In 1968, my family was living outside of the U.S., in a little place no one has heard of since, namely Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I was nine years old and only beginning to become aware of the world outside family, neighborhood, and school.
I was the kind of kid who was outside from morning ’til the street lights came on, so television — especially the news — was way down my list of interesting things to do. Dad turned on the six o’clock news every night, and I began to realize that the world (the U.S., my world) was burning — literally.
By the time we left Gitmo, I was going on eleven years old, and I knew two things for sure:
- War is bloody and horrible and fucked up, and we need to find a better way to deal with our disagreements.
- People need to be able to stand up for themselves and their rights — civil or otherwise — and speak their minds, without being beaten, fire hosed, or killed.
I was a naive child who thought we’d have these things figured out by the time I had children. Ha! Said children are 28 and 33 years old, and just look at what we’ve done to this country…hell, the world.
I am ashamed.
This is our daily open thread.