Sunday, November 15, 2015

I'm not flying the French flag for a reason

In January of this year, the offices of  Charlie Hebdo, a satirical newspaper in Paris, came under attack by a small group of Islamic terrorists.  Twelve members of the staff dead.  Several others, including police officers, wounded.  The world reacted with rallies of support.  

Other newspapers and magazines published editorials condemning the attack, not only as an act of terror, but also as an attack on freedom of the press, sort of a self-serving "there but for the grace of God, go I" reaction on the media's part.  If a weekly publication with relatively small circulation can suffer the consequences of printing something, what might happen to a publication with a larger audience?

When Islamic terrorists killed those twelve in the offices of Charlie Hebdo, the social media world showed their support with the phrase "Je Suis Charlie."  That's "I am Charlie" to the French impaired among you.  Thousands, in public rallies around the world, carried placards with the phrase.  Candles were lit. Songs were sung.  All in support of a magazine that probably very few people even knew existed.  

The social media reaction to the recent terrorism in Paris is similar with the temporary profile images of the French flag that sprouted up overnight.  It is perhaps, indicative of our own fleeting attention spans that these profile pictures are labeled as temporary.  

A video of someone playing John Lennon's "Imagine" has gone viral.  It's appeared on social media sites and national news broadcasts.  Candles are lit. Songs are sung. It's the same repetitive reaction.

In September, 2013, Islamic terrorists killed 67 and wounded 175 when they attacked the Westgate Mall in Nairobi, Kenya.  On April 2 of this year, the same group (al-Shabaab) killed 147 and wounded scores at Garissa University, also in Kenya.  

While the news media here did indeed cover the Kenyan stories, the attacks did not warrant wall to wall coverage of the 24 hour cable networks.  They saw no need for constant "expert" analysis of the events. They saw no need for countless interviews with politicians and first hand witness accounts.  They saw no need to show the same film clips over and over and over and drag out the coverage for at least a few days if not a week.  That's what the media does when it has something it deems a big news item.  You can always tell the media is winding down a story in the cycle when a channel's reporter is interviewing another channel's reporter.

For the horrific nature of the same type of terror, where was the world-wide show of support?  The temporary profile picture changes, the lighted candle ceremonies, the viral videos?

I suspect that most of you who read this don't even know these Kenyan massacres occurred let alone remember them.  I'm not faulting you.  I forgot them myself until somebody pointed them out to me.  I didn't change my Facebook profile picture with the French flag transparently over my face.   I didn't, obviously, do it with a Kenyan flag either.  

What does it say about me that I forgot about the two incidents in Kenya?  What does it say about the rest of us, as a people and nation, that our outrage was neither  heard nor expressed on the social media sites as it has been over the Paris events?

In "Meditation 17" by John Donne, he explains exactly why "no man is an island."  It is because, " … any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind."  I believe in those words, and as much as the events in Paris sadden me, I am also saddened that I seemingly forgot them in the case of Kenya's sorrow.  


I can't help but wonder why we pay so much attention to current events in Paris and so little heed to equally horrific events in Africa.   Maybe we're afraid to admit that we don't care what happens there?  Are our attention spans so short?   People lost their lives in Paris.  So, too, in Kenya.  With attention and overt support of Paris we are expressing empathy for their loss.  What are we expressing when say nothing about Kenya?

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Happy Pączki Day!

Lent to us Catholics meant giving up something.  At least that’s what the nuns told us.  It was Sister Mary Delores, or Constance, or some other name depending on what grade we were in at the time.

“If Jesus gave up food for forty days,” their logic always began, “you can give up something, too.”

Usually, candy was my choice.  Mom hardly ever had any around the house and certainly never bought any for us.  On the occasions we accompanied her shopping to the Kroger for groceries, or any other store for that matter, they didn’t have shelves of Snickers and other treats at the check out line to tempt us.  Even when we did happen to spot some in the store, she just said, “No.  You don’t need that.”  If, like some kids do today, we attempted some type of temper tantrum to get candy, that temerity would earn us a quick stern look and perhaps a smack up side the head.

Most of my childhood candy was purchased during summer’s day-long baseball games at the park.  At the end of a game, my teammates and I would gather at a small store for a soda and whatever else we could afford for candy.  Since Lent normally occurs during months when the snow and ice still covered the park, I had no need to stop at that corner store. 

So, when the nun called my name and asked, “What are you giving up for Lent?” candy was my easy choice.  It was something I had little chance or opportunity to get, and my answer always satisfied the nuns.  I always wondered, though, what nuns gave up for Lent.

Grandma Bronislawa loved this day, the day before Lent begins.   It’s called Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras, and Fat Tuesday.   Most people think that today is meant to splurge before the Lenten season.  Some people think that means to take it to bacchanalian extremes of wantonness.   Grandma just thought fat was where it’s at.

She saved her fat over the year.  Whatever grease she had accumulated cooking, she drained into an empty coffee can.  Today’s recycling fanatics could learn a lot from the way people used to live and reused everything.  Grandma Bronislawa could carry a week’s garbage to the curb in one bag and keep it at arm’s length with just her two frail fingers.

Come Fat Tuesday, Grandma took that coffee can, which was now full, and in which a year’s worth of bacon and chicken grease had now coagulated, and scraped it all into a big pot on the stove.  If she needed more, she added Crisco.

As that mixture cooked to a boil, she made her dough and rolled it into balls, and when they were ready, dropped them in the pot.    Sometimes she injected them with fillings like apple or prune or apricot.  Sometimes she left some with no filling at all.  I think she did that just for me.  I didn’t need anything but powdered sugar sprinkled on mine.  

In a recent iPhone commercial one guy says he had a funnel cake that was 1400 calories and another guy says, “You know that’s not good.”  The first guy says, “It WAS good.  It was delicious.”  

Not as good as Grandma’s pączki.


I don’t eat that much candy.  Never really did.  I’ll give it up again this Lenten season, but I will always have some pączki.