Many people were caught by the Corona-V crisis away from their homes. We all have witnessed the stories of those on ocean cruises; how a special vacation could become a prison sentence, with a paainful illness and even death.
Others were traveling on business or pleasure, including to China, where the new strain of coronavirus was first detected. College students were traveling to beaches for spring break, wearing bikinis and flip-flops.
World leaders were doing what they always do -- meeting with each other to discuss weighty matters. Some of them became ill as a result.
Families did what families do -- get together to celebrate birthdays and other special occasions. In my particular case, two of my sisters had planned to travel here to the San Francisco Bay Area and spend today with me. I had thought we might share a meal at the old Millbrae Pancake House.
But everyne's plans unraveled. They had to be cast aside like clothes that no longer fit or relationships that have run their course.
People differ dramatically in their ability to manage the experience of staying inside. My concern and sympathy goes to those who simply cannot tolerate staying at home. They yearn for the fresh air, to escape this damned confinement, which feels claustrophobic to them.
Others actually like staying inside their homes. It's cozy and comforting. These are the people who thrive baking bread and preparing elaborate meals, sewing, knitting, watching old movies, reading books, playing cards and boardgames, drawing, painting, singing, dancing, and story-telling, among other domesticities.
But even these lucky people are feeling the strain that develops when every day feels the same as the one before. I cannot tell you how many people have told me they are losing track of which day of the week it is, what date this is, whether yesterday or tomorrow are in any way different from each other.
When I inquire, most of these folks tell me they have no new news. Of course, in this situation, no news can be good news.
Now I am a newsperson, and have been for 54 years and three months. But who's counting? Once you work in my business long enough, the blood in your veins flows differently, your ears perk at different prompts. Where others see an interplay of light and shadow you begin to see the outline of what may be a new pattern
My formula for students: "News = New."
Without even being conscious of it, you begin forming a hypothesis that might explain the pattern you are perceiving. For you, the hunt for the truth has begun.
It disturbs me that some 30 percent of the American people believe COVAD-19 was probably created in a lab. There is no evidence for that, but it reflects the tendency of too many people to embrace conspiratorial thinking instead of logic and science.
These people are susceptible to those who would exploit their fears. So this is a moment to pay special attention to what would-be demagogues are doing. First, they personalize a crisis, as if it were all about them, and they fire those who disagree. Next, they lash out at the press. Why us? Because we are the ones required to set the record straight for you, our fellow citizens. That is our job.
It's up to us because almost nobody else wants to do such thankless work. But my colleagues in the media are rising to meet this moment head-on. They aren't being intimidated by threats and insults. Day by day, they follow the shifting contours of the patterns, turning and twisting their way toward the truth.
And what is that truth? I've suggested my personal theory. A shift in the global temperature of a few degrees Celsius might cause a long-dormant virus to mutate and migrate from one species to another. What in the past was benign now is becoming lethal.
In my role as a journalist, I have met many, many people. One of those in recent years was the billionaire Tom Steyer, who failed in his quest for the Democratic Party's nomination for President. Steyer is an adamant proponent of organizing his fellow citizens to combat climate change before it is too late.
That, of course, presumes it isn't already too late.
I remember the first time I met Steyer -- I greeted him as I did most guests arriving to appear on KQED's weekly news show, Newsroom, in my role as the executive supervising the production of that show. After we had filmed his segment, Steyer and I stood in the atrium of KQED, discussing climate change for an extended period.
As we talked, I couldn't help thinking to myself, "This guy's a billionaire. He can do anything he wants. He could be lying out in the sun on an impossibly large yacht, eating bon-bone and sipping the very best champagne.
"Instead he is trying to organize people around climate change."
***
Over the past year, I've stayed in almost as many places as during the previous 72. It's hazy now, but those places included at least four hospitals (including several ICUs), four skilled nursing facilities, one assisted living unit, a city flat and my daughter's house, where I am staying now.
As I moved around place to place, I carried my few, increasingly ragged possessions in shopping bags, because I'd long since given away my travel bags. I relearned how to walk four times. My new friends included physical therapists, occupational therapists, social workers, nurses, doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists, CNAs, EMTs, volunteers and fellow patients caught up in the American health care system.
At some point during that journey I came to believe that it was unlikely I would make it out alive.
But I did. Every single night of the past 366 yielded a new day. In this way, I am blessed.
-30-
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
Monday, April 13, 2020
Earth Floating in Space
California Hoping
It was Easter Sunday.
Today, I am reflecting on a bias in the news that we on the West Coast have grown used to over the years. From their headquarters in New York and Washington, the east coast media giants focus on what is happening close to home while more or less ignoring what is happening out here.
Our public officials, including Gov. Gavin Newsom, acted decisively early in the crisis to shut down all non-essential activities. We've all been sheltering in place for weeks now, and so far, the results appear to be promising. Californians are getting the virus, and dying from it, at far lower rates than are our friends in New York.
To a certain extent, we are accustomed to disasters here, as earthquakes, floods, wildfires and landslides are common occurrences. Many of us plan for calamities, stocking up on food, water and medical supplies during normal times.
But despite this reality, the national news cycle has a rhythm of its own. From today's New York Times:
“News in this country flows east to west, always has and always will, but political and cultural movements flow west to east,” said Averell Smith, a longtime Democratic strategist who how worked in campaigns nationwide and grew up in San Francisco, where his father was the district attorney.
***
As I hear from reporter friends, it's clear that they are taking extraordinary measures to continue bringing you the news. Friends of mine at KQED, the public media company where I capped off my career before retiring last fall, are filing radio reports from home by creating acoustical environments suitable for the sound quality that characterizes their reports.
One reporter described for me how she goes into a closet and gets under a blanket in order to voice her pieces.
Another told me he has set up a mini-recording studio in his home so he can continue to host his shows.
These folks, like the rest of us, cannot venture out to the streets as they normally do to gather our news. So they are improvising.
***
Isolation is not a normal state for human beings; we are social beings. One only has to visit a zoo (alas, probably closed for now) to observe how the monkeys we evolved from play and fight and care for one another.
But with today's digital media channels, one need only be as isolated as one chooses to be. This is a wonderful time to reach out to old friends and acquaintances, to try and reconnect.
Isolation is like poverty in one sense. There are limitations to what we can do physically and financially, to alleviate these conditions. But we can embrace a more hopeful attitude if we choose to.
I am reminded of Dolly Parton's beautiful song, "Coat of Many Colors," which tells the story of how her mother sewed her a coat from rags in their impoverished home in Tennessee:
"...And I told 'em all the story
Momma told me while she sewed
And how my coat of many colors
Was worth more than all their clothes
But they didn't understand it
And I tried to make them see
That one is only poor
Only if they choose to be
Now I know we had no money
But I was rich as I could be
In my coat of many colors
My momma made for me..."
-30-
Sunday, April 12, 2020
A New Age With New Routines
Up by six, my first cup of coffee. Not yet a thought, however, about what to say today.
More coffee, as the light outside starts arriving.
Maybe this health crisis will unleash a new age of fantasy. We are forced by the circumstance of Corona-V to suspend our normal interactions with one another. Friends, family may be close by, geographically, but they might as well be on the other side of the world. Video games are thriving -- an ultimate expression of fantasy and quest.
Over the past week I've found myself borrowing my grandchildren's art supplies to make birthday cards. The results are childish and primitive, circa age seven, I'd say. But they transport me back to my childhood in Michigan. We didn't buy Hallmark cards; we made them.
My mother sewed and knitted. I am wrapped this moment in a shawl she knitted for me decades ago. It shields me from the cold and damp of an early Bay Area morning. Parents do things like that -- make or give protective shields for us as we venture out in the world.
Until I did that -- venture out -- I really had no idea who I was. Then, in college at the University of Michigan in the 1960s, new movements were erupting all around. The peace/anti-war movement; the civil rights/black power movement; the environmental movement; women's liberation; gay/queer liberation; the farmworkers' boycotts; the student movements against any sort of administrative control, which Mario Savio and the Freedom of Speech Movement epitomized.
What I could not have anticipated was that I was drawn to all these movements. The people leading them felt like my brothers and sisters. We all felt like outsiders for one reason or another. Then again, exactly what was *I* outside of? Here I was, white, square, male at an elite university with peers who would go on to be prominent leaders in government, industry and the non-profit world.
For reasons that remain vague and cloudy to this day, I never felt like an insider at all.
As it turned out, millions of others felt exactly the same way. Once I realized that, I found my voice -- not as an activist, that was not for me, but as a story-teller, chronicling what was happening around me. Gradually, my confidence grew that I could trust what I observed, that the reality I perceived bore at least a reasonable resemblance to something more concrete than the ramblings of a village idiot, which is what I considered myself to be.
The fact, should we agree to face it, is we all have a lot to say. Most people just don't say it, not publicly at least. And yet what is known as the public square or the pubic commons is where the grassroots conversations that mold the future occur. Some of this can be irritating -- speakers on boxes with bullhorns; others passing out leaflets.
I'm not sure why, but those I find especially obnoxious are religious proselytizers. This touches a raw vein for me. Don't get me wrong -- if you sincerely are an adherent of any religion, I feel pleased for you. But my request is that you keep it entirely to yourself.
Of course, nowadays we cannot even go to the public square, so there are no rushing crowds, bullhorns or proselytizers. In fact, no one is about. The commons are empty, droplets of virus hanging in the air with one to land on.
We've ceded the commons to COVAD-19.
***
Besides making art, and exploring virtual communications channels, we can cook. Last night I cooked one of our favorites for my family -- a tomato meat sauce over pasta, often called spaghetti. This time I had a pound of veal, another of beef, tomato paste, fresh cut tomato slices, onion flakes, fresh sticky garlic cloves, herbs of many varieties and a touch of hot sauce.
I like it all to simmer for up to two hours as I mix the ingredients until they get to know one another intimately. They fall in love and have their way with each other. As they are joined. the sensuous pleasure this brings me is almost too much, and I have to sneak a taste now and then -- the smallest of sins of every cook.
As the pasta heats, I add olive oil and stir it all with the spatulas and spoons still coated with the red sauce. This cleans the utensils and turns the boiling water to a delicate shade of orange -- just like the western sky outside as the sun fades below the horizon.
The sky is orange, my pasta is orangish, and alas I am growing very hungry.
Hungry for food, yes, but hungry for much more than that. I am hungry for the things this awful virus has stolen from all of us -- the people I cannot share a coffee with, the wandering past busy shops, the encounters that lead to smiles and laughter.
And yet, as long as we remain open to them, art, cooking and new friends await us. These short essays are one way for me to participate in the society that is emerging post-pandemic. It was never my intention nor even a thought that thousands of people would show up daily to read these words. I'm not standing on a box and I don't own a megaphone.
But I am wrapped in my mother's shawl 18 long years after she passed, protected against the elements that would weaken me and let that poor virus in. In the words of the old gospel, I've seen the light, and I can testify that it is orangish.
-30-
More coffee, as the light outside starts arriving.
Maybe this health crisis will unleash a new age of fantasy. We are forced by the circumstance of Corona-V to suspend our normal interactions with one another. Friends, family may be close by, geographically, but they might as well be on the other side of the world. Video games are thriving -- an ultimate expression of fantasy and quest.
Over the past week I've found myself borrowing my grandchildren's art supplies to make birthday cards. The results are childish and primitive, circa age seven, I'd say. But they transport me back to my childhood in Michigan. We didn't buy Hallmark cards; we made them.
My mother sewed and knitted. I am wrapped this moment in a shawl she knitted for me decades ago. It shields me from the cold and damp of an early Bay Area morning. Parents do things like that -- make or give protective shields for us as we venture out in the world.
Until I did that -- venture out -- I really had no idea who I was. Then, in college at the University of Michigan in the 1960s, new movements were erupting all around. The peace/anti-war movement; the civil rights/black power movement; the environmental movement; women's liberation; gay/queer liberation; the farmworkers' boycotts; the student movements against any sort of administrative control, which Mario Savio and the Freedom of Speech Movement epitomized.
What I could not have anticipated was that I was drawn to all these movements. The people leading them felt like my brothers and sisters. We all felt like outsiders for one reason or another. Then again, exactly what was *I* outside of? Here I was, white, square, male at an elite university with peers who would go on to be prominent leaders in government, industry and the non-profit world.
For reasons that remain vague and cloudy to this day, I never felt like an insider at all.
As it turned out, millions of others felt exactly the same way. Once I realized that, I found my voice -- not as an activist, that was not for me, but as a story-teller, chronicling what was happening around me. Gradually, my confidence grew that I could trust what I observed, that the reality I perceived bore at least a reasonable resemblance to something more concrete than the ramblings of a village idiot, which is what I considered myself to be.
The fact, should we agree to face it, is we all have a lot to say. Most people just don't say it, not publicly at least. And yet what is known as the public square or the pubic commons is where the grassroots conversations that mold the future occur. Some of this can be irritating -- speakers on boxes with bullhorns; others passing out leaflets.
I'm not sure why, but those I find especially obnoxious are religious proselytizers. This touches a raw vein for me. Don't get me wrong -- if you sincerely are an adherent of any religion, I feel pleased for you. But my request is that you keep it entirely to yourself.
Of course, nowadays we cannot even go to the public square, so there are no rushing crowds, bullhorns or proselytizers. In fact, no one is about. The commons are empty, droplets of virus hanging in the air with one to land on.
We've ceded the commons to COVAD-19.
***
Besides making art, and exploring virtual communications channels, we can cook. Last night I cooked one of our favorites for my family -- a tomato meat sauce over pasta, often called spaghetti. This time I had a pound of veal, another of beef, tomato paste, fresh cut tomato slices, onion flakes, fresh sticky garlic cloves, herbs of many varieties and a touch of hot sauce.
I like it all to simmer for up to two hours as I mix the ingredients until they get to know one another intimately. They fall in love and have their way with each other. As they are joined. the sensuous pleasure this brings me is almost too much, and I have to sneak a taste now and then -- the smallest of sins of every cook.
As the pasta heats, I add olive oil and stir it all with the spatulas and spoons still coated with the red sauce. This cleans the utensils and turns the boiling water to a delicate shade of orange -- just like the western sky outside as the sun fades below the horizon.
The sky is orange, my pasta is orangish, and alas I am growing very hungry.
Hungry for food, yes, but hungry for much more than that. I am hungry for the things this awful virus has stolen from all of us -- the people I cannot share a coffee with, the wandering past busy shops, the encounters that lead to smiles and laughter.
And yet, as long as we remain open to them, art, cooking and new friends await us. These short essays are one way for me to participate in the society that is emerging post-pandemic. It was never my intention nor even a thought that thousands of people would show up daily to read these words. I'm not standing on a box and I don't own a megaphone.
But I am wrapped in my mother's shawl 18 long years after she passed, protected against the elements that would weaken me and let that poor virus in. In the words of the old gospel, I've seen the light, and I can testify that it is orangish.
-30-
Saturday, April 11, 2020
A Lifetime of Moments
It's axiomatic that life is made up of moments. In the visual realm, they are scenes: Three friends, arms around each other, sharing their joy at an awards ceremony. Grandchildren, then so small, at a park nearby their grandfather's house. Children, all grown up and smiling with their Dad. A girlfriend working in the garden, her hair long and black. A documentary crew situating a man in the center of the newsroom. Lights, action. A visit from the makeup artist, fussing over you. A beach somewhere in the South Pacific at sunset. A sailboat taking off into the night. A bartender hoping to be a journalist someday, mixing your drink. A homeless friend, showing you proudly a photo of his daughters. A neighbor, the local drug dealer, taking his last breath after being shot in front of your house. A policeman, desperate for clues, at your front door at 2 a.m..A hospital bed and a night nurse leaning against the wall, telling you her sad story of wasted love. Just wishing you could give her a hug.
As you age, these kinds of moments come back as a flood of memories, almost washing away the present. But no, this is a moment too. As long as you draw a breath, all of these moments, and many, many more, will continue to play over your mind.
George Harrison's haunting song, "All Things Must Pass" is a reminder that this is but a temporary stay. Since it is temporary, the moments matter even more.
I'm often awake in the night, lying in my bed, thinking, silently writing the next chapter of my book.
These days, I imagine many of us are awake at night. Our physical interactions, most of them, are so awkward now.
***
For months I have been living a trifurcated life, split between San Francisco, Millbrae and El Cerrito. Until recently, this was only vaguely related to the virus. Some of my things were here, some there, and still others *there*. Many were waiting for new owners on a sidewalk in San Francisco. Virtually all of my books are now gone -- thousands of them left at a book recycling center in El Cerrito.
My journals, critical resources for my memoir, are locked down in the facility in Millbrae. If I go back there, I will be told to not leave my room for fourteen days.
This disease has turned us all into prisoners of fear.
Personally, I prefer hope. Even these moments can be special. Waving has become the new handshake. Strangers are the new friends. Masks do not need to hide our smiles. We can pull down our mask, for a moment.
***
Many years ago, I was stuck on a plane in Milan. We were supposed to take off in the direction of Switzerland, which of course is very nearby. But a snowstorm had iced down our wings. It was freezing cold outside and not all that much warmer inside the plane.
The pilot politely explained our dilemma, that our wings were too weighed down with ice to safely take off, and soon a small army of men appeared on the airplane's wings, washing off the ice with hoses. They waved to us, trapped behind the windows.
But the water they sprayed soon turned into ice as well. I had the distinct impression that the workmen were not particularly familiar with de-icing a plane, though they did seem skilled at noticing the faces of pretty women framed by the oval windows near the wings.
Finally, the pilot announced the effort had failed and we deplaned for buses that carried us back to airport hotels. Most of us were Americans; it was an American airline and we were heading for America.
The next morning the weather abated a bit and we were taken back out to the plane, still anchored in place on the tarmac. I somehow was awarded a middle seat between two young women, Americans also from Northern California.
We all cheered as the plane lumbered aloft, rising ever so gingerly over the Alps. Given our ordeal the drinks were free, never a wise policy if you have journalists around.
Be that as it may, our companions and I chatted amicably all the way back across the world to San Francisco, with several stops along the way. At some point, they both fell asleep with their heads on my shoulders, one to the right and one to the left. I stayed very still so as not to awaken them.
Eventually they awoke, and told me about their lives. In return, they learned about me. When we landed, we exchanged farewells and returned to our regular lives.
That moment came back to me this morning as I was writing this piece. How and why it so swiftly came and went is a mystery to me.
Since all things must pass, this pandemic will too.
-30-
As you age, these kinds of moments come back as a flood of memories, almost washing away the present. But no, this is a moment too. As long as you draw a breath, all of these moments, and many, many more, will continue to play over your mind.
George Harrison's haunting song, "All Things Must Pass" is a reminder that this is but a temporary stay. Since it is temporary, the moments matter even more.
I'm often awake in the night, lying in my bed, thinking, silently writing the next chapter of my book.
These days, I imagine many of us are awake at night. Our physical interactions, most of them, are so awkward now.
***
For months I have been living a trifurcated life, split between San Francisco, Millbrae and El Cerrito. Until recently, this was only vaguely related to the virus. Some of my things were here, some there, and still others *there*. Many were waiting for new owners on a sidewalk in San Francisco. Virtually all of my books are now gone -- thousands of them left at a book recycling center in El Cerrito.
My journals, critical resources for my memoir, are locked down in the facility in Millbrae. If I go back there, I will be told to not leave my room for fourteen days.
This disease has turned us all into prisoners of fear.
Personally, I prefer hope. Even these moments can be special. Waving has become the new handshake. Strangers are the new friends. Masks do not need to hide our smiles. We can pull down our mask, for a moment.
***
Many years ago, I was stuck on a plane in Milan. We were supposed to take off in the direction of Switzerland, which of course is very nearby. But a snowstorm had iced down our wings. It was freezing cold outside and not all that much warmer inside the plane.
The pilot politely explained our dilemma, that our wings were too weighed down with ice to safely take off, and soon a small army of men appeared on the airplane's wings, washing off the ice with hoses. They waved to us, trapped behind the windows.
But the water they sprayed soon turned into ice as well. I had the distinct impression that the workmen were not particularly familiar with de-icing a plane, though they did seem skilled at noticing the faces of pretty women framed by the oval windows near the wings.
Finally, the pilot announced the effort had failed and we deplaned for buses that carried us back to airport hotels. Most of us were Americans; it was an American airline and we were heading for America.
The next morning the weather abated a bit and we were taken back out to the plane, still anchored in place on the tarmac. I somehow was awarded a middle seat between two young women, Americans also from Northern California.
We all cheered as the plane lumbered aloft, rising ever so gingerly over the Alps. Given our ordeal the drinks were free, never a wise policy if you have journalists around.
Be that as it may, our companions and I chatted amicably all the way back across the world to San Francisco, with several stops along the way. At some point, they both fell asleep with their heads on my shoulders, one to the right and one to the left. I stayed very still so as not to awaken them.
Eventually they awoke, and told me about their lives. In return, they learned about me. When we landed, we exchanged farewells and returned to our regular lives.
That moment came back to me this morning as I was writing this piece. How and why it so swiftly came and went is a mystery to me.
Since all things must pass, this pandemic will too.
-30-
Friday, April 10, 2020
Art & the Artist
Our hope is that by creating pieces like this one, she receives some comfort in this age of shelter-in-place and isolation.
-30-
What We Need Now
No matter your age or situation, this pandemic will change many things for you in fundamental ways. None of us will be getting out of this one unscathed.
It is not my intention for this to be interpreted as a dire warning. Rather, it is a statement of fact. Besides, not all of the changes will be bad. Some will be wonderful.
During the very early years of the web, which was invented in 1989 by Tim Berners-Lee (he also created the first browser in 1990), I was still actively involved in the traditional forms of media work -- newspapers (as an editorial writer), magazines (as a managing editor), books (as an author), radio (as a news director) and TV (as the supervisor of a weekly news show).
So you might conclude that I would have been heavily invested in the old, and suspicious of the new. Actually, the opposite was true. I was intrigued by the explosive potential of a new Information Age, where our journalistic skills would be sorely needed.
By the mid-90s (1995 to be precise), I'd made the transition to the web, getting involved in launching some of the earliest journalism web sites and managing the young people who rushed to staff them. It would be a stretch to say that most of them had journalistic experience. They didn't. Instead they were coders, designers, producers, project managers, marketers and visionaries.
One of the amazing people I got to know during this period was Louis Rossetto, the co-founder of Wired. One of his mottos was "Change is good!" That is a philosophy worth embracing now.
***
Last night my grandchildren dyed Easter eggs. If I have got this right, today is Good Friday and Sunday is Easter. It is also Passover. I'm always reminded at this time of year and at Christmas of what I believe and what I don't believe. Let's put it this way: I believe in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. I believe in magic.
This pandemic is an opportunity for people of faith to embrace those who hold different or no religious beliefs. It is not a time to proselytize; it is a time to accept. That can be part of the great coming together that is needed in a state of moral crisis. But if we are careless, there will be many losers coming out of this dark period and few winners.
Already, the pattern is clear. the $2+ trillion in pandemic relief mandated by Congress is rhetorically meant to help the little guy -- renters who can't pay their rent, small businesses that cannot afford payroll, the unemployed who feel hopeless and abandoned.
But most of that relief money will flow through the large banks and they are imposing their own rules on who gets what. Wells Fargo closed the application process for "payroll relief" loans after one day. Beware of history here. How did Bank of America become huge and rich? It scooped up the property lost by millions of people during the Great Depression.
Currently, unemployment in the U.S. is more than half the rate it was during the Depression. It will soon be climbing higher.
Will those who need relief get it or will the big banks once again simply get richer and more powerful? Who will be watching?
Investigative reporters, that's who. Now more than ever, we need our journalists to be the aggressive watchdogs on power they are entitled to be under the First Amendment to the Constitution. Bob Dylan got all of this right a long time ago: "The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind."
-30-
It is not my intention for this to be interpreted as a dire warning. Rather, it is a statement of fact. Besides, not all of the changes will be bad. Some will be wonderful.
During the very early years of the web, which was invented in 1989 by Tim Berners-Lee (he also created the first browser in 1990), I was still actively involved in the traditional forms of media work -- newspapers (as an editorial writer), magazines (as a managing editor), books (as an author), radio (as a news director) and TV (as the supervisor of a weekly news show).
So you might conclude that I would have been heavily invested in the old, and suspicious of the new. Actually, the opposite was true. I was intrigued by the explosive potential of a new Information Age, where our journalistic skills would be sorely needed.
By the mid-90s (1995 to be precise), I'd made the transition to the web, getting involved in launching some of the earliest journalism web sites and managing the young people who rushed to staff them. It would be a stretch to say that most of them had journalistic experience. They didn't. Instead they were coders, designers, producers, project managers, marketers and visionaries.
One of the amazing people I got to know during this period was Louis Rossetto, the co-founder of Wired. One of his mottos was "Change is good!" That is a philosophy worth embracing now.
***
Last night my grandchildren dyed Easter eggs. If I have got this right, today is Good Friday and Sunday is Easter. It is also Passover. I'm always reminded at this time of year and at Christmas of what I believe and what I don't believe. Let's put it this way: I believe in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. I believe in magic.
This pandemic is an opportunity for people of faith to embrace those who hold different or no religious beliefs. It is not a time to proselytize; it is a time to accept. That can be part of the great coming together that is needed in a state of moral crisis. But if we are careless, there will be many losers coming out of this dark period and few winners.
Already, the pattern is clear. the $2+ trillion in pandemic relief mandated by Congress is rhetorically meant to help the little guy -- renters who can't pay their rent, small businesses that cannot afford payroll, the unemployed who feel hopeless and abandoned.
But most of that relief money will flow through the large banks and they are imposing their own rules on who gets what. Wells Fargo closed the application process for "payroll relief" loans after one day. Beware of history here. How did Bank of America become huge and rich? It scooped up the property lost by millions of people during the Great Depression.
Currently, unemployment in the U.S. is more than half the rate it was during the Depression. It will soon be climbing higher.
Will those who need relief get it or will the big banks once again simply get richer and more powerful? Who will be watching?
Investigative reporters, that's who. Now more than ever, we need our journalists to be the aggressive watchdogs on power they are entitled to be under the First Amendment to the Constitution. Bob Dylan got all of this right a long time ago: "The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind."
-30-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)