The Valley Viewpoint

This week, we saw the media pick up on a story that is personal to me and one that I had previously written about. The Pastor of Manhattan’s St. Francis Xavier parish church gave a “racial justice” prayer that acknowledged and denounced so-called “white privilege” as the church’s streamed Mass panned to images of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery. Now, I know this priest. He was at Xavier High School when I was there. A good man and priest. I wrote him back in June voicing my opinion that I condemn the manner of George Floyd’s death and join in calling for greater police accountability and police reform, but I wrote that listening to various statements made by him and others from this Church whereby ‘White Privilege’ statements were vigorously offered, in my opinion, were nothing more than pandering. I told him that they do not amount to counterarguments: they are simply arbitrary offensive classifications, intended to silence and oppress discourse. Any serious historian will recognize these for the silencing orthodoxy tactics they are, common to suppressive regimes, doctrines, and religions throughout time and space. They are intended to crush real diversity and permanently exile the culture of serious discussion that will offer hope in solving very real issues.
I still feel this way.
But the other thing that happened this week was something remarkable and speaks to the special place that Xavier is. I heard from classmates. Classmates who I went to grammar school and high school with. Classmates who I met when I was 14 and, though the passage of time has now moved us into middle age, are still my friends. I also heard from Xavier graduates that are older and younger than me. Graduates who I never met who are my friends simply because we share Xavier. We share Xavier. Many years ago, I wrote of first meeting Antonin Scalia, one of our most famous Alums. When I, sheepishly, approached him and told him that I, too, went to Xavier, he lit up, grabbed my arm, pulling into an empty seat at Lincoln Center and talked…..about Xavier. Yesterday, my day closed hearing form Leo Gorynski, a classmate. Leo first befriended me as I sat next to him in 10th grade history class. I was a transfer student, initially overwhelmed, and Leo said to me “don’t worry, guys whose last names end in ‘ski’ have to stick together”. And for the next 45 years , through Xavier and Fordham, we did. Years can go by without talking to Leo and yesterday proved that we can pick up right where we last left it. Leo and all the other Xavier guys who contacted me, were upset. Upset because we never thought of us as perpetuating ‘White Privilege’ – either during our time at Xavier or now, as Father Boller and others have preached. The most telling part of my hour long conversation with Leo was when we talked about our classmates who are black and we both said to each other that we never thought of them as being black; they were just our friends; they were just ‘Xavier Guys’. Did these guys have hurdles that they had to overcome…you bet. But our school didn’t tolerate our disrespecting each other. The Jesuits taught to take the full measure of each other. I believe in being a ‘man for others’. That means something.
Do we need healing? Do we need to dialogue on what our nation is going through? Yes we do. It’s much harder to do this when, as I wrote to Father Boller, blanket offensive classifications that are really meant to silence and oppress discourse on this topic are offered from the altar. His comments do nothing in advancing hope in solving real issues. They were, pure and simple, political pandering at its worse. But, as Xavier as proved to me over the many years that I have been gone, is that when the phone rings and Leo or Gordon or Tommy or Mark are calling or an email comes in from another SOX from a different year, I’ll always take the call or respond. That can’t be taken away and we can’t be made to believe we are guilty of something that we’re not….even if it’s preached by a Jesuit.
AMDG

What is it about apologies? This editorial in today’s WSJ got me thinking about all the ways there are to say ‘I’m sorry’. It seems that public apologies fall into one of several predictable models:

1) “If I offended anyone, I’m sorry you were offended.” (Never good. It’s like saying “I feel bad that you are such an overly sensitive idiot.”)
2) “I take full responsibilities for my actions.” (This is kind of stating the obvious, since everyone is responsible for their actions, but few ever say it until they’re caught.)
3) “I apologize for letting down my teammates, my fans and, mostly, my family.” (Meaning you apologize to all the people you know are going to forgive you.)

But what if the person doesn’t want to forgive you?
I know there are some hurts that people cannot let go. And we can debate the sincerity of the apologizer forever.
But forget the tangential issues and think about the basic structure of this repentance model: Once a year, address all the folks you know, and say, “If I’ve done anything to hurt you, please forgive me.” Do you realize how far that might go to calming down our hair-trigger society? How preemptive it might be to our quickly bruised egos?
I like the idea. I think the more you do it, the easier saying you’re sorry becomes.

https://www.wsj.com/articles/andrew-cuomos-apology-right-and-wrong-ways-to-say-sorry-11614688994?st=c5lnqhloh38skt0&reflink=mobilewebshare_permalink

Rush Limbaugh
1951-2021

There has been and, I suspect, there will be a lot written and spoken about the passing of Rush Limbaugh. If the measure of greatness is taken by how anyone makes what they do appear effortless, then that’s a good starting point in describing Rush. 15 hours a week, talking about issues as effortlessly as if he was sitting next to you in a car or across the kitchen table. Now, I know a little bit about sitting behind a microphone when I fill in for the great Tom Sipos on WKIP. Let me assure you, that the amount of preparation that is needed in putting together a 3 hour show is, simply, unbelievable.
And Rush did this 15 hours a week for over 30 years! What made Rush so special is that, even though he reached the top, he never thought of himself as special. He did express gratitude. Gratitude for the life he had and grateful to recognize that the most significant visions are not cast by great orators from a stage, TV, movie screen or the radio; he recognized that the greatest vison opportunities happen when people can just talk to each other. He knew that he had the remarkable gift of being able to plant the seeds of what could and should be. That was Rush’s greatness. I will miss him.

We no longer communicate if communicating means defining anything. Nothing has a definition because everyone now invents their own definition for everything.
The goal of communists and socialists is to destroy our ideals from the inside out. Redefining words is child’s play. They have moved beyond that. To take a word and assign it another definition would still make that word usable. It would leave us with the ability to communicate effectively, allow us to hold on to our culture, heritage, ideals and goals.

What the left has very slowly done is not to redefine words, but to un-define them. Important words we use to structure the very basis for our society have become useless. What is a structure without sound building blocks? We live in a society where ‘father’ is replaced by words like child-support payment, sperm donor, male role model or non custodial parent. Disagree is replaced by hate, loathing, anger. The word ‘different’ becomes devalue, belittle, diminish. Americans are never sure which word has which meaning and when, so Americans have stopped saying anything. The fear of rejection has caused us to keep our mouths shut. Go with the flow. Keep our heads down. The word family could have an endless combination of players: mother, stepmother, egg donor, birth mother, birth father, male role model, two fathers, three fathers.

No wonder kids don’t respect their parents anymore. What is a parent anyway? Nobody is really sure! We can’t even agree on what a baby is or when it is alive. To take it a step further, we don’t even know when a living baby is considered a human being, or when it is not OK to kill one! If we un-define America, if we make it an ever-changing mesh of ideas, if everyone is an American and everything is American then nothing is American. When America can no longer be defined, then America ceases to exist. That is the goal. America is being stolen in definition, so it can be stolen in possession. If the definition of America and Americans is not known, then how can our rights be known either? Don’t those too then become changeable to whatever half-dead cultural body part we sew on this year?

America shouldn’t change, because this nation is needed. We have made it possible for others to exist and greatness to be achieved!

I was walking in the woods. I ran into Thomas Jefferson. He was carrying a box, wrapped in a bow.

“Which state is this?” he asked.

New York, I said.

What’s in the box, Thomas?

“A present for the country. By my calculations, you are about to celebrate our 245th birthday.”

Yep, thanks to your Declaration of Independence.

“My finest work. I love the written word. I always said, ‘I cannot live without books.’ ”

I know. It’s a famous expression.

“What are the most popular books of this time?”

There’s one called “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

“About the British and their chains of iniquity?”

It’s got chains in it, yes.

“What else can you tell me about our nation today? How closely do you hold to our original ideals?”

Well, the revolution against British rule still holds. They have no say over us.

“As it should be.”

In fact, lately it’s the British who are revolting.

“Against whom?”

Europe.

“Hmm. I doubt they’re using a tea party.”

No. But we still have one of those.

“A tea party? They throw goods off of ships?”

No. They mostly go on talk shows.

“What about the force behind our independence — no taxation without representation?”

Oh, good news there, Thomas. We don’t pay taxes to a foreign government.

“Good.”

We pay taxes to our government.

“A levy on your goods?”

That’s called a sales tax. We also pay federal income tax, state income tax, city income tax, Social Security tax, property tax …

“Tyranny! What evil force shackles you this way?”

Our elected officials.

“You elect them and they still levy such taxes?”

Yes. Why are you making that face?

“Government must rule with consent of the governed.”

Well, that works for lobbyists.

“What is a lobbyist?”

Hard to explain. You’ll be glad to know we still treasure your words “All men are created equal.”

“That pleases me.”

All women, too. And any man who identifies as a woman and any woman who identifies as a man.

“You do accept that we are endowed by the Creator—”

Ah-ah-ah. What do you mean by “Creator?”

“There is only one Creator.”

Shhhh! You’ll get in trouble saying that.

Our changing times

“What about the ‘unalienable rights’ part?”

Oh, we still believe that. Unless you come from certain countries or look dangerous wearing a hoodie.

“Hoodie? I don’t understand your references.”

Sorry. Things change. If it makes you feel better, we still cherish the right to bear arms.

“Good. A well-regulated militia is necessary for the security of a free state.”

We don’t use guns to hold off our government.

“Then who do you shoot?”

Mostly each other.

“I need to sit down…”

Yes, relax. It’s still a great country. Be proud.

“Really? What do Americans now think of when they hear the words ‘Independence Day?’ ”

To be honest? A movie.

“About the Founding Fathers?”

Actually, it’s about aliens attacking Earth.

“Aliens? You mean foreign soldiers?

More like little green creatures.

“Excuse me. I feel ill. I’ll take my leave.”

Wait, Thomas. The present. What’s in the box?

“An original copy of the Declaration. I thought the nation could use a fresh copy.”

But now?

“I think I need to add a few paragraphs …”

It’s a bitch getting old’, the guy in the Phlebotomy waiting room said to me as we were both waiting to get our blood drawn. I nodded and hoped that he saw my appreciation for his comments in my eyes as we were both masked. Turns out he, like me, have now added trips to the Urologist as part of our ‘routine’ check ups. As I’m now entering my 6^th decade, I have an internist, cardiologist, oncologist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and now a Urologist all on my speed dial. I’ve been poked and prodded in places I’d always prided myself on keeping untouched except for Saturday’s night’s back in high school after a school dance…if I was lucky. I have met ambitious young physicians who more and more fill the profession, opportunists with a fashionable hoodlum image, openly hostile to their patients. My brief stays at some hospitals had already convinced me that the medical profession was an open door to anyone nursing a grudge against the human race. Then I decided to find better physicians. I’m happy to report that my current ‘medical team’, across all disciplines, take the time to understand that each human being they treat,  every situation, and every point in time are all unique. It’s hard to find these types of guys. I once had a nurse tell me that a doctor listens to a patient  for an average of 9 seconds, then intervenes with a prognosis. The amount of time the doctor is willing to listen before intervening has gone down over time, presumably as health insurers have pressured doctors to increase output as they have greatly increased the amount of paperwork required of doctors. In other words, it is in the name of efficiency. The efficiency fairies are at work in the doctor’s office to eliminate all that wasteful time spent in creating a doctor-patient relationship. That makes for problems. I once wrote about sitting next to an elderly couple who were waiting to see their oncologist for test results. When the man was called in to see the Doctor, the office door was left opened and, as I was waiting for my turn to see this guy, I heard him say to his patient, “You have six month’s….tops”. Before one of the nurses jumped up to close the door, I heard the man say, in the softest voice, “What if I want more than 6 months?” . I can tell you that I didn’t hear the Doctor’s response, But I can tell you that I found another Doctor in his specialty right away…..

So, the point of this post is to, I guess, just say, that there are good, caring Doctor’s out there. Guys who understand the side effects of medicine before the prescription. Now, back to my new medical team practitioner……..my Urologist. I promise I will tell him where the weapons of mass destruction are hidden…….as soon as he stops picking me up by my testicles!……

When one of your friends tells you that they are ‘progressives’, have this outline ready:

Progressivism is merely the current euphemism for centralized power vested in a class of people who believe their own propaganda, or know it is a lie but tell it anyway. It is not enough merely to note that it has failed every time it has been tried. It must also be said that it has done irreparable damage to humanity wherever it has been practiced. Progressivism is human vice incarnate, the indulgence and celebration of the erasure of the constraints that human experience and wisdom have devised to limit evil. The name has been changed to protect the guilty.

Historically, before the current iteration that we are witnessing in the United States, the quest by elitists for unlimited power over their fellow men, pursued initially under the guise of peaceful change, has usually progressed from societal “improvements” and the well-intended promise of social benefit, to oppression, persecution, and murder. The time line may vary, some are more sudden and violent, some more gradual and subtle, but the outcome has always been the same: the dominance of rulers over the ruled, with all rights and possessions, including life, sacrificed to appease to the insatiable hunger of a soulless state and its foolish enablers.

Along the way, what is lost is immeasurable. Human freedom, the right of each individual to live a life determined by his own needs, skills, and choices, bounded by laws which recognize the need of ethical limits on our interactions, dissolves or, more accurately, is banned. The progressive understands that the usurpation of total control cannot be achieved where humans are permitted to make informed decisions based on accurate information. Thus, it is necessary first to alter the flow and content of the information on which individuals make decisions which, in its totality, directs events that promote one outcome over another. As such, every repressive regime has depended upon disinformation, presented as “news”, meant to shape opinion to favor the illusory virtues of the regime. The success of this process increases in direct proportion to the cultivated pollution of the knowledge of the people.

A significant tool in this arsenal of fraud is the appeal to “science”. After all, the progressive argues, “science” is independent of motives or partisan influence. Only a troglodyte disagrees with “science”. The progressive needs you to believe that the science he has bought is pure and true, and is only what he says it is. Science has always been sacrificed on the altar of total power.

Beware those who speak of “settled science”, and are prepared to act on that conclusion. It was settled science to some that the Jews were genetically inferior. Similarly, those who have historically favored the oppression and servitude of blacks have implicitly invoked settled science to advance the inherent lie that as a people they are genetically incapable of equality on their own, and that a paternalistic hand is necessary to compensate for their historic deficiencies. While this was done in the past to keep them in literal bondage, it is done now to keep them in philosophical bondage, dependent upon the entitlements given to them by their political keepers.

Global warming is merely the latest scientific straw man to walk the stage, dressed in invisible clothes and armed with self-righteous indignation and the power of the state. It’s always about control, and is always based on lies. When people stop believing the lies progressives tell to control their choices and behavior, and refuse to grant them power in the name of false benevolence and phony virtue, the spell will be broken. Of course, this simply cannot be allowed.

The problem, as serious Americans grasp, is that there is nowhere else we can go if progressivism completely destroys freedom here. The rest of the world has already succumbed. For generations, others have fled here when like-minded zealots destroyed their countries, because this was someplace else to go, a haven of freedom left on Earth in which a person could not only survive, but advance, on hard work and merit. Now, many of them voice their fear that this magnificent country to which they have fled is becoming increasingly familiar to what they left behind. There is no place left like the United States as it was before the cancer of progressivism.
Progressives intend that the “land of opportunity” shall become the land of servitude. With their backs against the last wall, threatened with mass destruction of all they know and love, some citizens will surrender to the inevitability of serfdom that progressives have always planned for them, despite the evidence and lessons of history. Others, Americans who recognize the danger and cherish what is threatened and will not be regained, will defend themselves, their families and their future. Before 2008, not many of us ever thought we’d have to confront that choice in our lifetimes. Now, only a few short years later, it is on our doorstep.

Look what has already been lost because we have failed thus far to defuse the destructive power of progressivism, and the historic malice or complicity of its proponents, both left and right. The hour is late and the opportunities are shrinking rapidly. It is our time to defeat progressivism, or it will surely destroy all we hold dear as free Americans.

Gone are the days when there were only two genders, male and female. Now there are 31 — at least there are in New York City, where it is illegal to discriminate against anyone on account of their sex — male, female or “something else entirely.”

According to the Washington Free Beacon, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio’s office released a list of 31 politically-correct gender identity terms in June 2019 that were approved by the New York City Commission on Human Rights.

The gender list is intended to serve as a guide for businesses, which can be fined as much as $250,000 for not addressing individuals by their preferred gender pronoun.

In the Commission’s factsheet it states: “In New York City, it’s illegal to discriminate on the basis of gender identity and gender expression in the workplace, in public spaces and in housing. The NYC Commission on Human Rights is committed to ensuring that transgender non-conforming New Yorkers are treated with dignity and respect and without threat of discrimination or harassment.”

According to the commission, gender identity is defined as “one’s internal, deeply-held sense of one’s gender as male, female, or something else entirely. A transgender person is someone whose gender identity does not match the sex they were assigned at birth,” the factsheet says.

The 31 mind-bending gender identity options are:

1. Bi-Gendered
2. Cross-Dresser
3. Drag-King
4. Drag-Queen
5. Femme Queen
6. Female-to-Male
7. FTM
8. Gender Bender
9. Genderqueer
10. Male-To-Female
11. MTF
12. Non-Op
13. Hijra
14. Pangender
15. Transexual/Transsexual
16. Trans Person
17. Woman
18. Man
19. Butch
20. Two-Spirit
21. Trans
22. Agender
23. Third Sex
24. Gender Fluid
25. Non-Binary Transgender
26. Androgyne
27. Gender-Gifted
28. Gender Bender
29. Femme
30. Person of Transgender Experience
31. Androgynous

Unlike standard-issue males and females, gender-different individuals are allowed to use the bathroom or locker room of their preference without having to show proof or documentation.

The fact sheet advises: “If you don’t know what pronouns to use, ask. Be polite and respectful; if you use the wrong pronoun, apologise and move on.”

I’m, officially, living in a world I no longer recognize………

Hemingway didn’t know he was Ernest Hemingway when he was a young man. Faulkner didn’t know he was William Faulkner. But they had to take the first step. They had to call themselves writers. That is the first revolutionary act a writer has to make. It takes courage. But it’s necessary.”
— Pat Conroy, My Losing Season

I just love this quote from Pat Conroy, my favorite author. It makes me think about all the young people that I have met. Young people who, upon being asked what they would like to do with their lives, have told me all sorts of things. Doctor, lawyer, teacher, astronaut and my personal favorite from a young 5 year old neighbor, a ‘mommy’. A good friend of mine takes great pride in telling me about his 5 year old grandson who wants to be an astronomer. My friend is astounded as to where this is coming from but he’s enjoying encouraging him.

The secret message communicated to most young people today by the society around them is that they are not needed, that the society will run itself quite nicely until they – at some distant point in the future – will take over the reigns. Yet the fact is that the society is not running itself nicely… because the rest of us need all the energy, brains, imagination and talent that young people can bring to bear down on our difficulties.

The most significant visions are not cast by great orators from a stage, TV or movie screen. They are cast at the bedsides of our children. The greatest vision opportunities happen between the hours of 7:30 and 9:30 PM Monday through Sunday. In these closing hours of the day we have a unique opportunity to plant the seeds of what could be and what should be. Take every opportunity you get.

I’m an old father now. I own lots of memories. I polish the sweet ones and never dust the ones that hurt. I mind time now. I didn’t used to. In fact, like lots of you, I was reckless with time. Not any longer.

When I was a boy of about 9 or so, I remember having a conversation with my grandfather.

“So, Eddie Boy” said my grandfather, “ how long would you like to live? What is a good, long life?”

Right off the bat I’m thinking this is a trick question. And I don’t have much in the way of trick answers … because … I’m nine. Gimme a break.

After several long minutes he leaned over and asked, “And?”

“Seventy. Seventy years old is a good, long life.”

After a few long minutes, he clasped his hands and leaned over toward me. And then the verdict.

“You’re a silly boy.”

Mind you … he said it softly. No mocking at all. Just a soft, blunt statement … designed to make me think all over again. To spin my brain-gears a bit more.

Then he leaned over once again … and in a loud whisper … so all could hear … he said …“If you live to be seventy … you will have lived just 840 months. Does that seem long enough for you?”

And, of course, it didn’t then … and it doesn’t now. And I learned the lesson he intended me to learn … to be careful with numbers and to respect time. And to not waste time … or let others waste my time.

So, from this old father … to you young fathers and young mothers … mind the time.

Mind those sweet moments with your children and seldom say “Hurry up!”. Don’t wish for anything except this moment. Leave tomorrow alone. Tend to today.

Don’t let anyone hurry your child.

Don’t let anyone sandpaper their softest years with grit or rigor … because there’s plenty of that stuff in the eight hundred months ahead.

Don’t let anyone run innocence out of your child’s life. It has its own cadence and rhythm … and it’s plenty fast enough.

Don’t let others spin those clock hands faster than they already spin.

Mind the numbers in your life as never before. Pay as much attention to the little moments as you do the big moments.

Remind yourself that a five year old is sixty months on this planet. Less than 2,000 days old. They’re still brand new people! No one has the right to whisper anything about college or careers to a child determined to conquer the monkey bars. All adults should respect the Law of the Chair … if a child’s legs do not reach the floor … well … they are reality-exempt.

That eight year old … the one who sleeps in his Little League uniform? He’s a third grader. Not yet 100 months old. Let that sink in. Why is he rip-roaring mad at himself over some junk-test? That’s not the worry of an 8 year old. He should be anxious about base hits … not base line scores. His only career thought is what professional team to sign with … and that’s heavy enough.

That music-blasting “tween” is maybe 150 months old. At that age their job is to not walk into door jambs … and to try to put a lid on some hormone havoc. They’re still closer to babyhood than adulthood. Why do we let schools bum-rush them into anxiety-hell over tests? Mother Nature has already over-supplied them with all the anxiety they can barely handle. Why don’t we just lay off ‘em … and let ‘em outgrow this messy moment? It’s bad enough as it is … leave it be.

I’m glad my grandfather cured me from becoming number-numb. My hot-seat moment has served me well for … for lots of months. Maybe this will shake up your consciousness … and slow you down some. And maybe … maybe you won’t say “Hurry up!” quite so often. And perhaps you’ll remind that school to slow down … that there are children on board … and they are entitled to every last drop of innocence.

Don’t let them tug your child into their warped world. If they think education is all about numbers, well, they’ve already forfeited their privilege to enjoy your child. They’re just as silly as I was … but I was only about a hundred months old. What’s their excuse?”

January 6th marks the 100th birthday of my uncle John. 100! He went to Heaven in 1976 when he was just 55. I’ve blogged a lot about John. A fellow Son of Xavier, an uncle to my 17 cousins, a presence that held our family together.
As those of you who read my blogs know, I have a thing for Superman. Superman is and has always been America’s hero. John was a weight lifter. When I was 5 or so, I remember asking my mother if my uncle was Superman. She looked at me and very seriously told me that she couldn’t tell me because ‘no one was supposed to know’. That sealed it for me. From that day on, my uncle was Superman and I was now entrusted with this knowledge. I mean, after all, he carried my sister and I up three flights of stairs using nothing but the palms of his hands. Who, but Superman, could do that? Who, but Superman, could dead lift 511 pounds using just two fingers? A world record still standing.
But the real reason he was Superman was that he stood for what we believe is the best within us: limitless strength tempered by compassion, that could bear adversity and emerge stronger on the other side. He stood for what we all feel we would like to be able to stand for, when standing is sometimes the hardest.
He loved his family. I was just 17 when he died and, truthfully, my loss of him deeply affected me.
It’s only when you grow up, and step back from him, or see how much life has changed since he left that you can measure his greatness and fully appreciate it. Pride reinforces love.
My uncle taught me that you can you read a hundred books on wisdom and write a hundred books on wisdom, but unless you apply what you learned then its only words on a page. Life is not lived with intentions, but action. So, I wish John were still here on his 100th birthday. I’d have a lot to talk over with him. Happy Birthday, John.

“Goodbye, Santa……goodbye…..thank you for coming….have a safe trip back to the North Pole”…..the Irishman bellowed in the vestibule of 210 East 83rd Street. That man was my grandfather and the vestibule he was in was the apartment building that I grew up in along with my aunt, cousins, my Uncle John and my parents and sister. Now this Christmas day ritual went on for years. My Mom would tell me that if we hurried down the four flights of stairs, we could actually meet Santa. We never made it in time….but it was ok….my grandfather actually knew Santa! The one time I asked my mother how did Nagh know Santa, she told me that they “grew up” together in Ireland. What a lucky kid I was…..I had a grandfather who knew Santa AND Santa was Irish! Wow, I couldn’t have been more proud. Eventually, there did come a Christmas where I became more concerned about our neighbors thinking that Mr. McLoughlin must be crazy….but, today, this Christmas morning, what I wouldn’t give to hear a booming Irish voice shouting”Goodbye, Santa….thanks for bringing my family presents…see you next year!”