The U.S. will send Syrian rebels armor first, then weapons.
Turkish protestors vow to continue.
Colorado wildfire being contained.
First results from Iranian election are coming in.
Former Nazi commander — age 94 — is living in the U.S.
The Tigers beat the Twins 4-0.
Rachel Maddow and a number of other people are noting that it was fifty years ago this week that desegregation and civil rights were in the headlines.
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I remember a lot of those days, including Alabama Gov. George Wallace standing in the schoolhouse door, and the murder of Medgar Evers on June 12, 1963.
I suppose you can say we’ve come a long, long way since those days when it took the National Guard to get children into schools and hey, aren’t we all post-racial now that we have twice elected a black man as president?
In a lot of ways we have. But there are still little reminders every day that we still have a long way to go. With rulings pending from the Supreme Court on voting rights and affirmative action, we’ll find out just how much.
Forty-five years ago today Bobby Kennedy was shot and fatally wounded in Los Angeles after winning the 1968 California primary.
Here are my recollections of that day from five years ago.
“Some men see things as they are and say ‘Why?’ I dream things that never were and say, ‘Why not?’”
I grew up in Perrysburg, Ohio. It’s a small town, a suburb of Toledo, and when I was a kid in the 1950′s and ’60′s, it fit all of the images that small towns in the Midwest have: tree-shaded streets, neat homes, lots of churches, and a main street — Louisiana Avenue — with little shops like the drug store with the fountain, the dime store, the barber shop, the hardware store, the bakery with the smell of bread baking and the sweet scent of icing, and the bank with the solid stone exterior. They’re all still there, just under different names now, and my parents, who still live there, still call the drug store by its old name, even though it’s changed owners and become a jewelry shop. In the winter the Christmas decorations line the street, and each Memorial Day there is a parade that starts at the Schaller Memorial, the veterans hall, and proceeds up Louisiana Avenue, taking a turn when it reaches the Oliver Hazard Perry Memorial (“We have met the enemy and they are ours…”) and marches down West Front Street past the old Victorian homes that overlook the Maumee River.
When I was a kid the parade was made up of the veterans groups like the American Legion and the VFW, and platoons of soldiers and veterans, including, through the 1970′s, the last remaining veterans of World War I. They wore their uniforms and their medals, and those that couldn’t march sat in the back seat of convertibles, waving slowly to the crowds that lined the sidewalks. They were followed by the marching band from the high school, the color guard, the Cub Scouts, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, the drum and bugle corps, floats from church groups, all of the city fire equipment, antique cars, and the service groups like the Shriners, the Elks, and the Kiwanis Club. After the last float came all the kids on their bicycles decorated with streamers, bunting, flags, and all the patriotic paperwork we could muster. My friends and I would try to outdo each other, and it had less to do with patriotism than it did with seeing how many rolls of red, white, and blue crepe paper we could thread in between the spokes of our wheels.
I was about ten or so on one Memorial Day when I spent a lot of time getting my Schwinn Racer ready for the big parade. It was a perfect day; the sky was a sparkling spring blue and all the floats, cars, and fire trucks were gleaming in the sun as the parade organized on Indiana Avenue in front of the Memorial Hall. The high school band in their yellow and black uniforms marched in precision as the major led off with a Sousa tune, and as the parade slowly made its way down the avenue we could see the crowds along the sidewalks waiting and waving. As we waited our turn we wheeled our bikes in circles, just like the Shriners in their little go-karts, and finally we got the signal that it was time for the kids to roll. There was an organized rush to lead off, and then we were slowly pedaling down the street, waving to everybody outside the library, the Chevy dealership, even the people lined up on the roof of the pizza parlor. I looked for my dad shooting movies with the 8mm camera, but didn’t see him. Oh, well, it didn’t matter; we were supposed to meet at the home of friends who were hosting a post-parade picnic in their backyard. Their house was at the end of the parade route, so that was the perfect place to pull out of the parade and have the first of many Faygo Redpops that summer.
But for some reason I stayed with the parade, on down West Front, and then up West Boundary and past the gates of Fort Meigs Cemetery. The floats and the fire trucks were gone, but what was left of the parade — the color guard and the veterans — went through the gates and along the path. There was no music now, just a solemn drumbeat keeping a steady muffled tapping. The color guard turned at a small stone memorial, and then past it to a gravesite where a family was gathered; a mother in a black dress, a father in a grey suit, and a teenage son and daughter, looking somber and out of place. The grave was still fresh, the dirt mounded over, the headstone a simple marker with a flag. A minister spoke some words, and then the color guard snapped to attention. A volley of rifle fire, then Taps, and then a tall young soldier in dress blues handed a folded flag to the mother, who murmured her thanks and tried to smile.
I suddenly realized that I felt out of place there with my gaudily-patriotic bike and my red-white-and-blue striped shirt. No one noticed me, though, and when the people started to slowly move away from the gravesite and back to the entrance, I followed along until I was able to ride slowly back to our friends’ house, park my bike with all the others, and find my parents, who probably hadn’t even noticed that I was not there with all the other kids running around and playing on the lawn.
Photo by Mark Wilson/Getty Images.
This post originally appeared on May 25, 2009.
The U.S. tells North Korea to knock it off.
Syria — Massacre reported as forces move south.
One good thing in the Obama budget is federal health care benefits for same-sex couples.
Toyota, Honda, Nissan, and several other car companies (including Pontiac) face recalls over airbags.
Korean War P.O.W. gets posthumous Medal of Honor.
Tornadoes hit Mississippi as storms head east.
The Tigers beat the Blue Jays 11-1.
Today is יום השואה, Yom HaShoah, the day to remember the Holocaust.
We must remember the millions.
You would probably have to be over the age of fifty to remember Martin Luther King, Jr. when he was alive, but age doesn’t matter in order to understand why he was — and still is — an important person in our nation’s history. Growing up on the outskirts of a city with a large black population, I was aware of Dr. King’s work as a part of the daily news coverage in the 1960′s as we watched the march on Selma, the water hoses, the riots in Watts, Detroit, Newark, and Toledo, and heard the pleas for justice, equality, tolerance, and brotherhood during the March on Washington in 1963 and in every city where Dr. King spoke. And I knew that he was an inspiration to a lot of people outside of the black community; anyone who faced injustice based on their skin color or their sexual orientation or any other reason knew what he was talking about. In 1968 I was fifteen years old and wondering whether my attraction to other boys was just me or were there others who faced bullying and discrimination for the same reason. In some small way I knew that Dr. King was speaking to me, too.
I remember very well the night of April 4, 1968, when Dr. King was murdered. I was a freshman at boarding school, just back from spring break, when the dorm master, who was also the school chaplain, called us into the common room and announced with both sadness and anger that “They’ve killed Martin Luther King.” He didn’t explain who the “they” were, but we knew what he meant, and two months later, on the day that Bobby Kennedy was buried at Arlington, James Earl Ray was arrested. Ray plead guilty and went to his grave claiming he was part of a conspiracy, but no one else was ever arrested or came forward to back up his claim. But when the chaplain said “they,” he was talking not just about accessories to a crime but to the attitude of a lot of people in America then — as now — who still believe that Dr. King was a communist, an agitator, a rabble-rouser, and a threat to their way of life. And when Dr. King died, there were a lot of people who thought that at long last those uppity agitators would know what they were in for if they kept up their nonsense.
But of course the dream did not die, and in spite of the tumult and anger that came with the loss there came a sense of purpose borne from the realization that if Dr. King had to die for his cause, it must be a powerful cause that touches more than just the lives of black citizens. What we take for granted today in terms of equality and voting rights is still under threat; human nature does not change that quickly in forty or fifty or a hundred years. Dr. King, like the men who wrote the Constitution, knew that they were starting something that would outlive them and their generations; all they had to do was give it a good start.
If you don’t remember Dr. King when he was alive, you are certainly aware of his life and his legacy, and I don’t just mean because you might get the day off on his birthday in January. Regardless of your race, your religion, your sex, or your occupation, Dr. King’s work has changed it, either during your lifetime or setting the stage for it now. And no matter what history may record of his life as a man, a preacher, a father, a husband, or a scholar, it is hard to imagine what this country — and indeed the world — would be like had he not been with us for all too brief a time.
Originally published April 4, 2008.
It’s a day late, but I couldn’t get a signal.
On 3 April 1973 when Martin Cooper, a Motorola researcher and executive, made the first mobile telephone call from handheld subscriber equipment, placing a call to Dr. Joel S. Engel of Bell Labs.[1][2] The prototype handheld phone used by Dr. Cooper weighed 1.1 kg and measured 22.86 cm long, 12.7 cm deep and 4.44 cm wide.. The prototype offered a talk time of just 30 minutes and took 10 hours to re-charge.[3]
My first cellphone was the Uniden bag phone that was in the Pontiac, mounted on the floor between the front seats. I still have it, keeping it as a part of the car’s historic preservation.
Since then I’ve progressed, so to speak, to a Samsung phone with a slide-out keyboard so I can text. I have yet to try or even consider a smartphone.
So, what was your first cellphone and when did you get it? Or are you still wired in?
HT to NTodd.
Louisiana’s school voucher program is already on the ropes, but the folks who run it are still trying to educate the youngsters about history besides Jesus riding a dinosaur and there be dragons off the edge of the Earth. Here’s their entry that explains those odd people known as “hippies.”
They went to Canada or European countries to escape being drafted into military service.
Many young people turned to drugs and immoral lifestyles’ these youths became known as hippies. They went without bathing, wore dirty, ragged, unconventional clothing, and deliberately broke all codes of politeness or manners. Rock music played an important part in the hippie movement and had great influence over the hippies. Many of the rock musicians they followed belonged to Eastern religious cults or practiced Satan worship.
And then they grew up, got jobs, started families and companies, and a lot of them voted for Reagan and Bush.
But the music was pretty damn good.
Via TPM:
Robert Bork says President Richard Nixon promised him the next Supreme Court vacancy after Bork complied with Nixon’s order to fire Watergate special prosecutor Archibald Cox in 1973.
Bork’s recollection of his role in the Saturday Night Massacre that culminated in Cox’s firing is at the center of his slim memoir, “Saving Justice,” that is being published posthumously by Encounter Books. Bork died in December at age 85.
Bork writes that he didn’t know if Nixon actually, though mistakenly, believed he still had the political clout to get someone confirmed to the Supreme Court or was just trying to secure Bork’s continued loyalty as his administration crumbled in the Watergate scandal.
President Ronald Reagan nominated Bork to the high court in 1987. The nomination failed in the Senate.
Wow.
The state of Mississippi finally got around to ratifying the 13th Amendment to the Constitution. It’s the one that bans slavery.
They actually did it in 1995 — 130 years after it was proposed — but there was a paperwork snafu, and it took someone looking into it after seeing the film Lincoln to get it straightened out.
Based on that schedule, they will repeal Prohibition in 2182.
This just in from Britain:
A skeleton found underneath a car park in Leicester is expected to be confirmed as that of Richard III.
The remarkable discovery of the remains, entailing a curved spine back and wounded skull, was made last September.
Since then scientists have been conducting a range of tests to establish whether the remains do indeed belong to the Plantagenet King.
Researchers from Leicester University will hold a press conference on Monday morning where they will present the findings of their investigation.
And true to the historical record, no horse remains were found in the vicinity.
PS: How did they know he was buried there? They acted on a hunch…
Lino Oviedo, Paraguayan presidential candidate killed in helicopter crash.
Taliban talks flounder as troops draw down.
Iraq vet charged in killing of Ex-SEAL Chris Kyle.
Secretary of State John Kerry makes overseas calls on his first day on the job.
Obama says Scouting should be open to gays and lesbians.
Ravens win Super Bowl.
Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris gets new bells.
Grand Central Terminal turns 100.
I’ve never arrived in New York by train, so I’ve never used it as a traveler. But I’ve been through Grand Central Terminal to catch a subway and just to look at this icon of American architecture from a time when places of industry were monuments.
We, the people, declare today that the most evident of truths – that all of us are created equal – is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls, and Selma, and Stonewall; just as it guided all those men and women, sung and unsung, who left footprints along this great Mall, to hear a preacher say that we cannot walk alone; to hear a King proclaim that our individual freedom is inextricably bound to the freedom of every soul on Earth.
It is now our generation’s task to carry on what those pioneers began. For our journey is not complete until our wives, our mothers, and daughters can earn a living equal to their efforts. Our journey is not complete until our gay brothers and sisters are treated like anyone else under the law – for if we are truly created equal, then surely the love we commit to one another must be equal as well.
Including Stonewall — the birthplace of the gay-rights movement — along with Seneca Falls and Selma in a presidential inaugural address for the first time.
Do not tell me that the universe has not shifted.
Here is the full speech as prepared for delivery.
Today’s inauguration is just for show; the actual swearing-in took place yesterday, January 20, as mandated by the Constitution. But because it was a Sunday, they made it a private affair. Here’s how it went:
This is the fourth time Barack Obama has been sworn in to office. The first time, in 2009, was bungled when Chief Justice John Roberts went up on his lines, so they re-did it the next day just to be sure. Now with the two this go-round, Mr. Obama becomes the second person to be sworn in four times. The first one was Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Somewhere Orly Taitz, the birther banshee, is going bonkers.
Today is the federal holiday set aside to honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday.
For me, growing up as a white kid in a middle-class suburb in the Midwest in the 1960′s, Dr. King’s legacy would seem to have a minimum impact; after all, what he was fighting for didn’t affect me directly in any way. But my parents always taught me that anyone oppressed in our society was wrong, and that in some way it did affect me. This became much more apparent as I grew up and saw how the nation treated its black citizens; those grainy images on TV and in the paper of water-hoses turned on the Freedom Marchers in Alabama showed me how much hatred could be turned on people who were simply asking for their due in a country that promised it to them. And when I came out as a gay man, I became much more aware of it when I applied the same standards to society in their treatment of gays and lesbians.
Perhaps the greatest impression that Dr. King had on me was his unswerving dedication to non-violence in his pursuit of civil rights. He withstood taunts, provocations, and rank invasions of his privacy and his life at the hands of racists, hate-mongers, and the federal government, yet he never raised a hand in anger against anyone. He deplored the idea of an eye for an eye, and he knew that responding in kind would only set back the cause. I was also impressed that his spirituality and faith were his armor and his shield, not his weapon, and he never tried to force his religion on anyone else. The supreme irony was that he died at the hands of violence, much like his role model, Mahatma Gandhi.
It’s a karmic moment that we celebrate and honor the birthday of Dr. King on the same day we celebrate the second inaugural of the nation’s first African-American president. And yet, the campaign to replace him was colored, so to speak, with racial issues, including overt appeals on the part of some candidates to the old fears about “us” vs. “them,” and sometimes invoking the name of Dr. King as an ironic twist. His admonition about judging us by the content of our character is still lacking in a lot of people who know that racism is a specter in this nation and are willing to use it and exploit it.
There’s a question in the minds of a lot of people of how to celebrate a federal holiday for a civil rights leader. Isn’t there supposed to be a ritual or a ceremony we’re supposed to perform to mark the occasion? Today’s ceremony on the Capitol steps is one way. But how do you signify in one day or in one action what Dr. King stood for, lived for, and died for? For me, it’s having the memories of what it used to be like and seeing what it has become for all of us that don’t take our civil rights for granted, which should be all of us, and being both grateful that we have come as far as we have and humbled to know how much further we still have to go.
President Obama was sworn in at noon yesterday to make it official. Today’s ceremony is just for show.
Mali militants beat a retreat in the face of advancing French troops.
The death toll continues to rise as rescuers entered the Algerian siege site.
Triple bombing attack in Afghanistan.
Five people were killed in a shooting in Albuquerque; 15-year-old boy held.
It will be Baltimore vs. San Francisco in the Super Bowl.
It’s Inauguration Day — President Obama will be sworn in at noon.
Five people were accidentally shot yesterday during Gun Appreciation Day events.
At least 23 hostages were killed in the end of the Algeria crisis.
Two big men in baseball are gone: Stan Musial, 92, of the St. Louis Cardinals, and Earl Weaver, 82, former manager of the Baltimore Orioles.
The original Batmobile sold at auction for $4.6 million.
