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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even as I type this, I’m sure my mom, and the parents of people in their 40s and 50s, are going to laugh.

You see, my daughter turned 21 recently. For me, her age comes as a bit of a shock, a take-stock moment and a time warp enigma.

I get it. She’s lived 21 years, but, somehow, her reaching that age seems to have happened suddenly.

I know it’s not all about me, but it is in this column, so, hang with me for a few more minutes.

I don’t remember many of my birthdays when I was younger. At her third birthday, I’m pretty sure I didn’t stop and say to myself, “When I turned three, I was wishing with all my might for a Big Wheel.”

That probably was what I wanted, but I don’t remember thinking that. In fact, I don’t recall other landmark birthdays all that vividly, even though my parents invited my friends over, sang to me, and insisted that I make a “really good wish” before I blew out the candles.

What I remember from that age was my ambivalence. I was uncomfortable with all the attention, but I enjoyed the excitement of opening new presents. One year, all I wanted was basketballs, so I got three of them from my obliging social group.

So, back to our daughter. She earned this milestone birthday, leaving behind a trail of bread crumb memories.

On the day of our daughter’s birth, my wife insisted that I stay with her in the hospital no matter what was happening with my wife, so that we brought home the baby that had been “cooking” as we called it, for all those months.

It wasn’t hard to find our daughter, who has a distinctive birthmark and was exactly twice the weight of the baby next to her in the pediatric unit.

She went through numerous stages on the journey from that first miraculous day to now. When we moved out to a suburb from Manhattan, she took a walk through a nearby wooded path. An inchworm dangled from a tree and landed on her small, thin outstretched finger.

She carried it, slowly and carefully back to our house, offering to show this miracle to our new neighbors. Having lived their entire short lives in the suburbs, they didn’t relate to this city girl’s fascination with small samples of nature and returned to their driveway activities.

She took us with her on a journey that included brief visits to ballet studios (that ended abruptly) and to gymnastics floors (that also didn’t take). We spent considerably more time on hot softball fields and in confined volleyball gymnasiums, where ear-piercing whistles blended with teams celebrating the end of each point.

We also attended numerous concerts, including jazz bands, where she overcame stage fright to play a tenor saxophone solo.

We went through phases where nothing I said was right, funny or even worth sharing. The silent treatment, the lack of communication and the dubiousness with which she interacted with us helped prepare us for the moment when her younger brother exercised his own need to push us away and assert his independence.

So, here she is, at 21, driving a car, preparing for her senior year of college, making friends, gainfully employed during the summer, and filled with so much of the same wonder that defined her earlier years. In fact, these days, instead of carrying inchworms on her now manicured hands, she maintains several ecospheres filled with snails on a small table in her room.

When children act out, parents sometimes caution them that they may one day have a child just like them. In her case, I certainly hope so. I couldn’t wish anything better for our now 21-year-old.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I tested positive last night for COVID,” was the text message from one of our staff in Wednesday’s morning mail. “My sister tested positive, and I was not feeling good so I tested. I am figuring I will work from home the rest of the week and should be OK to return Monday … I just have a headache and a really bad sore throat. No cough. [Not to worry] I wore my mask [this past] Monday and Tuesday at work because I was not feeling good.” 

These are the two ways the landscape for businesses has changed. 

First, at any moment, COVID can alter the day’s lineup. The wildly contagious coronavirus can attack anyone, even those who have been vaccinated, those who have also been boosted and those who have already suffered with a previous bout of the disease. No one is safe, unless they have stayed in a cave alone for over two years, and hence no establishment or sports team or orchestra is immune from shake up on a daily basis.

The second change is made possible by the ability to work remotely. Not every worker can do so. Conductors cannot drive trains remotely, sanitation workers cannot clean remotely and surgeons cannot remove an appendix remotely. At least not yet. But many jobs do lend themselves to being discharged from afar. And this has led to some unintended consequences.

Workers have discovered that they sometimes enjoy doing their jobs from home. Yes, they might miss the socializing that is a part of the office scene. And they might feel like they can come up with new ideas better in an in-person gathering. But they really like working on their own timetable, with time out for a walk or to throw in a wash. Of course, the typical work schedule is altered. They can sit at the computer well into the night, with no separation between work time and free time. And they can be with their families more, for better and worse. 

So some in my office, who can perform their jobs from home, are asking to do that. In fact, they are requesting and getting software that enables access to their desk computers at work. They can then tap into the key items they need to complete their tasks. That also suggests they are still there. Which reminds me of the early days, when I worked at a large corporation, and we might leave a few minutes early but hung our sweaters on the back of the desk chairs to give the impression we were returning. 

One staffer even asked if she could borrow a desk chair from the office. She says it makes her feel totally comfortable when working in her house. It used to be that workers tried to transform their office space into reminders of home, with photos, pillows, plants and the like. Now we have the opposite. Employees are transforming their home workspace into their offices.

As you can tell from the text I quoted, we have no expectation of sick days. We assume that if we are conscious, we can still produce whatever we are responsible for producing. Where before we might have had food trays brought to us in bed, now we have our laptops perched across our midriffs if we remain horizontal.

What will happen next?

For some, working remotely is a dream come true. My oldest grandson has a terrific job that can only be done remotely, and he feels immense freedom to live anywhere he chooses. That’s not so different from when I had just graduated from college and decided where I wanted to live, knowing that wherever I moved, I would be able to find a job because there were more jobs than people to fill them in the 1960s. For others, a hybrid work week seems ideal: the best of the office for two or three days, and no commuting the rest of the week. Only those with no choice may be peeved.

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A growing divide has emerged between the people of the North Shore and the Long Island Rail Road, and it is time for the local community to bridge this gap.

In board rooms and public meetings throughout this area, local officials today express similar frustrations about their various dealings with this public railroad company.

On Monday night, Port Jefferson Village trustee Bruce Miller described the complications that arose during a recent meeting with LIRR reps as neither party could agree on a common path forward. A day later, Brookhaven and state officials traveled to Stony Brook train station, echoing the decades-old call for the electrification of the Port Jefferson Branch line.

Local elected officials are most familiar and best equipped to handle the plights of their constituents. Yet in communities throughout this area, our leaders are meeting resistance with LIRR, whose leadership changes too often. While LIRR rightly devotes much of its energies to the more heavily traveled Ronkonkoma Branch, the residents of the North Shore pay taxes and have an interest in this company, too. 

LIRR officials should be aware of the frequency of riders who travel inland to the main line in the center of the Island. This suggests residents here are rejecting the railways in their own backyard for a longer drive to the train station — albeit a faster and more direct  commute into Manhattan. The unintended consequences of this are greater congestion on our roadways and more pollution generated by cars. This burdensome commute impairs our quality of life, costing us more energy and placing unnecessary strain on our physical and mental health.

For decades, the people of this area have asked LIRR to electrify the Port Jefferson Branch. Today, as the cost of diesel fuel surges exponentially due to inflation, this transition is more necessary than ever before. Despite the preponderance of evidence that electrification will reduce air and noise pollution, that it will cut costs for the railroad and the taxpayer, and that it will deliver a better ride for the people of this community, electrification has been nothing more than a pipedream.

There is no better time than right now to electrify the line. With a flood of infrastructure stimulus cash from the federal government, the opportunity is ripe for the taking. We must thank our representatives who are fighting to secure a better ride and remind them to keep applying the pressure. 

At some point, LIRR must soon give in and when it does, it will be for the better.

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Wedding. Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We’re finally here.

These poor couples have had to wait for days, months and years to tie the knot in front of family and friends. It’s such a relief that we can all gather again, celebrating the love that binds two people forever and that may, if it hasn’t already, lead to children.

It seems that the list of dos and don’ts for weddings has changed, just as so many other parts of modern reality have altered the way we go about our lives.

Here are a few of the dos and don’ts, starting with the don’ts.

— Cough. Ever. If you have to cough, swallow it or make it sound like a strange laugh. No one wants to hear a cough, least of all at a wedding. Go outside to cough. Cough in the car. Cough into your hand like you’re saying something private and being discrete. Go to the edge of the parking lot and cough.

— Chew with your mouth open. No one wants to see the food you’re eating, especially not in the third year of COVID-19.

—  Point to the food and say how much better you could make it. Look, we know that you’ve lost a step on your social graces from being home so often. We know that you’ve spent a great deal of time cooking meals to your satisfaction. We know that you are a great admirer of your own food, your own voice, and your own way of doing things. Appreciate that someone else has made the food and will clean it up and that they do things differently than you do. You can have food you know you love as soon as you walk back into your fortress of solitude.

— Talk about politics. You’re not going to convince anyone who doesn’t agree with you already of your views. So, why bring it up? This isn’t the time to try to make a reasoned argument with relatives who only share genes and nothing else. Smile if they bring something up you find disagreeable.

— Complain about the weather. The bride, groom and the extended family have no control over the weather. If it’s too hot, get a drink. If it’s too cold, shift back and forth from one foot to the other or bring a sweater. The weather is either perfect, dramatic, lovely or dynamic.

— Talk about your own wedding. If people were there, they remember. If not, they don’t need you to compare what’s going on to what you did. Your wedding may have been lovely, but you’re not there right now.

— Point to someone else’s mask and ask them why they’re wearing it. Do whatever is comfortable for you. Don’t tell anyone else what to do because, well, that doesn’t work and it gets people angry. They do their thing, you do yours.

— Binge watch shows while you’re waiting for the ceremony to start. Yes, the invitation said the party would start at 7 p.m. and it’s now 7:18 p.m. So what? You’re there to celebrate other people and to witness this lovely moment. Netflix and other shows can wait. Live your life.

— Show pictures of your pet. Many of us added dogs, cats and fish, particularly during the pandemic.

Okay, so, here is a short list of dos:

— Give other people a chance to talk. Silence, periodically, is okay. You don’t need to fill every quiet moment, if there are any, with your opinions, thoughts and experiences.

— Ask someone to dance who seems eager for a partner. Grab your mother-in-law, your brother-in-law, or your something-in-law by the hand, lead him or her to the floor, smile, and appreciate the chance to dance.

— Remember that you won’t have to see many of these people until the next blessed event, whenever that is.

— Thank the bride, groom and their families for a lovely event. Even if you hated it, you’ve got some good stories to share and you gave your wonderful pets a short break from you.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Medical scientists released fantastic news Sunday that made me think of my father and weep. In a small trial of 18 patients with rectal cancer, who took a particular drug, the cancer totally vanished. My dad died of rectal cancer in 1975.

Dr. Luis A. Diaz Jr of Memorial Sloan Cancer Center was an author of the paper published in The New England Journal of Medicine explaining the results, according to The New York Times. He said he knew of no other study in which a treatment completely obliterated a cancer in every patient.

“I believe this is the first time this has happened in the history of cancer,” the NYT quotes Diaz as saying. The trial was sponsored by the drug company GlaxoSmithKline. My dad and all these other patients faced chemotherapy, radiation and surgery with possible colostomy bags as treatment for their cancer. Unlike my dad, with the benefit of the new drug, dostarlimab, 47 years later, they all seem to be cured, although only time will tell. So far, it has been three years. And none of the patients had “clinically significant complications.” The medicine was taken every three weeks for six months and cost $11,000 per dose.

“It unmasks cancer cells, allowing the immune system to identify and destroy them,” according to the NYT.

I guess we are thinking of our dads this month in particular since Father’s Day is coming quickly, and we need a gift for the occasion. This incredible breakthrough seems like the ultimate present for any fathers suffering from this disease, and of course for anyone else, too. But it has come too late for my adored dad.

My father, born in 1904, came to the City from the family’s Catskill dairy farm when he was 13. One of 9 children, “the middle child,” he would like to distinguish himself by saying he was sent off by his father to build his life since he was now considered an adult. He liked to tell us stories about his total ignorance of urban life.

A favorite concerned the boarding house in which he first rented a room. It was in a brownstone a block away from where his next older brother lived in Brooklyn. He had only shortly before arrived, had dutifully sat down to write a letter home explaining his new circumstances and had gone out as instructed by his landlady to mail the letter in the mailbox on the corner. Deed done, he turned around to return, only to discover that each building looked the same. He had no idea which held his room. Ultimately someone came out to find him.

He quickly found a job delivering packages to various parts of the city. But that proved a puzzle. He had a map and was able to figure out his destination for each delivery. He rode the buses so as not to lose his sense of navigation. But he could not understand why one time the bus would go where he wanted but other times would turn off and head in a different direction. So to be sure of winding up where he needed to go, he ran. He ran all over the city until he was fired. He was deemed to be too slow.

Another early instance of having arrived in an alien world happened when he followed his brother into a tiny room in a tall building. Surprised when the doors slid closed behind, he could feel the floor drop beneath his feet. Bending into a crouch, he prepared to cushion the shock of the landing when he realized the others in the space were staring at him. He was in his first encounter with an elevator.

Of course, he was the constant victim of teasing in the next office in which he worked. He still remembered when the office manager gave him a folder to bring to the stationery store down the block. Wise now, he retorted, “I’m surprised you would try to trick me, Miss Murphy. I know every store is stationary.”

My dad went on to become a successful businessman in Manhattan. But that’s a story for a different day.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Once upon a time, a girl named Fiona read the book “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

She thought it was funny and charming that a child could see what no one else admitted. But then, something strange happened: she thought she could also see things that no one else could.

“That’s sweet, Fiona, but focus on your school work and let your imagination run wild at other times,” her father told her that night.

Fiona did as she was told because she wanted to please her parents and her teachers. It was her teachers that caused problems for her.

It started with Mrs. Butler in her third grade class. A tall, thin woman with white hair and glasses, Mrs. Butler always wore high-heeled shoes. She looked directly in the eyes of every student. One day, her friend Simona fell and hit her head. When Mrs. Butler bent down and checked on her friend, Fiona saw the kind of coat doctors and nurses wear appear around her shoulders. Fiona rubbed her eyes, but the coat was still there. Mrs. Butler calmly told the class to go to their seats, sent Bill to get the nurse and kneeled on the floor near Simona.

When the nurse left with Simona, Mrs. Butler’s white coat disappeared.

The next day, Jeff couldn’t understand a math problem. He wrote numbers all over the paper, but he didn’t have the answer.

Fiona noticed a change again in Mrs. Butler’s clothing. Instead of her powder blue blouse, she had an orange vest and white gloves. With numbers on the smartboard, she directed Jeff away from all the dead ends.

When he got closer to the answer, Jeff smiled. Fiona looked back at Mrs. Butler, whose orange vest and white gloves disappeared.

Later, Doug and Andrew got into an argument near the stack of books at the back of the room. When Doug swung his arm to make a point, he knocked over several books.

Fiona saw Mrs. Butler’s clothing change again, this time into the kind of black and white stripes that referees wear in football games. She could even see a whistle dangling from her teacher’s neck.

The next morning, Jill and Amanda couldn’t agree on how to do a class project. Jill marched to the front of the classroom to complain. Amanda followed closely.

While Fiona couldn’t hear everything, she saw a black robe form around Mrs. Butler.

When the conversation ended, Mrs. Butler said something that made both girls happy. They shook hands and walked back to their desks, where they returned to work on their project.

One day, Fiona arrived early to class. She and her teacher were alone and she felt like she had to say something.

“Mrs. Butler?” Fiona asked.

“Yes?” Her teacher replied.

“I see all the clothing you wear,” Fiona said. “I don’t think anyone else sees it.”

Mrs. Butler narrowed her eyes and looked carefully at her student.

“What do you see?” Mrs. Butler asked.

She described the medical jacket, the orange vest, the referee’s coat and the judge’s robe.

“What do you think of all that?” Mrs. Butler asked.

“Is it real?” Fiona asked.

“Thank you for seeing,” Mrs. Butler grinned. Other students walked into the room and class started.

Just then, Fiona heard an alarm. Mrs. Butler reacted immediately. She held up a shield and directed everyone to the back of the room.

While they waited, Mrs. Butler told everyone to remain quiet. The class waited for the all clear.

“It was a drill,” Mrs. Butler said. “You can return to your desks.”

Fiona was the last to leave the classroom that day.

“Fiona?” Mrs. Butler asked. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks for … everything.”

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'Undelivered'

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“What if,” is always an intriguing question. This is true for our personal lives, as well as for history. And one way to consider many historic “what ifs” is through a newly published book by Jeffrey Nussbaum, one of President Biden’s speechwriters, called, “Undelivered.” This is a compilation of speeches, never given, by historical figures, whose words Nussbaum tracked down over 20 years.

These speeches include, among others, the draft of apology that was prepared for General Dwight Eisenhower, had D-Day ended in failure, and Hillary Clinton’s victory speech. 

Civil rights leader John Lewis’ original speech for the March on Washington, August 28, 1963, in which Martin Luther King Jr. spoke his iconic “I’ve got a dream” words, is also revealing of the tension among the civil rights leadership. PBS, the television news hour, interviewed Nussbaum this past Monday, and he said that Lewis had originally intended to declare, “We will march through the South, through the heart of Dixie, the way Sherman did. We shall pursue our own scorched-earth policy and burn Jim Crow to the ground — non-violently” but was dissuaded from those words. The sponsors of the March, who feared looking too extreme and harming the chances of passing the civil rights bill, begged him to withdraw that particular rhetoric Lewis, with his back to the wall, most reluctantly changed his words that night, writing and rewriting his draft at the base of the Lincoln Memorial until it was acceptable, but the earlier text is in the book.

One of the most fascinating speeches never given was the one awaiting the arrival of President John F. Kennedy on the lectern in Dallas on November 22, 1963.  In that text was Kennedy’s warning of the existence of “a rise in the far-right wing camp of voices preaching doctrines wholly unrelated to reality.” He would have said that “we are the watchmen on the wall of world freedom looking outside and INSIDE. [Capital letters are mine.]”

The subtitle of Nussbaum’s book reads, “The never-heard speeches that would have rewritten history,” suggests that had Kennedy’s words been heard, history might indeed have been altered. As it is, people who read it after the assassination just regarded that speech as generally one of foreign policy.

These speeches demonstrate how outcomes rest on the razor’s edge of history.  Fascinating are “those warnings made in their moment of time,” according to Nussbaum, “that resonate even more clearly today.”

Another historic instance mentioned by Nussbaum was of the three speeches written for Al Gore in the 2000 election. Gore was to give none of them that night. One was a victory speech, the second was a concession, and the third was in the event Gore won the Electoral College but lost the popular vote — prescient of the 2016 election. Nussbaum was one of those speechwriters, and that experience inspired him to write the book about other undelivered speeches. 

Not all the speeches included in the book are about politicians and policy. There is the one by Barry Jenkins, the director behind the 2017 award-winning movie, “Moonlight.” Some of you may remember the flub that night, in which the wrong picture was initially announced as the winner and the wrong cast mounted the stage at the Academy Awards before the correction was made. In the chaos, Jenkins never got to say what winning that award meant for him.  But here, in Nussbaum’s book, he does get to tell what he would have said.

“They were filming in Liberty City, Miami,” explained Nussbaum, “and as in many poorer neighborhoods, there wasn’t sufficient lighting. They had to bring in lights, which attracted children to the set. At one point during the filming, [Jenkins] looks over to Video Village, where all the monitors and editing equipment were, and he sees a young man wearing his [Jenkins’] headset who’s just planted himself in [Jenkins’] chair.” 

“And in that moment, I saw in this child the possibility which I hadn’t believed I could ever see for myself,” Jenkins, who is Black, would have read. How poignant. And missed. 

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During his State of the County address, Suffolk County Executive Steve Bellone (D) presented an ambitious vision for a state-of-the-art north terminal at Long Island MacArthur Airport that would connect to both a newly erected convention center and to the main line of the Long Island Rail Road. 

“Every great region must have a great regional airport and no one can deny that Long Island is one of the great regions in the nation,” Bellone said.  

While Bellone is correct that Long Island is a great region and that it could benefit from a modernized airport terminal at MacArthur, the staff of TBR News Media would like to remind the county executive that there is still so much work to be done before this dream can ever materialize. 

In its present form, Long Island’s prehistoric mass transit network is vastly unprepared to support Bellone’s grand vision. Look no further than the Long Island Expressway to discover the backward state of transportation affairs on the Island. 

If one is lucky enough to be on the road at an hour when the expressway is not crammed with cars and trucks, there still remains the herculean task of dodging potholes. Out-of-state residents are horrified by the medieval conditions of this roadway — and the carnage inflicted upon their tires and front axles. 

The LIRR offers little alternative. While railways around the nation and globe have modernized and expedited their services, Suffolk County residents ride home at a sluggish pace aboard rickety train cars. Riding the LIRR today is uncomfortable, exhausting and, frankly, not worth the price of the ticket. 

Our airways do require a modern renovation, but so do our railways and roadways. Policymakers and regional planners need to consider these projects in tandem. Airports and train stations are not standalone facilities but part of a broader, integrated transportation ecosystem. It is that ecosystem that needs an overhaul.

It makes little sense for Suffolk County residents to dodge potholes en route to their state-of-the-art regional airport. It is equally nonsensical to bring 20th-century train cars into a modernized transportation hub. 

In Suffolk County, leaders offer us bold visions for change without a roadmap to get us there. Our various public transit systems are remnants of a bygone way of life, artifacts of a time when the county had far fewer residents. 

The challenges of immobility are real, likely a result of failed planning some decades ago. Our residents require relief right now as their freedom of movement and quality of life are both dangerously impeded. 

TBR News Media sees the benefits of a modernized terminal at MacArthur, and believes Bellone’s idea is a good one. But there is a whole lot of work to be done before we can get there.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Empty nest? Seriously? I almost want to laugh maniacally when people ask about our empty nest.

For starters, we have a dog and two cats, which means that our nest, such as it is, has plenty of creatures with ongoing needs. One of our neighbors even asks regularly about our “little one.” It still takes me a second to realize she’s not inquiring about our children, who are anything but little, but our dog, who is also over 80 pounds.

The pandemic and the weather have disrupted so much over the last few years that we half expect to see one or both of our children at the airport or on our doorstep at any given moment.

Sure, we’ve had a few weeks where we’ve been on our own (with our pets), but in between, we’ve entertained visitors thrilled to travel again. We, ourselves, have also traveled back and forth to visit family, which means that the whole us-time has morphed into a collection of pet feedings and short trips.

Like so many other parents of college kids, we welcomed our children back to our home recently. It’s a wonderful chance to see them face to face, when they pick their heads up from their phones, and to connect the dots on snippets of their lives that they’ve shared from a distance.

The dog, who loves both of our children something fierce and whose tail threatens to detach from his hindquarters and float to the ceiling each time they return, is completely exhausted. After a few late nights with the kids and their friends, the dog reaches the sidewalk in front of the house, stands stock still, and stares at me, as if to say, “you want me to walk now? Do you have any idea how late I stayed up?”

Once I coax him, in between clenched teeth, away from the house, he still stops at random places, eager to turn around and lay down.

The dog loves it when I chat with a neighbor, which gives him a chance to plop down on the grass and pant, as if I’ve taken him much further than the 1/8th of a mile from our home.

During a recent such pause, a neighbor shared the joy/frustration of having his two children in his house. His wife wants to institute strict rules about comings, goings, and living-under-their-roof. His son, a junior at a nearby college, is delighted for the home-cooked meals, but not so much for the home-cooked rules.

Both of our children have become nocturnal. They have no need to hear birds chirping in the morning, to plow through a plate of pancakes, or to share in the start of another day.

In the “late” evening (which is getting earlier for me each day), our children often appear as we’re going to sleep. Excited to see them, we sit up and engage in what can be competing conversations. It’s like that old joke about a lawyer who moves into town and has almost no business, until another lawyer comes and they’re both working nonstop.

Something about hearing a sibling talk greases the wheels for the other one, who then remembers important details to share.

The next morning, when we’re at our desks, our children are happily sleeping, resting and recovering and our dog is flat out on the floor.

Then again, the fatigue is more than offset by the joy of hearing about their adventures, marveling at their maturation, and steadying ourselves for the moments when they head back to their busy lives.

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Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Two young boys, 10 and 8, were in a local playground last weekend, bouncing on a pogo stick, when four teenagers approached them. “Hey, could we have a turn?” one teen asked. “Sure,” said the older of the two boys, pushing the new toy forward toward them. Some conversation followed, indicating that the boys were Jewish. The teens then began ominously bad mouthing their religion, and one teen took coins out of his pocket and threw them at the boys. They were startled, then scared, and they began to run away. What had started as a fun afternoon will become a lifelong painful memory for the two youngsters.

How sad.

We know children can be cruel. Anyone who has ever read “Lord of the Flies” will certainly agree. But this is more than bullying. This is bullying with hate. And on what basis is that prejudice founded? The afternoon was beautiful, the young boys were generous in their response, and the setting should have been one of neighborly interaction among young people. Instead, it served as an excuse for bias. Where did those teens get their ideas? The deplorable answer is often “from their parents.”

How do we understand prejudice? What prompts it? What inflames it? Why should someone whose skin is one color think they are somehow better than someone of another color? Yet, children are “carefully taught,” to quote the line from “South Pacific.” Do we fear differences? Do we need to feel superior to others in order to be happy with ourselves? Why aren’t we simply judged by what sort of persons we are rather than how we look or what we believe?

Speaking of beliefs, political partisanship is threatening to rip apart our country. Never in my lifetime have people so defined themselves as being of one party or the other as now. We can’t even talk about our differences now. And never has that definition resulted in broken friendships and even broken families as now.

What’s happened to bipartisanship, to working together for greater good, for sharing our flag? Aren’t we all Americans? Don’t we all appreciate what is unique in our country, even as we try to improve its failures? When did the word, “compromise,” become an epithet? While there will always be disagreements about policies and actions, together we have moved forward and accomplished great goals since 1776. Now we can’t even get our facts straight.

The only issue that seems to pull us together is fear of being attacked by some outside force. Congress acts in unison when voting substantial sums of money for Ukraine. Suddenly, on the world stage, we are united and bringing other countries that believe in the rule of law together to oppose the Russian leader. If we can do that for the rest of the globe, why can’t we do that for ourselves? Maybe it’s because we can all agree on the same set of facts, that we are opposed to a fascist leader and his unprovoked assault, and we are afraid of who he may be coming after next?

So this is what we need to get us to work together: a common enemy. Heaven forbid that such a threat should ever materialize at our shores or in our heartland. For by then, it may be too late to undue the grievous harm being done to our nation from within. We are enduring daily shootings and killings of innocent children. Our evening newscasts reveal a society in chaos instead of under an orderly rule of law.

How much of the violence in our current lives is the result of the shouting and insults being hurled back and forth among our leaders? Rhetoric plays an important role in people’s behavior, and the rhetoric we are constantly surrounded by is hate-filled. Our citizens, especially our young, have huge mental challenges. While the coronavirus is partly to blame for the collapse of order and predictability, it is not the only culprit. 

What else is? The immoral, unconscionable grasp for power that fills our airwaves with hate.

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