Hey, the Pope is here this week.  Did you hear?  Sounds like his crowds are just ‘yuuge.  He’s pretty much taken over all the networks.  They all run these hours-long shows with the same name:  “Pope Francis in America.”  Even Al-Jazeera.  But he’s talking so softly, and has that accent that can be difficult to understand.  Sometimes he insists on speaking Spanish.  How’s he going to compete in this time when we all shout at each other?

I have to admit, I was hoping he’d rip about 535 new ones when he addressed Congress.  But he didn’t.  Of course this gentle man would never do that.  Instead, he lifted them up.  He talked about inclusion and how we are all immigrants and life and the environment.  He told them they could do the job – that WE can do the job.  He didn’t call them out for all the times they punted on opportunities to do the right thing, to help people in need.  Even when he was directive about things like getting rid of the death penalty, his message was fundamentally Christian:  repentance and salvation.  He charged us all with our human obligation to help others.  Don’t keep score, just do it.

He’s still here, and a lot of us are basking in that Pope aura.  The crowds are testament to that.  I think we all needed a good dose of hope and joy.  Hold the cynicism, please.

I saw that Donald Trump had trouble filling a hotel ballroom yesterday.  He was booed today, too.

We would all like to blame someone. We prefer that it be somebody else. It relieves pressure when things are going bad. They need fixing, not us. Perhaps it is part of our wiring as human beings because it is everywhere. Even petty arguments often start and end by trying to assign blame. In politics, it is poison.

This attitude allows us to avoid change, which is always difficult. It’s uncomfortable and requires a whole new set of habits. When group-think comes into play, it’s pretty safe to say that resistance to change is pretty thick. So we shift the blame to someone else: immigrants (legal and otherwise), African-Americans, Hispanics, Gays, or Jews. This has been a rallying cry for wild-eyed fanatics and cold, calculating despots alike. So many ascents to power were fueled by the pogroms and the corpses left behind. Hutu/Tutsi, Nazi/Jew, Serb/Bosniak, and so on. And when the dust settled, the winning populations were never better off. Nothing changed. They never solved the systemic problems. But the tyrant got power, and that was all that mattered to that “administration.”

Unless you are a Native American, you and your lineage were once “them.” They’ve all taken a turn in the barrel getting shot. Quakers, Irish, African Americans, Poles, the list is long. They were called out as the reason for hard times. The logic is structurally flawed. These people were almost always at the low end of the totem pole. They didn’t influence the decisions by leaders which brought about the crises. But at least the strident had someone to blame.

Now it’s Hispanics’ turn. As I listen to the leading Republican contender, he might make me believe that these people caused the great recession of 2008, the low wages that cripple hard-working people, and maybe even global warming. It’s quite convenient. But it allows the policies of the oligarchs, strong-arm lobbyers, billionaire election buyers and sycophants to continue unchecked. They can continue doing the same things to this country. It’s not their fault. It’s Them who caused it.

I love the diversity of this country. I’ve been to places in the world where ethnic purity was paramount, and even a trace of “others’” blood in your family tree was a source of shame. We are different, even if some of us can’t accept it. I’m not so sure about American exceptionalism, but if it exists, it’s because of how well we have (eventually) assimilated other cultures. My children are Irish-Italian-German-Nordic-Americans, and they are great.

We have problems in this country. Deporting millions will not change that, because they are not the problem. This policy will set us back by depriving us of the opportunity to embrace new cultures and weave their best into our fabric. Build your wall, if you will. Maybe it won’t be so awful. It might discourage people from making a trek through a desert that kills so many. But none of these will fix the problems caused by a privileged class that insulates themselves from reality and deflects blame so they can continue to exploit the rest of Us.

It’s been over 9 month since my return from Africa.  I still remember parts of it like yesterday.  Given my short term memory performance, that’s not as impressive as it sounds.  It is great to be back home with my wife, my kids (although they live on opposite coasts), and all the familiar, comfortable surroundings.  I’ve held back from blogging for reasons I don’t completely understand.  I guess I just felt that folks might not be as interested in the thoughts and views from an old American as those from a stranger in a strange land.

I was musing about this a few days ago when my visiting future daughter-in-law (“pre-wife,” as my son calls her) set me straight.  “Stop worrying about whether those stories will interest the readers.  Write for yourself.”  She’s right, of course.  There’s a sort of creative bug that gets inside when you start something like this.  I’ve missed it for a while.  I’ve tried to fill it with music, with only mild success.  Just as there is prose trying to work its way out of me, there are songs as well.  I have a great time writing the lyrics and they are not awful.  Putting together the music to fit is another story.  Simple melodies, ok.  But what about the chorus, bridge, guitar solo, and on and on?  I’ve heard writers talk about the “deafening silence of blank paper.”  That hasn’t been such an issue for me.  But what about the “deafening silence of silence?”  Sometimes the notes won’t come.  Or they come and have nowhere to go except … away.

But let’s not plunge into the abyss of creative constipation here.  I was not raised in a particularly musical family, although my mom made sure that all of us had opportunities. I drifted away from clarinet, oboe and bassoon when I went to a high school without a music program.  But I’ve been blessed with 2 musically gifted children and a love for almost all genres of music.  There are a few exceptions that I won’t call out here, however.  Telling an aficionado that you don’t like their tunes is tantamount to starting a religious war.  I know this.  I am a longtime fan of Yes, which the rest of my family really can’t stand.  On long car trips, I am rationed.  I wait until Linda is asleep in the seat beside me before switching on “Perpetual Change.”  That lasts until I get carried away with the Steve Howe guitar solo, crank it up and then pay for it for about 15 miles.

Since I can’t sit still at all, music really gets me twitching.  Since it’s all about the bass, I’d thump along with that.  Eventually that turned into “air bass.”  You need to picture an air guitarist gyrating all over the air stage, ripping air riffs and generally looking dumb.  Off in the background is the air bassist standing in the shadows driving the non-existent beat, but not looking quite as dumb.  Well, my son got pretty sick of that and informed me that he was going to buy me a bass for Christmas about 10 years ago.  “Buy me a bass” meant accompanying me to Guitar Center, giving me great advice on which one to get, and then letting me pay for it.  Fair enough.  Since it was a “present” from Sean, there wasn’t much Linda could do about it (we’ll get into “parent points” in some future post).  She’s now great about putting up with my practicing at all hours.  However, she draws the line when I start to talk like a bass nerd, which is really boring. If you’ve read this far, you probably know what she means.

So, I’m back.  Yes, I’m using this blog as a kind of creative Metamucil.  Whatever works.  I’ve started dozens of posts that I shelved because I didn’t want to bore, vex, or otherwise offend folks.  If I do any of those to you in the coming posts, please blame Mandy.