My father planted pink spider lilies decades ago in our front yard, but at some point years later, he decided to dig them up. Shortly before his oldest sister, Amparo, died in February 1998, he was surprised to see several of those plants had re-surfaced. Over the next several years we both noticed that a number of those pink spider lilies would inexplicably pop up in various spots across the front yard. And then someone we knew – a relative, a friend, a neighbor – would die soon afterwards. That was an omen, he told me – someone we knew was going to die. Those lilies sprung up across the front yard shortly before my father’s death in June of 2016 and again before my mother’s death four years later. They even arose before my dog Wolfgang died in October of 2016. They came up again in early 2022 just weeks before my friend, Paul, died and again the following year, just before another friend, David, died unexpectedly.
A few weeks ago I spotted a few of those blooms near the front door. And now, for the third time in as many years, I’ve lost a close friend. Robert Souza died early Wednesday morning, the 16th. He turned 62 last month. A Massachusetts native, he’d moved to Texas in 1983 to attend some kind of religious school. That didn’t seem to work out, but he always retained some degree of spiritual faith. Oddly, despite living in Texas for so long, he still had that uniquely Bostonian accent. We met through mutual friends in February 1994 and found we had a few things in common: muscle cars, rock music and animals.
Robert had been through a lot personally, including some serious health problems, and even an attempted carjacking/robbery in 1997 where he took six bullets. I wrote about that in 2013. Despite everything, he always managed to get through it. This latest bout with severe pneumonia, however, proved insurmountable.
I’m afraid Robert’s death will mark the end for his mother – a retired nurse in her 80s who still lives in Massachusetts. She lost her young son, George, to ALS five years ago. Robert returned to Massachusetts for the funeral and stayed longer with his mother. Knowing all about his health concerns, she just wanted him to be with her for a little while. Now this.
After my friend David died in 2023, Robert and I discussed how we had reached the point in our lives where we lose people we know and love. I often joked that he was too mean to die; that he needed to soften up a little before God accepts him into the Kingdom. I guess he softened up without me realizing it!
My friend Paul who died of liver cancer in 2022 had told me years earlier of strange things surrounding him and his family. He lost his father, two nephews and his older brother over a six-year period. And in the weeks preceding each death he noticed a slew of black birds nearby. One even flew alongside him as he drove down a highway. Alarmed, he told me, he’d honked several times, but the bird continued flying beside his car. Even when he slowed or sped up, the bird remained a constant presence. Only when he exited did it fly away. The experience left him shaken, he recounted. Shortly afterwards his brother died.
A few days before my mother passed away I had a close family friend stay with her, while I went to the store. When I exited the building and approached my truck I was startled to see a small group of black birds gathered atop my truck. They remained, even when I got into the vehicle – literally close enough for me to touch them – and departed only when I started the engine. Earlier this week I went to the same store and – as I approached the entrance – noticed a single black bird on the ground ahead of me, just outside the automatic doors. It turned in my direction, and I slowed my pace. A few steps closer and the bird flew away.
Now I can only say I love you, my friend Robert, and I hope to see you on the other side.
Today is the start of “Banned Books Week 2024” – the annual fight against literary censorship. Writers, media types and all who support us know full well we’ll never win this war. But we can win battles across the national spectrum. The fight has become more intense in recent years, as social conservatives march into libraries and demand certain items be removed because they’re offended. Remember, there will always be people who think they know what’s best for everyone else. As writers and readers, we simply can’t let that happen.
“When I read great literature, great drama, speeches, or sermons, I feel that the human mind has not achieved anything greater than the ability to share feelings and thoughts through language.”
Around the turn of the century, I saw news that a women’s college here in the U.S. had contemplated admitting men within a year or two. The shock and outrage from the female student body was as palpable as it was vociferous. Ironically the institution had a male chancellor at the time. He tried explaining to the crowd that the college was trying to maintain its viability, but his voice was suffocated by the intense hysteria. You would have thought the incoming male students would be selected from a sex offender registry. I’m sure those young women had long since bought into the feminist myth that all men are naturally prone to violence, especially sexual assault. Almost immediately, however, the college rescinded its decision, much to the delight of the students. That same male chancellor made the announcement by unfurling a banner that bore the term “For Women Again”. The crowd erupted into cheers of relief; some even popping open bottles of champagne.
At the bank where I worked at the time, the subject arose during a lunch conversation. I was the only man in the small group, and my female colleagues collectively agreed that they understood the reticence of that college’s students to admit men. But, of course, I had to opine by highlighting the obvious anger those young women expressed at the initial announcement. “I wonder what those little girls will do when they enter the adult world and have real problems. And there’ll be men all over the place, and there’s not a goddamn thing they can do about it.”
I suppose my constituents weren’t surprised by the statement, but to some extent, they had to concur. There was a time when the genders were explicitly separated, and everyone seemed fine with it. Men did this, and women did that. And things functioned relatively well.
But I pointed out that, if women want true equality, they have to accept that men are part of that equation. In many ways, for centuries, men have excluded women from the decision-making process; claiming there was a “place” for them. Women have fought back and demanded a place at that proverbial decision-making table.
Oddly one of the women sitting with me in that lunch room didn’t believe women should be in positions of power, such as the U.S. presidency. “We have too many emotional and hormonal problems!” she said, much to the shock and chagrin of the other women. She wasn’t the first woman from whom I’d heard that. But this was 2000, and I was certain such beliefs had been relegated to ancient times – like dial phones.
A few years before that particular conversation a similar debate arose among me and some female colleagues at the bank; another one about gender parity. I noted that, if women wanted true equality with men, they needed to start registering for Selective Service – like the men have to do. In the U.S., Selective Service is the most blatant form of sexism. The current system was reinstated in 1980 by then-President Jimmy Carter. Every male in the U.S. born since January 1, 1960 has to register for it within 30 days of their 18th birthday. In the face of a never-ending Cold War and the sudden Iranian hostage crisis, it was a call-back to an older time in America. There’s no penalty for late registration, but there are plenty of punishments for failure to register – including jail time and a six-figure fine; no admittance to college; and no financial aid. The issue was a big one when I was in high school and it became a concern during the 1991 Persian Gulf War.
In the aforementioned workplace conversation, one of my female colleagues – the mother of a single college-aged son – responded, “When men get pregnant,” before storming off. Another woman concurred with a laugh. But I pointed out that men have to register for Selective Service; otherwise, face some serious legal repercussions. Women, on the other hand, don’t have to have children if they don’t want. There is no law that compels women to get pregnant. My female cohorts couldn’t offer a logical reply.
All of that came back to me last week, when Vice-President Kamala Harris accepted the Democratic Party’s nomination as presidential candidate. She’s only the second woman and the first non-White woman to be so honored. This year’s presidential campaign has literally turned out to be the oddest in decades; certainly the most unusual in my lifetime. And at the age of 60, I don’t have too many first time experiences left.
I started coming of age in the 1970s, just as the contemporary feminist movement was making more concerted inroads into a patriarchal American society. I recall how just being male seemed to become anathemic. Many women demanded full and complete equality with men in every aspect of civilization. Yet, by the 1990s, I noticed some women (and men) expected a double standard.
Women can’t reasonably demand to be treated as equals to men in business and politics, yet still expect to be placed in the same category as infants and children when it comes to their health and welfare. In other words, don’t insist on being given the chance to be the CEO of a major corporation, a governor, a Supreme Court justice, or president of the United States and still want to be the first ones in the lifeboat when the ship hits the ice berg.
If you want equality, I’ll give you equality. But, remember the old saying: be careful what you wish for; you might just get it. When it comes to progressive attitudes, I sometimes think of the 1967 film “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”. Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn portray a liberal San Francisco couple whose all-inclusive ideology is tested when their daughter (Katherine Houghton) introduces her fiancé (Sidney Poitier) to them. While the movie is rife with stereotypes, the general message is essential: how sincerely should people value and hold onto their beliefs. The presidency of the United States has often been deemed the ultimate “glass ceiling” for women. As we march further into the 21st century, members of every previously-marginalized group need to consider how much shattered glass they want on the floor of progress.
Chief Writing Wolf 