. And it was water that ultimately, tragically, took his life.

So this Veterans day will be different for me as I pay my respects to a different type of soldier, but a soldier none the less, who fought in his own way for his country. This young man who was an instrument of peace in a war-torn urban setting; a young man who shared his canteen of water freely and attempted to bind the wounds of the injured. A young man, regardless of his being my son, is worthy of my deepest respect. He went by the name of John Vietnam. You can find his work on YouTube.

Memorial Day Reflections

When I was a kid, many years ago, in the 1950’s, you could purchase a bag of 100 rubber soldiers for a dollar. The thing I remember was that they were all green – and all male. Ten years later, when I was in the army for real, our drill instructor informed us that the only color there was in the army was green. It was his way of saying we were all going to be treated the same. And, in Basic Training, it was true, but it was far from the reality that existed and still exists today in civilian life as well as the military.

It was not until 1948 when then president Harry Truman issued an executive order (since Congress wasn’t up to enact such a bill) integrating the military, and, it was not until 1954 that the last all-Black unit was disbanded.

It was not until 1997 when then president Bill Clinton presented the Congressional Medal of Honor to 7 Black recipients who had been overlooked in their heroic deeds since World War Two. Only one was still alive to be present at the event.

During this time, Congress reviewed the backgrounds of certain non-White veterans who also appeared to have been overlooked, and, on March 18, 2014, 24 WW2, Korean and Vietnam War veterans were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by President Barack Obama. Only three were still alive to personally receive this highest recognition. It had been determined that these brave individuals were somehow passed over due to their ethnological profiles.

This was going on, while each year on Memorial Day, we honor all veterans who sacrificed their lives for this country, including those who received this nations highest military honor bestowed since the Civil War.

It is interesting, and important, to note that of those 3,467 whose outstanding bravery was recognized, 700 recipients of our Nation’s highest military honor were first generation immigrants; 29 were Native American, 60 were Hispanic, 89 were Black and 27 were Jews.

I think that says a lot. It says a lot about all the millions who served and are serving this country in uniform. That there is ethnic and cultural diversity in our nation’s fabric which cannot be downplayed by the current racist leadership of this country.

Today, with the re-emergence of tolerated, condoned and even encouraged, racial and religious hatred permeating our society, we desperately need to combat these unacceptable and vile forms of behavior through education, protest and public involvement.

If we are going to use this one day to honor our veterans who gave their lives for this Country, then we must honor them all. We must honor the Black soldier who defended our right to be racist, the Chicano soldier who defended our right to close our borders, the Native American soldier who defended our right to sell off their sacred land, the Gay soldier who defended our right to deny them a wedding cake, the Jewish and Muslim soldiers who defended our right to ridicule and attack other religions.

To clarify my point, we owe our veterans, specifically the ones I mentioned, more than just a day of recognition. Perhaps this Nation owes them and their families the daily freedom, respect, liberty, justice and pursuit of happiness that they fought and died for.