Posts Tagged 'Digital-Age protesters'

RESPECT AND APPRECIATE, GENERATION Y

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

During the Great Depression, Marian Anderson was prohibited from singing at Constitution Hall, in Washington, D.C., by the Daughters of the American Revolution—because she was colored.  First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt resigned from the DAR—then arranged for Marian Anderson to sing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, instead.

 

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

In 1940, Hattie McDaniel was a Best Supporting Actress Academy Award nominee for her role as “Mammy” in the 1939 production of “Gone with the Wind”.

Colored people were prohibited from entering the Los Angeles hotel where the awards ceremony was held, but the hotel made an exception for Hattie McDaniel.  It allowed her to attend the ceremony—though she had to sit at a table across the room from the tables where the whites sat.  Hattie McDaniel graciously accepted the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award however, stating that she hoped to be a credit to her race.

 

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

The majority of abolitionists in the 19th century were whites who simply didn’t want blacks around—enslaved or free.

In all Northern states, blacks were segregated from whites—and some, like Indiana, kept blacks out entirely.

 

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

My Grandma Mayo, who was raised in Ohio, encountered some uppity Southern women once—the kind of Southern women who gave all Southern women a bad name.  

They asked her a question about a train’s schedule, and she replied, “That colored lady said…”

“We don’t call a colored woman a ‘lady,'” they interrupted.

 

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

My Grandma Mayo also told me of a restaurant in New York that didn’t take kindly to recent desegregation laws.

The waitress served the black man and his wife—but in the rudest, noisiest manner.

She slammed their plates onto the table, and abruptly walked away.

 

BLACK LIVES MATTER, Generation Y?

My German friend, Mr. Vogel, wanted to register to vote in Alabama, after moving there from Wisconsin.

He was told he’d have to pay a poll tax to register to vote.

“Why?” he asked.

“To keep the niggers down,” was the reply.

Mr. Vogel refused to pay a poll tax for a reason like that—he waited until poll taxes were prohibited, before he registered to vote in Alabama.

 

You can put those BLACK LIVES MATTER signs down, Generation Y.  And you can show some appreciation for the fact that you’ve never truly suffered a day in your privileged lives.  And you can show some respect for your ancestors—and your elders—who have.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

My Grandma Mayo’s Aunt Pearl told of her mother—an orphan in Ohio.

At one point, Aunt Pearl’s mother, Lizzie, was staying with a woman who had three sons.  This woman’s three sons bullied Lizzie, a great deal—verbally and emotionally.

But whenever Lizzie reported this abuse to their mother, their mother accused Lizzie of lying—and sided with her sons, without ever even questioning them.

Eventually, Lizzie was adopted by a more understanding and loving foster mother.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

My Grandma Mayo was actually born in Nashville.

But her father died, not long after she was born.  

Her sixteen-year-old mother, Nonnie, had to take her newborn daughter all the way back home to Akron, Ohio—because she didn’t have the means to raise her by herself.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

Nonnie and Pearl had a sister named Polly.

I have a photograph of my Great-Great Aunt Polly that was taken shortly before she died—she was a beautiful young woman.

Polly died in childbirth—at age eighteen.

Needless to say, her husband was heartbroken.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

My Grandma Mayo was “pro-choice”, and I didn’t agree with her on that point.

But her opinion was completely understandable.

Louise—a beautiful cousin of her husband’s—got pregnant, out of wedlock.

In those days, an unwed woman who got pregnant was often treated like trash—while the man who impregnated her was often treated with impunity.

As was so often the case, in those days, the father of Louise’s unborn child disappeared—and Louise was faced with the stigma every abandoned, unwed mother faced.

Louise panicked, and attempted to abort the child.

She and her unborn child died in the attempt.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

During the War between the Confederate States and the United States—and especially during the “Reconstruction”, a brutal occupation in which the people of the vanquished Confederate States were denied their constitutional rights for twelve years—Southern women, black and white, were brutally raped by Union troops and Union League terrorists, on a constant basis.

 

ME TOO, Generation Y?

On March 25, 1911, 145 young women—mostly teenaged immigrants who didn’t speak English—burned to death at the Triangle Shirtwaist Company factory in New York City.

Women died in Northern factories often—this was just one of the worst of such tragedies.

In fact, the majority of factory workers in Northern U.S. cities were orphans and unwed women, in those days.

And the factory owners and managers—most of them Jewish men—couldn’t care less.

 

You can put those ME TOO signs down, Generation Y.  And you can show some appreciation for the fact that you’ve never truly suffered a day in your privileged lives.  And you can show some respect for your ancestors—and your elders—who have.

WOULD YOU HEED THESE?

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Cellphone Usage Is Dangerous to Your Health, and Destructive to Your Life.

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Smartphone Usage Is Dangerous to Your Health, and Destructive to Your Life.

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Facebook Usage Is Dangerous to Your Health, and Destructive to Your Life.

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Twitter Usage Is Dangerous to Your Health, and Destructive to Your Life.

FIFTH WILL AND TESTAMENT

This house is a cage with an open door—and I am in this cage alone.

This Digital Age is a cage with no door at all—and we are in this cage together.

This Digital Age is the end of the world.

And the end of the world never ends.

Of course no one has any respect for me—I am desperately poor.

No one has ever had any respect for the poor—especially the desperately poor.

The majority of Black Americans keep thinking they are disrespected because they are Black.

The majority of Black Americans are disrespected because they are poor.

Yet a huge minority of White Americans—possibly the majority, at this point—are also disrespected because they are poor.

Though the poor are victims of endless discrimination—poverty itself does not discriminate at all.

This Digital Age is the worst time in American history for any Americans to be poor—because unrestrained Digital-Age technology has destroyed the family and the community in the United States.

Even during the Great Depression, the impoverished majority of Americans received support from their families and communities.

But there are no more families or communities in the United States—unrestrained Digital-Age technology has destroyed them.

So the poor in the United States today—especially the desperately poor—are actually suffering more than the poor in the United States during the Great Depression.

This is just one reason this Digital Age is the end of America—and the end of the world.

If 326 million people get rid of their cellphones and smartphones, and close their Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn accounts, they can restore the family and the community in the United States—and thereby prevent the end of America, and the end of the world.

This house is a cage with an open door—because this Digital Age is a cage with no door at all.

I began realizing this in the fall of 2015—even before the money stopped coming.

I was dangerously obese, and my blood pressure was high all the time.

So I started walking again.

I had walked before—years before.

Years before, I had walked for hours at a time—traveling great distances—in the afternoons and evenings.  Back then, I would often start in the dark—and finish in the morning sunlight.

This time, I started in the morning—and finished in the morning.

But two changes had occurred since I had last walked—two Digital-Age changes. And Digital-Age changes are always for the worse—never for the better.

[I started this post long before my father died—and I have decided to continue this narrative in another post, at another time]

THE DIE-HARD: A PARALLEL-PROPHETIC STORY

The following story is from 100 Great Science Fiction Short Short Stories, an out-of-print book edited by Isaac Asimov, Martin Greenberg, and Joseph D. Olander.  Even when I first read it, decades ago, I could identify so well with the protagonist–but even moreso now, as the society in which I live continues to become more inhuman, by the day (though by a different means than the author envisioned).

THE DIE-HARD

by Alfred Bester

“In the old days,” the Old One said, “there was the United States and Russia and England and Russia and Spain and England and the United States.  Countries.  Sovereign States.  Nations.  Peoples of the world.”

“Today there are peoples of the world, Old One.”

“Who are you?” the Old One asked suddenly.

“I’m Tom.”

“Tom?”

“No, Old One.  Tom.”

“I said Tom.”

“You did not pronounce it properly, Old One.  You spoke the name of another Tom.”

“You are all Tom,” the Old One said sullenly.  “Everyone is Tom, Dick or Harry.”

He sat, shaking in the sunshine, and hating the pleasant young man.  They were on the broad veranda outside his hospital room.  The street before them was packed with attractive men and women, all waiting expectantly.  Somewhere in the white city there was a heavy cheering, a thrilling turmoil that slowly approached.

“Look at them.”  The Old One shook his cane at the street.  “All Tom, Dick and Harry.  All Daisy, Anne and Mary.”

“No, Old One,” Tom smiled.  “We use other names as well.”

“I’ve had a hundred Toms sitting with me,” the Old One snarled.

“We often use the same name, Old One, but we pronounce it differently.  I’m not Tom or Tom or Tom.  I’m Tom.  Do you hear it?”

“What’s that noise?” the Old One asked.

“It’s the Galactic Envoy,” Tom explained again.  “The Envoy from Sirius, the star in Orion.  He’s touring the city.  This is the first time a being from other worlds has ever visited the earth.  There’s great excitement.”

“In the old days,” the Old One said, “we had real envoys.  Men from Paris and Rome and Berlin and London and Paris and–they came with pomp and circumstance.  They made war.  They made peace.  Uniforms and guns and ceremonies.  Brave times!  Exciting times!”

“We have brave, exciting times today, Old One.”

“You do not,” the Old One snarled.  He thumped his cane feebly.  “There is no passion, no love, no fear, no death.  There is no hot blood coursing through veins.  You’re all logic.  All calm thought.  All Tom, Dick and Harry.”

“No, Old One.  We love.  We have passions.  We fear many things.  What you miss is the evil we have destroyed in ourselves.”

“You have destroyed everything!  You have destroyed man!” the Old One cried.  He pointed a shaking finger at Tom.  “You!  How much blood have you in your veins?”

“None at all, Old One.  I have Tamar’s Solution in my veins.  Blood cannot withstand radiation and I do research in the Fission Piles.”

“No blood,” the Old One cackled.  “And no bones either.”

“Not all have been replaced, Old One.”

“And no nerve tissue, heh?”

“Not all has been replaced, Old One.”

“No blood, no bones, no guts, no heart.  And no private parts.  What do you do with a woman?  How much of you is mechanical?”

“Not more than 60 per cent, Old One,” Tom laughed.  “I have children.”

“And the other Toms and Dicks and Harrys?”

“Anywhere from 30 to 70 per cent, Old One.  They have children, too.  What the men of your time did to teeth, we do with all the body.  There is no harm.”

“You are not men!  You’re machines!” the Old One cried.  “Robots!  Monsters!  You have destroyed man.”

Tom smiled.  “In truth, Old One, there is so much mingling of man in machine and machine in man that the distinction is hard to make.  We no longer make it.  We are content to live happily and work happily.  We are adjusted.”

“In the old days,” the Old One said, “we all had real bodies.  Blood and bones and nerves and guts.  Like me.  We worked and sweated and loved and fought and killed and lived.  You do not live . . . you adjusted supermen . . . machine-men . . . half-bred bastards of acid and sperm.  Nowhere have I seen a blow struck, a kiss taken, the clash of conflict, life.  How I yearn to see real life again . . . not your machine imitation.”

“That’s the ancient sickness, Old One,” Tom said seriously.  “Why don’t you let us reconstruct you and heal you?  If you would let us replace your ductless glands, recondition your reflexes, and–”

“No!  No!  No!” the Old One cried in a high passion.  “I will not become another Tom.”  He lurched up from his chair and beat at the pleasant young man with his cane.  The blow broke the skin on the young man’s face and was so unexpected that he cried out in astonishment.  Another pleasant young man ran out on the veranda, seized the Old One and reseated him in his chair.  Then he turned to Tom who was dabbing at the frosty liquid that oozed from the cut in his face.

“All right, Tom?”

“No great harm done.”  Tom looked at the Old One with awe.  “Do you know, I believe he actually wanted to hurt me.”

“Of course he did.  This is your first time with him, isn’t it?  You ought to see him curse and carry on.  What an old unreconstructed rebel he is.  We’re rather proud of the old boy.  He’s unique.  A museum of pathology.”  The second young man sat down alongside the Old One.  “I’ll take him for a while.  You go watch for the Envoy.”

The Old One was shaking and weeping.  “In the old days,” he quavered, “there was courage and bravery and spirit and strength and red blood and courage and bravery and–”

“Now then, now then, Old One,” his new companion interrupted briskly, “we have them too.  When we reconstruct a man we don’t take anything away from him but the rot in his mind and body.”

“Who are you?” the Old One asked.

“I’m Tom.”

“Tom?”

“No.  Tom.  Not Tom.  Tom.”

“You’ve changed.”

“I’m not the same Tom that was here before.”

“You’re all Toms,” the Old One cried pietously.  “You’re all the same God-forsaken Toms.”

“No, Old One.  We’re all different.  You just can’t see it.”

The turmoil and the cheering came closer.  Out in the street before the hospital, the crowd began shouting in excited anticipation.  A lane cleared.  Far down the street there was a glitter of brass and the first pulse of the approaching music.  Tom took the Old One under the arm and raised him from his chair.

“Come to the railing, Old One,” he said excitedly.  “Come and watch the Envoy.  This is a great day for Mother Earth.  We’ve made contact with the stars at last.  It’s a new era beginning.”

“It’s too late,” the Old One muttered.  “Too late.”

“What do you mean, Old One?”

“We should have found them, not them us.  We should have been first.  In the old days we would have been first.  In the old days there was courage and daring.  We fought and endured. . . .”

“There he is,” Tom shouted, pointing down the street.  “He’s stopped at the Institute. . . . Now he’s coming out. . . . He’s coming closer. . . . No.  Wait!  He’s stopped again. . . . At the Center.  What a magnificent gesture.  This isn’t just a token tour.  He’s inspecting everything.”

“In the old days,” the Old One mumbled, “we would have come with fire and storm.  We would have marched down strange streets with weapons on our hips and defiance in our eyes.  Or if they came first we would have met them with strength and defiance.  But not you . . . machine half-breeds . . . laboratory supermen . . . adjusted . . . reconstructed . . . worthless . . .”

“He’s come out of the Center,” Tom exclaimed.  “He’s coming closer.  Look well, Old One.  Never forget this moment.  He–”  Tom stopped and took a shuddering breath.  “Old One,” he said.  “He’s going to stop at the hospital!”

The gleaming car stopped before the hospital.  The band marked time, still playing lustily, joyfully.  The crowd roared.  In the car the officials were smiling, pointing, explaining.  The Galactic Envoy arose to his full, fantastic height, stepped out of the car and strode toward the steps leading up to the veranda.  His escort followed.

“Here he comes!” Tom yelled, and began a confused roaring of his own.

Suddenly the Old One broke away from the railing.  He shoved past Tom and all the other Tom, and Dick and Harrys and Daisy, Anne and Marys crowding the veranda.  He beat his way through them with his feeble, wicked cane and came face to face with the Galactic Envoy at the head of the steps.  He stared at the Praying Mantis face with horror and revulsion for one instant, then he cried: “I greet you.  I alone can greet you.”

He raised his cane and smote the face with all his strength.

“I’m the last man on earth,” he cried.

 

[This is a reposting—the original was posted on April 18, 2014.  Even then, I identified so much with the protagonist of this story.  Yet as my fellow human beings become more and more mindless, godless, and inhuman—just like the mindless, godless, and inhuman smartphones to which they become more and more addicted—I identify so much more with the protagonist of this story.  The tragedy of this Digital Age is that Digital-Age human beings can choose to limit the Digital-Age technology in their lives—that they can get rid of their cellphones and smartphones, and close their Facebook and Twitter accounts—but they simply refuse to choose to limit the Digital-Age technology in their lives.  This Digital Age is the end of the world—but it doesn’t have to be.  America is destroying itself, though it doesn’t have to do so.  And humanity is destroying itself, though it doesn’t have to do so.  There is so much in this world over which we have no control.  Yet there is so much in this world over which we have total control.  And my fellow human beings simply refuse to take the total control they have over the Digital-Age technology in their lives.  And this is how they’re destroying humanity.  And for what?  Convenience?  It’s all so totally unnecessary—and so totally tragic.  God damn this Digital Age.]

IF I CAN LIMIT THE DIGITAL-AGE TECHNOLOGY IN MY LIFE—SO CAN YOU

The filthiest things used to be television remote control devices—especially in hotel and motel rooms.

Now the filthiest things are cellphones and smartphones—especially smartphones.

Landline phone handsets are filthy too—but not nearly as filthy, because they’re not passed among so many people, they’re not taken far from the home, and they’re not kept in warm, moist places, like pockets and pocketbooks.

Your cellphone or smartphone is making you oblivious to everything and everyone around you.

Your cellphone or smartphone is endangering your life, and the lives of others, because you’re using it while you’re walking, bicycling, and even driving.

Your cellphone or smartphone is making you as mindless, godless, and inhuman as it is.

Your cellphone or smartphone is destroying your relationships with your fellow human beings.

Your cellphone or smartphone is contributing to the mass extinction of honeybees, bumblebees, fireflies, butterflies, bats, hawks, and countless other flying species with complex navigational systems, on which they depend.

Your cellphone or smartphone is stressing you out, because you’re constantly interrupted by phone calls, text messages, and emails—even when you’re away from home.

And your cellphone or smartphone is making you sick.

If I can afford a landline phone, so can you.

And if I can choose not to have a cellphone or smartphone, so can you.

If I can limit the Digital-Age technology in my life—so can you.

MR. PRESIDENT, GET TO WORK

THIS IS RIDICULOUS.

 

THIS IS EVEN MORE RIDICULOUS.

 

MR. PRESIDENT, GET TO WORK—AND GET THAT GODDAMNED NIKKI HALEY OUT OF YOUR CABINET.

HISTORY, CIVICS, AND PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY PART 2

HISTORY, CIVICS, AND PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY PENSACOLA’S FIVE-FLAGS DISPLAYS

THE MAJORITY MUST SPEAK UP NOW

The foundation of our society has always been majority rule–minority rights.

Yet the destructive trend of our society in this Digital Age is minority rules–majority wrong.

And this is a major reason the foundation of our society is collapsing—and that our society is destroying itself.

With this in mind, the majority has never supported extremist politicians like Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton—or the Dishonorable Nikki R. Haley.

With this in mind, the majority has never supported extremism toward the political right or political left.

With this in mind, the majority has never supported the Republican Party or the Democratic Party.

With this in mind, the majority has never supported Zionism—or the Zionist State that has been forcibly established and enforced by Zionists, to the detriment of the Palestinian people, and at the expense of the American people.

With this in mind, the majority has never supported this posthumous extermination of the Confederate States of America—because the majority knows that the posthumous extermination of the Confederate States of America is destructive to the United States of America.

And with this in mind, the majority cannot remain silent.

The majority must limit the Digital-Age technology in its lives, by ridding itself of its cellphones and smartphones, and closing its Facebook and Twitter accounts.

The majority must realize that it cannot avoid societal or political discussion any longer—that it has been involved in society from the beginning, and that it has been involved in politics, in over its head, since June 22, 2015.

And the majority must speak up now—before it no longer rules at all, and no longer has any rights.

YOU NEED THE STICK MORE THAN THE CARROT

Saturday, a bunch of you privileged little smartphone-addicted  girls marched on Pensacola, protesting Trump—must have been some kind of anniversary thing.

Not a single one of you Generation-Y snowflakes voted against Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primaries in 2016—as I would have done, had independent voters been allowed to vote in the Democratic or Republican primaries.

Not a single one of you has contacted your senator or representative to request that he impeach Trump, and remove him from office—as I did, immediately after he was elected President.

You love the Black Lives Matter “movement”—though most of you are spoiled, White college students who have no understanding of what you’re protesting.

You especially love this Me Too “movement”—though most of you are spoiled, “sexually-liberated” girls who have no understanding of what you’re protesting.

And you have no idea what mindless, little hypocrites you are—shaming us men into begging you for consent, before we can touch you—yet demanding that politicians censor their constituents’ historical flags and monuments without their constituents’ consent.

You have no idea what mindless, little hypocrites you are—demanding that politicians censor the flags and monuments that you don’t like, without a clue that these same politicians will eventually censor the flags and monuments that you do like.

You protest nothing that really matters—like our federal government’s ongoing support of the Israeli government at the expense of the American people, our federal government’s green light to American corporations to outsource American manufacturing and service jobs to foreign countries, and our state and local governments’ censorship of their constituents’ historical flags and monuments without their constituents’ consent, which of course you mindlessly support and encourage.

I don’t call you “millenials”—why should you get a special name when we of Generation X do not?

It’s ironic that most of you support abortion-on-demand and same-sex marriage, when, if your mothers would have aborted you, or if your mothers and mothers or fathers and fathers—you wouldn’t even be here to be so self-absorbed.

Generation Y the hell were you bastards even born?

We realize you’re so self-absorbed, mindless, and clueless because your Generation-X and Baby-Boomer parents were so negligent.

We realize you’re so mindlessly, godlessly, and inhumanly addicted to your mindless, godless, and inhuman smartphones because your Generation-X and Baby-Boomer parents were so mindlessly, godlessly, and inhumanly addicted to their mindless, godless, and inhuman smartphones.

But we still hate you, beyond words, because you’re running our country into the ground—and destroying our world.

I admit this post is not the carrot—this post is the stick.

But you need the stick more than the carrot.

And you’ll continue to need the stick more than the carrot until you get rid of your cellphones and smartphones, close your Facebook and Twitter accounts, and get human—for the first time in your lives.

For God’s sake, stop thinking for the Digital-Age establishment, and start thinking for yourselves.

And stand up for humanity—be human. 


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