Ahoy!

Today, as we do every Memorial Day, Alfredo and I put out our flag in honor of those who died serving under it. This poem is in their honor. Ours, They Died — by David Perry And so they died in life someone’s  son husband  lover  brother  friend  Fighting for someone’s life in  distant lands  or just next door in life someone’s daughter  wife  lover  sister  friend  Fighting for someone’s life in — our name — for fighting  in life  someone’s life in fighting in — our name — will end. And so they died  in life someone’s  soldiers  — ours — Let grateful bugles wail in eternal taps to  known and unknown graves.

April’s Fools In July 1936, General Francisco Franco led a military coup against the duly elected Second Spanish Republic. The resulting Spanish Civil War left over a million dead, destroyed the infrastructure of Spain and ended with Franco’s victory 80 years ago today: April 1, 1939.  What followed was 36 years of a fascist dictatorship under “El Caudillo.” The ghosts of Franco still haunt Spain, not unlike the miasma of the U.S. Civil War that still tortures our body politic in America. However, here in Spain, they have moved on quicker: a Spanish trait to “get over it” or as the Spanish phrase says  “barrer debajo de la alfombra” — sweep it under the rug and just pretend there's nothing there.  Here in my husband's hometown of Santander once stood the country’s last statue of the dictator: quietly relegated to a museum warehouse over 10 years ago. 150 years after the fall of Richmond, the equestrian monolith of “Lee” still bestrides the Confederate-heavy...

I Remember Mama Forty years ago today, my mother died. She was 57. Forty years hence, I am the same age. "If only we can get through February," my Great Aunt Margaret used to say: all drawling Virginia, ironic wisdom. "It's the longest month." The hardest snows. The coldest nights. The most painful memories. In my family, it always seemed to be that the most trying times were squeezed into 28 or 29 days. 1979 was a case in point: the culmination of my mother's two-year struggle with cancer. I remember around my 15th birthday getting the news.  “They found something on my shoulder," my mother said -  breezily telling me with a smile to ward off teenage worries. I can't recall exactly where I was when she told me, but I remember her demeanor: we'll take care of this. We were probably in the kitchen, or maybe in her car where she was teaching me to drive. Wherever we were, she wanted to make sure that I wouldn't worry. ...

Dear Martin – Please excuse the informality. I know I should have said “Dr. King.” That is how I was raised – to be formal, respectful, traditional. But, somehow, I feel a connection to you (not the first or last time you’ve heard that I’m sure), so I hope you’ll forgive my presumption. First off, Happy Birthday. I know today is the “official” celebration of your birth, but on my calendar I noted the actual date last week, January 15. 90 years old – wow: so much living packed into nine decades. Well, of course, packed into 39 years, actually.   Do you ever think about that? 39 years in life, and 51 years in death, and still so much work to be done? Do you ever get discouraged? I do. I mean, really: in Mississippi and Alabama, today they also celebrate Robert E. Lee’s birthday (he turned 212 on Saturday, but I imagine you weren’t invited to that party) “simultaneously” with yours. Oh please. I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia – Capital of the Confederacy – so I kno...

The Bully’s Pulpit — by David Perry The bully pulpit has never been bullier: nor the Senate, the House and now the Supreme Court.  That’s a lot of bull, ah bullying . There are bullies in stores: witness this week’s tale of a white lady berating two Spanish speakers for, well, speaking.  There are bullies online — although I’m sure First Immigrant Melania’s “Be Best Ignore the Rest” campaign will put a stop to that any midterm now. There are bullies on the Left and bullies on the Right, but not so much in the middle since breaking up a civil-less war generally requires something approaching balance in the Farce that has become our body blow of political debase, ah debate . Bullying vs. Debate. That is the choice. Every day in this increasingly rank race to the dumpster that is our surreal reality we must choose: reaching out or raging on; punching down or standing up. Everyone, it seems, is justifiably, mouth-sputteringly angry. Admittedly, there is...

I’m exhausted. I admit it. Plus, most everyone I know is exhausted too. The nonstop “hive brain” of social media, the tweets too tart,   the Facebooks too far, the TV ad infinitum.  InstagramInstagramInstagram. It’s all just too, too much.  I remember reading as a child that the average human only uses 10 % of his brain — even geniuses. That said, even if I approached that benchmark, my unused 90-95% is bone tired and the minority in use even more so. Like the android Data in “Star Trek”,  if only I had an off switch. I love life - my life and life in general. I love my husband. I love my family, friends and field of work. I love the power and beauty of words and the passions they express and the wisdoms to which they aspire.  Lately, however, I have fallen into the trap of (as the Emperor says to Mozart in the film “Amadeus”) “too many notes.” Too many words. Too many opinions. Too many outrages about which to be outraged. I’m worded out. Pol...

A friend of mine — a mentor, really —  now sadly deceased -- used to say after Gay Pride Parade # 5434: "I'm so over the rainbow" as in "been there, done that - got the t-shirt, move on." I admit, I was beginning to feel that way too, but today -- actually, since Trump's election -- I've changed my rainbow tune. We don't need less "Gay Pride" we need more, and by more, I mean more people: gay,  non-gay, trans, bi, straight, black, brown, immigrant, poor, frightened and afraid - EVERYONE and ANYONE that feels threatened (which should be pretty much anyone except straight white men who espouse 'Christianity') by the Trump Administration. Today's "Pride" March was its usual polyglot of colors and creeds and agendas. But, today, I realized, while the catalyst and theme may be LGBT, the reason for the march was very red, white & blue Americana: a burst of laughter and humor and bawdiness and celebration in the mid...