Auschwitz Child

Many people are telling us we are just over-reacting and it's not going to be that bad. Cooler heads will prevail and he didn't really mean all the hateful things he said. Maybe, but that's what the Germans thought when Hitler came to power.

America stood by and refused to believe what was happening until they were personally attacked. By then, more than 6 million people had died, including me.

Although I was raised Catholic in this lifetime, I remember my sister and I crying brokenheartedly when we read stories about Auschwitz. It was only much later I realized why the Holocaust was so personal for us. We were there. 

This is a poem I wrote when I first remembered my lifetime as a young half-Jewish, Lemko girl, living near the Carpathian mountains in southeast Poland. I was only nine years old when Hitler invaded my country. They killed my father with the men in my village.  My mother, aunt, and I were taken with the other women to Auschwitz. I was separated from them, dying all alone from typhus in a flea-bitten bunk.

I did not understood then what I had done to deserve such hatred and abuse, just as I am sure many of the disenfranchised people in America do not understand why this is happening to them now. So, don't tell me to calm down and it won't be so bad. Too many people stood by and allowed the Holocaust to happen. Never again!

Auschwitz Child
By Laura Guilfoyle

Nine-year-old girl
Hums Slavic lullaby
In narrow wooden bunk,
Hiding a teddy bear
In elbow crook,
Whispering
If they find him,
They’ll take him away.

Huge black eyes
Dominate her gaunt face,
Mocking stubbled head,
Caress of mother’s hand
On jet-black curls
Almost forgotten.
Remember.

They led Father away
With the village men.
Never made it back.
They tore Mother away
Stepping from the railway car.
Arbeit macht frei.

She longs for freedom now,
Fever gripping her body,
Confusion, her mind,
Soul slowly slipping
From its mooring.
Time to go.
 
Yet she lingers,
Comforting other children
In the dark.
Lead them to the light.

I will not leave this
Man-made Hell
Until silent shrieks
Rend indifferent skies!

We are Not Whining; We are Grieving

Those who have won are calling us whiners. They want us to accept the inevitable travesty of this election and move on.  Too Soon. 

There is too much at stake to give up fighting for justice, equality, and morality in this country now.  We are still grieving the loss of our dream of America as a shining example of democracy to the world, which has now become a sick joke.  We have elected the ultimate Ugly American, who incites hatred and violence.

I have spoken to so many women, gay people, and minorities recently who feel violated and threatened by the the hateful messages he has espoused.  I have had to reassure Hispanic fourth graders they won't be deported.  It has given permission to people to violently act out on their deepest, darkest impulses, thinking it's okay because he validates them.

It is not okay. We are not just protesting an election. We are protesting the loss of democracy to thugs. I have not forgotten the Holocaust, which began with similar messages of exclusion and destruction, using the same excuse of economic insecurity.  I am truly afraid of history repeating itself, because we ignored the lessons of 1939.  We are living through The Purge again and it is soul destroying. 

This is an assault worse then 9/11, because we have done it to ourselves. Those who believed in America as a hopeful place, where your dreams could come true, are now stuck in a never ending nightmare loop.  We need time to grieve our losses, but we cannot give up.  I will never stop fighting against bigotry and hatred. We must protect each other.  You will know me by the safety pin I wear as a symbol of safe haven in an uncertain world. 

 

Finding Acceptance

I only went to my 40th high school reunion because I didn't want to waste $40. 

It's not that I didn't enjoy myself at my all girls Catholic high school on the south side of Chicago.  I loved every minute of it.  I should, considering how hard I had to fight to go there.  Not because I couldn't cut it academically, but because I lived in a racially mixed neighborhood.  At least that's what the nuns told my mother.  Even though I easily passed the entrance exam, they warned her I might be excluded because of my address. 

Borrowing an address from a friend of hers, I went to the school of my dreams.  For the first year I had to lie about where I lived so I had no social life.  By my sophomore year, we moved to a more acceptable address so I could join extracurricular activities like Chorus and the school newspaper.  I even made a few friends.  By my junior year, I was inducted into the National Honor Society and was planning for college.  My senior year was all about rebellion and my first boyfriend, who wasn't the kind you take to the prom.  Then it was time for my fairy tale graduation ceremony, with 500 girls wearing white gowns and gloves, each carrying a single red rose.

I soon lost touch with my few friends from high school, so I was worried I wouldn't know anyone at the reunion.  And I didn't.  We all looked so different from the youthful pictures on our name badges.  So I hung around the makeshift bar, striking up conversations with anyone who looked friendly. People seemed to recognize my name, although maybe they were just being polite.

Sitting all alone at a table next to the veggie tray, I wondered how long I was obliged to stay in order to justify my investment.  None of my old friends were there.  Then someone sat down next to me who I recognized as one of the top students in our class. We talked about our lives since we left high school.  Another woman sat down and we had a deep existential conversation about the purpose of our lives and the detours we've taken to get here.  As I left, I realized I had finally found the acceptance and sense of connection I had longed for so long ago in high school.  It was not about the girls we were, but the amazing women we had become.       

Trump is the Great Gatsby

Like the Great Gatsby in the classic novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Trump flaunts his ostentatious wealth from suspicious sources.  He's always trying to impress the top two percent, who will never give him the respect he craves.  Form over substance.  This describes Trump.

The only thing which Trump is great at is lending his name, but like everything else about him, not even this is real.  His real name is Drumpf and he's German, not Swedish.  He'll never release his tax statements, because he doesn't want anyone knowing the unsavory characters who have laundered money in his hotels.  The ultimate achievement for him would be becoming President, but he's done nothing to prepare for this role, other than boast and try to intimidate his more worthy competitors.

Even his slogan is a lie.  He doesn't want to make America great again.  He wants to make it white again.  He appeals to people who are disappointed they never achieved the American dream and want to blame someone else for it.

It's like junior high all over again.  The bullies dominate the schoolyard and their chief targets are those more intelligent than themselves.  So of course he has to denigrate the woman who earned a law degree from a prestigious Ivy League university and whose inspirational commencement address from college was featured in Life Magazine.  He could never understand why anyone would dedicate her life to helping others rather than chasing money.

The sad thing is Hilary Rodham Clinton would never even have had a chance of being elected President if there was a decent Republican male candidate.  Sexism is alive and well in America.

While I expect contempt from disgruntled men, what is most disheartening is how many women have bought into this oppressive female bashing.  Until women learn to support each other, despite our cultural, racial, and class differences, we will always be subject to the outrageous whims of bullies like Drumpf.