There was one day each year our Catholic parish could expect the Bishop to visit. Every year the children in the fourth grade, age 10 or so, made their Confirmation of Faith. We studied the tenets of our faith so we would understand more fully what it would mean to be confirmed. This was critical because the one thing that sank in was the idea that we would not only promise to live our faith, fully and with integrity; we would pledge to be willing to die for our faith, as many of the Catholic saints had done over the centuries. In fact, we chose a name for ourselves of a saint who inspired us to live our faith as fully as they. I chose Bernadette, a young girl unable to be shaken from her spiritual experiences, despite opposition even from church leaders. She was open to the unexpected, unexplainable mysteries of her faith; courageous and persistent, resilient and humble. She could face down any opposition to live her faith experience.
We had learned through study and life experience that others opposed our beliefs, and especially, our assumed authority to represent Jesus Christ’s teaching . We saw our priests, and even ourselves, as part of the line of succession from Peter the Apostle. A lot of wrongdoing and audacity occurred in between Peter’s time and mine. We were taught to acknowledge errors, correct them and move on. A daily examination of conscience and frequent confession kept us on track.
As a very short child, I led the procession into church. The Bishop asked us a few questions ascertaining that we understood what we were about to promise. I was the first to be confirmed, kneeling at the altar rail, shaking like a leaf, praying for courage. The Bishop spoke the words reminding me that my faith required a willingness to die for Christ. I responded that I would. The Bishop then struck my cheek with a blow so hard those in the back pews could hear the slap, my head snapping to the side. The Bishop looked horrified. I could feel the sting of his hand. I was reminded alright!
After the service ended, we processed from our pews to the rear of the church, the Bishop and altar servers before us. The Bishop waited for me at the door and joined my parents and family as we stood on the church steps. His handprint was still visible on my cheek. He humbly apologized to me and to my parents. Since I was the first child he had underestimated the strength of his blow, and was mortified. I had never expected to see a mortified bishop. It made my heart open to him as human being, no longer an authority figure. Those moments of my confirmation remain with me, 67 years later, as if they happened yesterday. Over the years I had need of the lessons learned that day.
I learned that faith is not a mind-game, nor a mere consideration. It is a calling to act with integrity, love and compassion. It requires the willingness to suffer for others; to learn them, see them, hear them even when I had to “suffer through” them. I suffered through those I did not like nor respect, as well as those I respected and loved. I learned that those in authority held no power over me unless I gave it to them. I could have withheld respect and forgiveness to a bishop who hit me so hard it hurt. I chose to forgive him and accept his unintended harm. However, I never shirk from showing those in authority the harm they do. It is probably one reason I became a lawyer. I experienced justice that day. Too many in our America do not. It is those we must be willing to die for. Our faith requires it.
I listened to two Catholics, Senator Bernie Moreno from my state of Ohio and Vice-President J.D. Vance defend and protect the President Trump’s unlawful war, threats of genocide, and destructive blasphemy the past few days. They were confirmed. Do they not recall their vow to defend and protect our faith and our church as they attack our Pope? Do they not understand integrity and morality? What did they promise as they affirmed their Catholicism when confirmed? I am not truly surprised because they also seem to have forgotten their vow to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States and Ohio, and the laws of both when they sworn into office as senators and then, Vance, as Vice-President.
These are not men of conviction willing to suffer for their faith. They are not humble. They lack integrity. They lie. They attack when they should defend… not just the Pope but human beings in Gaza, Iran, Minneapolis, and every city and hamlet in America. They attack instead of defend our people of color, LGBQT and transgender citizens, our women and children, our elderly and disabled, our working poor, our refugees and immigrants. They would suppress votes of students, women, the working poor, the elderly and disabled and brazenly support the provisions in the SAVE act suppressing our votes. All the while they pretend to protect us and our vote. They stay silent while our military is used to perform war crimes, and while our country’s leaders threaten to annihilate others in violation of the Geneva Convention and human rights.
The attack on a Catholic Pope is just part of the plan to replace loving faith and care for others preached by Jesus Christ on his Sermon on the Mount with power and control over others fed by greed and arrogance. It was easy to abuse the weakest among us. Now, they openly abuse a powerful church leader preaching Jesus Christ’s teachings. Of course, Trump posted an AI construction of himself as Jesus Christ. Of course Vance and Moreno, and other republicans think it is meaningless, a joke. The explanation is as great a lie. It has meaning. It is meant to promote abuse and control at the expense of others. These men were not slapped hard enough when they were confirmed as Catholics. They are not willing to suffer any political nor financial loss to help others. As a Catholic, I hold them accountable and ask them to recall their vows; to their church and to the American people.
I learned to read before anyone knew it, even myself. It seems I always could. My mother read to me every day until my younger brother was born when I was four. Then, I read to myself the books Mom had read to me. When my brother was old enough to sit up in the stroller we walked to the public library every day. Mom read to my brother as I pulled books off the shelf and read to myself.
That year my grandfather went to Italy in a ship called the Andrea Doria. We were in New York visiting Mom’s family at the time so we all went to the pier, borded and toured the ship then waved them off as the ship pulled out of port. I remember every detail of that beautiful ship.
Every morning while Mom was busy I would lie on the living room carpet and lay the Advocate, our local newspaper, out on the floor and read it from front page to last. There was a front page article one morning describing the sinking of the Andrea Doria on its return trip from Italy. I excitedly ran to Mom to tell her Grandpa’s ship sunk on the way home. She asked me how I knew and I replied that I had read it in the newspaper. “Show me,” she said. So, I read the article to her. She asked me to keep reading. After, she asked me when I learned to read. I told her that I did not know when. I know now it was when Mom read to me. She taught me phonics as she read, and helped me sound out words I saw in print.
After that, we continued our daily visits to the library. While Mom read to the baby, I read book after book. I was allowed to take home 4 books on a child’s card, and took home 4 each day. I read them at home and returned them the next day. This went on for years. By the time I was in the fourth grade I had read every book in the children’s section. The Children’s Librarian agreed her records showed that to be so. She sent me to the Adult Librarian to get an adult card so I could begin reading in that section of the library.
The Adult Librarian informed me that I could not get an adult card until I was in high school…five more years to wait to read! I was so disappointed until the Children’s Librarian escorted me back and explained I needed an adult card since I had read all she could offer me. I got my adult card.
I proceeded to read section by section: biography, autobiography, biology, American and Ohio history, World history and geography, politics, philosophy, fiction in all genres. Every day after school I returned the book I had checked out the day before and took out more to read after doing chores and finishing my school homework.
I still read a book a day, but almost solely for pleasure. My internet reading is dedicated to current events and politics. One can only handle so much these days of corruption and authoritarian greed. I thank Mom for teaching me to read, to lose myself in the printed world where goodwill toward others overcomes self-interest, and love drives out hate. I need that. I need to believe it is possible.
Mother’s and Fathers, read to your children. You give them a greater gift than you can ever know. It costs nothing. Public libraries still exist; although, they are under attack. Writers still write truth to uplift souls and encourage an appreciation for facts; although, they too are under attack.
We need to support writers, poets, actors, comedians, artists of all genres. We need to support our public libraries. Keep reading. Keep believing. Our libraries may save us all.
In 1965 my best girlfriends and I (each of us avid readers) took a speed-reading course at the local YMCA. By the end of that course I could read page in seconds, not minutes. And we could not increase speed to a higher level, unless we reached 100% accuracy. This was perhaps the finest educational tool I ever used. Throughout life I have been able to ingest information rapidly and accurately. All because of those weeks of study outside a classroom.
In today’s fast-moving communication era, that skill keeps me informed. Otherwise, it might be overwhelming to even try to stay informed. I might be tempted to turn off the flow of information and just “go about my business.” It can be necessary to emotional health to live in denial. But, it does little good for those in need of our attention, our support, our love. It undermines the concept which is the basis of any democratic republic – the common good. Checking back in is necessary to the common good.
Thus, I suggest, temporary, not permanent inattention. Most of you have discovered this tactic on your own. I guess I am writing this today in response to numerous comments I often hear: She cannot read all this stuff. She cannot find all this information. She must make this stuff up. She could not possibly have read all this. etc. etc. Well, I do read all this stuff! I just speed-read it.
I do not know if such courses are currently being offered. Perhaps it is no longer necessary to those who use A.I. But, as for me, I choose to read directly from the source; or to check the source directly after A.I. tries to tell me what it knows. A.I. is a great speed-reader. But, one must be assured it is reading material based upon real facts and not fiction. A.I. is also good at helping us find proper sources of information. It, however, will never excuse us from the need to be factually accurate. We live in a time when disinformation is deliberate. Propaganda is a tool to undermine our votes, our democratic principles. Judges are beginning to point out lies presented by DOJ attorneys in ways heretofore unseen. A.I. will only give us what it has been fed. And it is fed by factual inputters; but also, by bottom-feeders preying on us with lies.
As Sister Robertine, O.P. taught us in my Catholic high school, “ Be careful what you read. Garbage in…garbage out.”
Americans’ willingness to bully has always seemed to this second generation Italian-American to be part and parcel of Manifest Destiny, American Exceptionalism, America First, the KKK, The American Conservative Council, ALEC, the Heritage Foundation, MAGA movement, and now the Trump Administration bolstered by SCOTUS, Homeland Security, DOJ and FBI. Individuals within each organization are not necessarily racist, misogynist, Christian nationalists. There are men and women who love our country and only want to serve their nation. But, they are now being swallowed up as the separation of powers, using an immune to lawful control unitary executive pushed by Republican appointees to the Supreme Court, destroys their dedication to facts and the law as guiding principles. Even the military leadership is decimated by firings and forced retirements. Even retirees like Commander and Senator Mark Kelly, and Lt. Colonel and Senator Tammy Duckworth are under attack by the nation they most ably served. What will new recruits do? What pressure will they face as they are asked to obey unlawful orders, as they watch Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth execute such orders with full support of Vice-President J.D.Vance and congressional Republicans?
In the past, we overlooked weaknesses in our leaders so long as they served the common good, in recognition of their humanity and acknowledging human foibles. There were checks and balances on human ill will and human error. We joined one another, citizen and new immigrant alike, in creating a democratic republic with global vision. We envisioned a world at peace where children could learn what they needed to know to be successful; where business and commerce could thrive; where ownership of resources was put to the common good. We built railroads, a national highway system, flood control projects, an energy grid, the internet, and now artificial intelligence.
We have been far from perfect, or even rational, but we kept trying to make a “ More Perfect Union.” We faced down our demons of racism and sexism under pressure of freedom-seeking Americans like W.E.B. Dubois, Ida Wells, A. Phillip Randolph, Ralph Abernathy, Ruby Bridges, Julian Bond, Bayard Rustin, Jo Ann Robinson, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and Congressman John Lewis…among thousands. Their struggle and ours continues.
It is no coincidence the four persons arrested for protesting at a white nationalist church pastored by an I.C.E. field officer in Minneapolis were African-American, including two journalists: Don Lemon and Georgia Fort. U.S. Asst. A.G. who oversees the civil rights division of the DOJ reposted a tweet referring to journalist Lemon as “ today’s clansmen.” An AI meme is circulating showing Don Lemon in chains as if he were a fugitive slave reclaimed by paid by bounty hunters. I.C.E. agents today are being paid bounties. Killing two white protesters, Rene Good and Alex Pretti while continuing to brutalize people of color stood out to white America. The arrest of Black journalists restored the racist narrative that people color are a always a threat to white America. Soon, the secret police paramilitary created by the Trump Administration will attack Haitians in Springfield, Ohio whose protected status will be allowed to expire under Republican-led House and Senate Leaders Johnson and Thune. Will white America see this for what it is? Will they connect the dots to understand the effort to divide and conquer all protesters- Black and white, and destroy the momentum which could sweep the fascists from office in coming elections? Seizure of Fulton County Georgia’s ballots has no legal benefit to the DOJ and FBI. But, if unopposed creates the narrative that seizing ballots is the usual course of election security. It is the exact opposite. It is dangerously erosive to election integrity.
In law, evidence must be held within the chain of command. Break the chain and the evidence is useless. It cannot be used easily, if at all. It will face “objection” if a party tries to in introduce it at trial to support a legal claim. Why? Because it is assumed it will be compromised. Ballots seized in a broken chain of command become a disinformation tool, a grand lie as they are altered and manipulated by those who seized them. We must object, not because we are in a court of law; but because we are in a court of public opinion. Our opinion counts as we protest. It counts even more when we vote.
I grew up in a neighborhood with bullies shouting and shoving at “dirty Catholic”, “dirty Italian” little girls. I went to a school where bullies painted Nazi insignia on the walls of the gym. I walked home form early dismissal when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated to smirks and chants from public school kids across the street “We finally killed that Catholic bastard.” I cannot remember a time when I have not been called a Commie-pinko leftist for teaching Black History and creating Black History programs. Like one out of four women I have even been sexually assaulted by bullies. Bullies cannot silence truth-seekers, journalists, educators, civil rights activists, people of color, women. They cannot be allowed to steal our votes, whenever they are cast. They cannot stop us. They have militarized the effort to stop us. They have arrested, disappeared, brutalized and killed. It will never be enough to break Americans and their insistence upon the freedoms guaranteed by a beloved Constitution and Bill of Rights. We stand together, stronger and more sure of our love for our country.
WWII Era Bark Print from Tonga, Tonga. Photo by L. Annarino
These war buddies who mourned those buddies who died in combat, and who treasured those who sat with them in solidarity at our kitchen table, shared more than stories. They shared themselves. Mom and I quietly listened, staying in the background, granting them sacred space.
My dad did not collect war trophies. He collected books and papers, which I read and pored over. My favorites were a book telling the history of the USS South Dakota, and one illustrating the flags of every nation. The first spoke of valor and patriotic duty fulfilled by every sailor aboard. The second helped Dad identify incoming planes, separating enemy from ally. I considered this a most useful tool; one I employ to this day, always searching out tell-tale signs of enemy incursion into my life and the lives of others. It may be one reason I eventually became a lawyer whose favorite tool is cross-examination. I am always looking for the “false flags” flown by lawyers, newspersons, politicians and servants of the people. There have been too many lately.
I read Dad’s folder containing assignment memos and his letters of commendation, held his battle ribbons and medals in my hands, marveling at the battle stars gleaming dully after being carried through the war. I have the Tongan Island bark tapestry he bought from the King of Tonga in exchange for a case of beer he hauled from his ship onto the beach where Tongan women were making such artistry.
My father fought his way through WWII. When he finally returned to his Ohio hometown, my pregnant NYC Mom in tow, he had a new fight on his hands. The fight of all first generation immigrants to find a way to support his family, and protect other such families living in pockets of real estate abandoned by earlier immigrants; along industrial-polluted rivers, smoky rail-road tracks, and industrial waste areas.
Dad and his brothers, who had served in the US Army as cooks joined their brother, excused from duty because of tuberculosis, and a cousin; and opened a restaurant. This restaurant was not a food truck as today’s start-ups. No, they found a vacant alleyway between two buildings, put sawhorses covered by planks between the two buildings, collected a grill and started cooking. They hung supplies held by ropes strung between the two buildings. They soon had enough money to add a roof, then a floor. Eventually they had a full-service restaurant a block long and alley-wide with a half-block long bar and side booths. the space behind held two separate dining rooms, a butcher shop, walk-in freezer, walk-in refrigerator, kitchen and dish-wash area, and storage rooms above and below.
These Italian-American men supported their families; and fed the homeless, emergency workers in the event of community storms, floods, and fires. They cooked for the church and seminary fund-raisers. They contributed in every way they could to the welfare of every person in the community. New immigrants are grateful and hard-working in ways earlier arrivals to our shores have long forgotten. I remember.
My cousins and I spent hours at the Center Cafe, sitting in the family booth or behind the bar talking to our great-uncle with a cauliflower ear about his award-winning boxing career. Dad hung a boxing bag inside our garage and bought us boxing gloves. I sparred with my older brother and punched along with the boys. As a female lawyer, when that was a rarity, I happily and effectively sparred with boys in and out of court. Sicilian and Italian men love their women and make sure they are safe and can defend themselves.
Sitting behind the bar selling candy bars for my Catholic elementary school was fun. Dad instructed me to count how many beers a man consumed, and not to approach him until he had had 2-3 beers. He concluded I would sell more candy that way. I always won a prize for selling the most candy. Dad knew how to buy and sell. Living on a salary of $50 per week his entire work life meant he had to stretch every penny to rear 4 children and send them all to Catholic school. We kids all worked from childhood on to buy comic books, ice cream and penny candy. Later, to pay tuition, go to the dentist, buy clothes, books and phonograph albums. We all contributed because we were a family.
The best part of hanging out in the restaurant was listening to patron conversations, especially listening to the men at the bar. All classes of people ate there. Families felt comfortable bringing their children to a place where drunkenness was not allowed. Dad and his brothers knew their customers who became family to them. I watched Dad order cabs and send men home after ‘cutting them off’. He called wives to explain what to expect, assuring them the salary earned that day was still in their husband’s pocket.
I listened to lawyers, judges, CEOs, insurance agents, grocers, plumbers, factory workers, mechanics, gas station owners et al whose faces and voices I recognized because they came every day for breakfast, or lunch, or after-work drinks before heading home. What a cacophony of human behavior and community thoughts were shared between booths and bar. All orchestrated by Dad and his brothers. The music of the masses sang out for all to hear, if they were listening. It still does. If we listen. And we must listen, looking and listening for false flags.
I was born 2 years after Dad returned home, after serving in the US Navy. He enlisted after high school graduation. A first generation Italian-American he was un-hireable. He hitch-hiked to the Great Lakes Naval Station with a nickel in his pocket and enlisted. Dad was a brilliant man, one of the first electronics experts. While his ship the USS South Dakota ( the most decorated battleship of WWII) was in dry-dock for repairs after being towed back to New Jersey from the South Pacific, dead in the water after a fierce battle with the Japanese, he taught electronics at Yale. Once the ship was seaworthy, he returned to battle.
At the Harry Truman Museum a replica of his sister ship, the USS Missouri, is on display as it is the ship where the Japanese surrendered. Dad showed me his firing position inside the cramped and overheated turret. As he continued his explanations his stories drew a crowd, asking more questions. I watched my Dad enthrall over one hundred visitors for more than two hours, offering them a true account of why war is always hell.
Dad first escorted munitions to Great Britain as The US lend-lease effort. Many in the United States did not see the need to oppose Hitler and aid Europe. There was no NATO, nor United Nations yet.They soon learned the short-sightedness of such America First policy when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Dad was there, but the South Dakota was out on training maneuvers when the Japanese strike on Pearl Harbor occurred, one of two ships not damaged nor destroyed that day. Within hours those two ships headed out to the Pacific to engage the Japanese.
As an infant I sat on Dad’s lap as Mom served food and drink to his fellow servicemen returned from war. As I become a toddler, I sat silently at his feet, listening to their stories, feeling their angst, learning their wisdom. As a young girl, I sat quietly listening in the next room. Some Had fought on land, others at sea or in the air. One freed a concentration camp. Others fought the jungle and suicidal enemy soldiers. Dad explained that when the kamikaze pilots attacked by diving onto the ship it was not a single plane but as many as 9 or 10 planes hurtling to the deck during a single battle. He felt like he was on fire inside the turret, as sailors put out fires caused by the crashed planes.
I watched as they placed mementos of their war experience on the table, each with a story. I recall Nazi helmets, German Lugars, even a Samurai sword. I still have a “lion dog” one soldier was given by a Japanese family who housed him during the American occupation of Japan following the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They treated him like a son of the family as they came to know one another. So many lessons learned through these artifacts.
These warriors appreciated that bomb and I struggled to understand how after hearing them describe the destructive force and damage caused by the nuclear blast ( far less powerful than the nuclear bombs we now have ready). They explained that there could have been no surrender without it. They said many more would have died and suffered if the war had continued on. When Americans built underground bomb shelters in case we were attacked by Russia, my Dad said it would be better to die in the attack than survive and suffer the results of nuclear exposure. My Dad told his little girl this. He told me war is always hell. He did not want his children to suffer hell on earth; better that they died immediately.
Such are the difficult decisions made during war. Every single man at our kitchen table agreed there should never be another war. In fact, WWII was billed as “The war to end all wars.” If only, Soon my godfather would be sent to Korea. Later my brother would be involved in the Viet-Nam War. Next a nephew fought in Iraq. Afghanistan after 9/11. Now, a great-nephew has been sent to The Border in Brownsville, Texas. Other soldiers are being prepared to make war in Minneapolis. My country has made war on VenezuelaIa. It threatens war against Mexico, Greenland and Canada. Remember that there was a Japanese delegation in Washington D.C. protesting American tariffs and a trade war between our nations when Pearl Harbor was bombed in a sneak attack.
It seems I have only ever known war. Yet, I have never known war. War has been visited upon others in my name. Until now. War is now showing its face, if not its full vengeance, in American cities. The Civil War happened before my family emigrated to the United States. I was so relieved my family had never participated in enslaving others. Later, I understood I was participating as policies underlying enslavement continued within institutional racism. There is no escaping racism. It is akin to being an alcoholic in a 12 step program. We Americans, even those with the strongest will and opposition to racism, must fight it one day at time, one step at a time; always alert to the impulse which drives us to use it. Like alcoholism, a drink may be an immediate solution; but only leads to more misery. And such misery continues to be visited upon people of color. The murder of Ms. Good and Mr. Pretti may have finally alerted white Americans to the misery visited upon all of us, when visited upon any one of us.
After Dad’s war buddies left I would question my Dad. I asked if it was hard to kill someone. Watching the war documentaries in between the Saturday double-features at the Midland Theater I could not understand how people could do such evil to one another, especially the death camps throughout Europe. Much later, I learned of the Japanese internment camps in my own country. The mother and father of a friend had been interred in such a camp and described the suffering and loss they had endured, sobbing out stories with great grief. Dad explained how such evil can happen. He told me that it is incomprehensible to a sane person to kill. The method used is to dehumanize the enemy so one no longer sees the person as a fellow human being; not merely someone different, but someone less than human. A German becomes a Kraut. A Japanese becomes a Jap. A Vietnamese becomes a gook. An Iraqi becomes a towel-head. A Jew becomes a K..e. An African-American becomes a N…..r. An immigrant, asylum seeker or refugee becomes the worst of the worst criminal rapist and murderer. Not just different but less. Now, we have our own concentration camps after our WWII soldiers fought to free concentration camps in Europe. I know what the men at our kitchen table would say. They understood the propaganda that white men are not only superior, and all others are less. The men at our table knew better.
I asked why it took Pearl Harbor for the USA to join the war effort. He explained the appeasement of “old man”Kennedy and Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain failed to assess the true danger posed by Hitler and Mussolini. Kennedy lost a daughter and son to the war; and a second son injured during a heroic effort. I wonder if later he could see his folly. I wonder if Heritage Foundation appeasers can see theirs. I wonder if voters will admit their folly in electing people ready to put their Superior policies into action.
Tomorrow will turn into today; 2025 to 2026. We will still resist negativity and embrace one another as we seek to create a more American America, fully embracing, perhaps for the first time, our Constitution and Bill of Rights. It will be more difficult than ever. But, I am hopeful it can be done because of my faith in each of you.
I am thankful to all who read by poetry, political essays and family stories. You cover the globe. Your hands reach across oceans. Your hearts embrace human kindness. Your minds seek truth. Your souls seek justice. You give me the blessing of your attention to address the problems we face. Somehow, united across the globe, such intention to do good and treat one another with mutual respect, will work miracles. We shall overcome the darkness as we enlighten each other’s lives. You enlighten mine. I thank you, dear readers. Happy New Year! A new morning comes.
Reports indicate attendance at NO KINGS events is somewhere between 5.2-8.2 billion persons. It is possibly much larger than any assumed count. For example. If one counts those registered with organizations who counted attendees, one simply gets a flat number of those who bothered to join through the organization. I registered and reported my attendance. By the time I attended three more persons joined me. They remain uncounted officially. I am sure this is true for families and friends of most attendees.
In the past, for individual rallies, law enforcement using drones mapped the crowd and made estimates using “so many persons per square inch” of their photos to create crowd attendance figures. While major big cities may have done so, mine did not. Local news did not. nor did Law enforcement in my locality. I am certain this happened in much of small town America. So when these numbers are posted, assume they are sorely undercounted.
Nevertheless, no matter the total count, the wide extent of events across the country in red and blue states and cities, in small hamlets, on rural roadway intersections, outside nursing homes and senior care facilities is significant. And, such small groups are likely not part of the count. Yet, the fact they showed such resilience and disgust for what is happening and took to the streets gives us cause to hope we can face down fascism and remove those traitors to our core American beliefs and to our Constitution from office; from School Board, Board of Health, City and County commissioners, mayors and city council, to Congress and the White House.
Local politics is sometime hard to unravel, especially for races where platitudes replace true positions and no party affiliation is required. We have tools those who came before us did not have, the internet and email addresses. Ask candidates for specific position statements. If they do not answer or provide gibberish, there is your answer. Be an informed voter. Help register new voters. Help motivate and take voters to the polls. We must now march to the polls as we marched through the streets. As Winston Churchill said, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Now, the hard work begins. Please remember the joy you felt on No Kings Day and let it propel you to even greater efforts. We now know for certain, what we believed. We are not alone.
annarino writes 
CONFIRMATION SLAP
There was one day each year our Catholic parish could expect the Bishop to visit. Every year the children in the fourth grade, age 10 or so, made their Confirmation of Faith. We studied the tenets of our faith so we would understand more fully what it would mean to be confirmed. This was critical because the one thing that sank in was the idea that we would not only promise to live our faith, fully and with integrity; we would pledge to be willing to die for our faith, as many of the Catholic saints had done over the centuries. In fact, we chose a name for ourselves of a saint who inspired us to live our faith as fully as they. I chose Bernadette, a young girl unable to be shaken from her spiritual experiences, despite opposition even from church leaders. She was open to the unexpected, unexplainable mysteries of her faith; courageous and persistent, resilient and humble. She could face down any opposition to live her faith experience.
We had learned through study and life experience that others opposed our beliefs, and especially, our assumed authority to represent Jesus Christ’s teaching . We saw our priests, and even ourselves, as part of the line of succession from Peter the Apostle. A lot of wrongdoing and audacity occurred in between Peter’s time and mine. We were taught to acknowledge errors, correct them and move on. A daily examination of conscience and frequent confession kept us on track.
As a very short child, I led the procession into church. The Bishop asked us a few questions ascertaining that we understood what we were about to promise. I was the first to be confirmed, kneeling at the altar rail, shaking like a leaf, praying for courage. The Bishop spoke the words reminding me that my faith required a willingness to die for Christ. I responded that I would. The Bishop then struck my cheek with a blow so hard those in the back pews could hear the slap, my head snapping to the side. The Bishop looked horrified. I could feel the sting of his hand. I was reminded alright!
After the service ended, we processed from our pews to the rear of the church, the Bishop and altar servers before us. The Bishop waited for me at the door and joined my parents and family as we stood on the church steps. His handprint was still visible on my cheek. He humbly apologized to me and to my parents. Since I was the first child he had underestimated the strength of his blow, and was mortified. I had never expected to see a mortified bishop. It made my heart open to him as human being, no longer an authority figure. Those moments of my confirmation remain with me, 67 years later, as if they happened yesterday. Over the years I had need of the lessons learned that day.
I learned that faith is not a mind-game, nor a mere consideration. It is a calling to act with integrity, love and compassion. It requires the willingness to suffer for others; to learn them, see them, hear them even when I had to “suffer through” them. I suffered through those I did not like nor respect, as well as those I respected and loved. I learned that those in authority held no power over me unless I gave it to them. I could have withheld respect and forgiveness to a bishop who hit me so hard it hurt. I chose to forgive him and accept his unintended harm. However, I never shirk from showing those in authority the harm they do. It is probably one reason I became a lawyer. I experienced justice that day. Too many in our America do not. It is those we must be willing to die for. Our faith requires it.
I listened to two Catholics, Senator Bernie Moreno from my state of Ohio and Vice-President J.D. Vance defend and protect the President Trump’s unlawful war, threats of genocide, and destructive blasphemy the past few days. They were confirmed. Do they not recall their vow to defend and protect our faith and our church as they attack our Pope? Do they not understand integrity and morality? What did they promise as they affirmed their Catholicism when confirmed? I am not truly surprised because they also seem to have forgotten their vow to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States and Ohio, and the laws of both when they sworn into office as senators and then, Vance, as Vice-President.
These are not men of conviction willing to suffer for their faith. They are not humble. They lack integrity. They lie. They attack when they should defend… not just the Pope but human beings in Gaza, Iran, Minneapolis, and every city and hamlet in America. They attack instead of defend our people of color, LGBQT and transgender citizens, our women and children, our elderly and disabled, our working poor, our refugees and immigrants. They would suppress votes of students, women, the working poor, the elderly and disabled and brazenly support the provisions in the SAVE act suppressing our votes. All the while they pretend to protect us and our vote. They stay silent while our military is used to perform war crimes, and while our country’s leaders threaten to annihilate others in violation of the Geneva Convention and human rights.
The attack on a Catholic Pope is just part of the plan to replace loving faith and care for others preached by Jesus Christ on his Sermon on the Mount with power and control over others fed by greed and arrogance. It was easy to abuse the weakest among us. Now, they openly abuse a powerful church leader preaching Jesus Christ’s teachings. Of course, Trump posted an AI construction of himself as Jesus Christ. Of course Vance and Moreno, and other republicans think it is meaningless, a joke. The explanation is as great a lie. It has meaning. It is meant to promote abuse and control at the expense of others. These men were not slapped hard enough when they were confirmed as Catholics. They are not willing to suffer any political nor financial loss to help others. As a Catholic, I hold them accountable and ask them to recall their vows; to their church and to the American people.
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