The military watchdog group STARRS (Stand Together Against Racism and Radicalism in the Services)
has published an article correctly condemning the atrocity that was committed at Arlington National Cemetery one year ago.
“Of all the woke agenda advanced by the Biden-Harris Defense Department, arguably the worst was the removal of the Reconciliation Memorial at Arlington National Cemetery.
In a little covered event, a massive crane was driven into Arlington National Cemetery at the end of Hanukkah and the process of dismantling a historic memorial, the brainchild of US President William McKinley (the last president to serve in the Civil War), from Section 16 was accomplished…
If hauling down a monument to veterans in cemetery isn’t bad enough, this particular Memorial was actually the headstone for the sculptor, Moses Ezekiel. His brother got special approval to inter his brother at its base and it is has always been considered the headstone by the family.”
The article states of the Biden administration, “Their agenda was division, not unity.” I agree with that and would also add that their agenda was (and continues to be) the complete and utter obliteration from existence of every person who is different from the norm in any way. I am such a person, and that is why fighting back against atrocities such as the one committed at Arlington is so important to me.
“Any society which suppresses the heritage of its conquered minorities, prevents their history or denies them their symbols, has sown the seeds of their own destruction.”
Today’s election is a very important moment for our country. I’ve identified as a Republican for many years and have volunteered for various Republican campaigns and organizations, but the past few years have really changed how I see the world. Tomorrow I will be voting for Donald Trump. I feel more strongly about this decision than I’ve felt about my choice in any other election, and here are three reasons why:
I never thought that the continued existence of historical statues would become a political issue. Tragically, countless statues have been permanently removed, torn down, and destroyed, something that has been devastating to me. Donald Trump is the only candidate who has spoken out for statues. He has stood up for them in his public remarks, signed an executive order increasing punishments for people who harm statues, and signed an executive order calling for a new statue garden (unfortunately canceled by Biden).
Additionally, I never thought that the United States government would require people to undergo a medical procedure. Yet that is exactly what the Biden administration did by introducing an OSHA rule mandating the covid vaccine. In my opinion, this is a huge violation of individual rights, and I would never support any politician from the Biden administration as a result.
The horrible thing that happened to the Christopher Columbus statue in St. Paul, Minnesota is important enough to list as its own reason. The images of what was done to this statue – see this blog post for more details – are horrific, traumatizing, and seared permanently into my consciousness. Tim Walz deliberately chose to allow the atrocity to happen, and late characterized it as an understandable act of “civil disobedience.” The Italian American Civil Rights League issued a press release correctly characterizing what happened as “racism” and “a flagrant hate crime,” which you can read here. Additionally, Dr. Christopher Binetti published animportant article, an excerpt of which is below:
When rioters came to destroy the Columbus monument on the grounds of the state Capitol in Saint Paul, Governor Walz ordered state troopers, who were on the scene, to stand down and let it happen. The main culprit, shown lassoing the head of Columbus in broad daylight, was penalized for his crime with only community service. Walz never returned the statue to its rightful pedestal. Italian Americans have been in a state of second class citizenship under Walz, ever since.
Italian Americans are not safe anywhere in America because of Walz’s actions. Thanks to him, the attack on the Columbus monument in St. Paul was copied all over the country: In Richmond, Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, New York, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Ohio, etc…
Walz wants to erase us because he loathes us as Italians. This is not about Columbus or even Howard Zinn, whose warped views of history Walz seems to embrace. This is about the dehumanization of Italian Americans in Minnesota and throughout America. Remember, that in order to destroy Columbus, his statue had to be physically lynched. No one seemed to care about that symbolism; how it reminded us of the horrifying lynching and riotous massacre of Italians, in 1891, in New Orleans. Make no mistake, Walz loathes Italians.
Binetti correctly, and importantly, characterizes what happened as “the lynching and tearing down of the Columbus monument.” Indeed, a mob of bigots and bullies decided to viciously lynch Christopher Columbus at the Minnesota state capitol, and Tim Walz decided that it was OK for this to happen. This statue, and the horrible thing that was done to him, must never be forgotten.
For these reasons, my little statues and I are voting for Donald Trump.
You used to be mine. Obviously, not in a literal sense, and not in a legal sense. But I always thought of you as mine. My own special statue.
You stood in the park, on your awkwardly large pedestal, looking out over the sloping green lawn and the colorful flower beds. You were the perfect centerpiece, nestled between two leafy trellises. Boats bobbed gently in the ocean behind you, its glittering blue surface stretching towards the horizon. No one really seemed to notice or care about you. Tourists didn’t snap photos, businesspeople walked briskly past, children frolicked in the park but never seemed to glance your way. But I noticed you. Your existence meant everything to me.
I remember the first time I saw you. It was a warm, summer night in 2009, and I was volunteering at a political event at a restaurant called Tia’s. From the patio, I saw you, lit up beautifully in the fading light of dusk. I was surprised to see you. Until that moment, I had no idea that you existed. I had been taught in elementary school that you were evil and horrible, and I was surprised that any public place would have a statue of you, let alone a city with such a liberal reputation as Boston. Your existence meant that Boston was a place for me. It meant that people like me – people who are unpopular, rejected, misunderstood, different from the norm – were welcome there. I had never really identified much with the city or state that I am from, but from that day on I was proud to be from Boston. From that day on, I became interested in exploring Boston and photographing its neighborhoods and landmarks. From that day on, you were mine.
Years passed, and I visited you numerous times during my travels. I graduated from college and switched jobs a few times, eventually landing at a law firm that was just a short walk from your park. I went to visit you nearly every day during that time. I looked forward to my lunchtime walks, which took me along a gravel path, past tulips and sunflowers, up a short flight of stairs, and under the trellis to where you stood on your pedestal. Every time I walked past you, you made me smile. When I had a stressful day at work, you lifted my spirits. Sometimes, seeing you was the only positive thing in my day. Some people might have been put off by your serious expression, your arms crossed sternly over your chest. But I found you beautiful. You were different from all the other statues in Boston. You were like me.
I didn’t think about how you came to be in the park that bore your name. I didn’t think about who made you, or when, or how the money was raised to do so. I didn’t think about who legally owned you, whose property you were, or who was responsible for your protection or maintenance.
I loved you.
Every day, you were there, surveying the park from your marble pedestal at the intersection of the two trellises.
I thought that you would always be there.
Photo titled “Standing Vigil” by Nate Dow. To me, this photo perfectly encapsulates the way that things used to be, the way that things are supposed to be. This is Christopher in his rightful place. I wish that I had taken a photo like this of Christopher, but he was murdered before I had the chance. Link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/natedow/49782524371/
June 10, 2020 changed all that. Four and a half years later, I am overcome by grief and rage so strong that my soul feels like it is being eviscerated, when I think about what happened on that date. I remember where I was when I found out. I was working from home, in my living room, and decided to turn on the 4:00 local news. What I saw on the TV screen caused a sickening feeling like nothing that I had ever felt before, and which words still cannot full describe. That day changed me irrevocably. The Marissa that existed before June 10, 2020 is dead. The bigot who ripped your head off your shoulders and smashed it on the ground killed her, just as much as he killed you.
The mayor issued a bland, lukewarm statement. The police department made a perfunctory promise to investigate the crime, but no leads ever turned up. The Friends of Christopher Columbus Park, the organization that was supposed to take care of you, took no position on your murder and instead continued to post pictures of flowers, kids’ activities, and pumpkin festivals, as if you had never existed. The Boston Arts Commission held hearings at which, voice shaky and hands trembling, I testified, desperate to be heard, desperate to convey how much you meant to me. In what would be a sign of things to come, my voice didn’t matter. The city announced that they would give you to the Knights of Columbus, to be displayed at their new headquarters, which would also serve as low-income housing. Events continued to be held in the park, street musicians strummed their guitars, people took part in outdoor yoga and zumba classes, workers strode briskly through as if nothing had changed, children played tag around your pitiful empty pedestal, seemingly oblivious to its tragic significance.
I learned things about you that I hadn’t known before, researching every fact and compiling every bit of information that I could, as if that would somehow enable me to make sense of what had happened. I learned that you had been created by a sculptor named Andrew J. Mazzola, out of marble from Carrara, Italy. You were commissioned by an organization called the Friends of Christopher Columbus Committee and then donated to the city of Boston, which placed you under the jurisdiction of the Boston Arts Commission. Numerous citizens and businesses of the North End had contributed money for your creation. On October 21, 1979, you were unveiled in the beautiful park on the waterfront, at a ceremony that was attended by Mayor Kevin White, Governor John Volpe, and various dignitaries.
Now, thanks to the bigot who destroyed my world on June 10, 2020, the thought of that park, with its stately trellises, its colorful flowers, and its sunny waterfront, makes me sick to my stomach. Now, I have no pride in being from Boston, no interest in its history or culture, and almost no interest in its sports teams. It’s difficult for me to bring myself to take the train into the city that I used to love. I quit my job at the law firm, in large part due to what happened to you. It was too difficult to continue on as if nothing was wrong, surrounded by so many painful associations and reminders.
Is that what they wanted? Was that the goal of this despicable action? To destroy the life of an autistic person by taking away the one thing that made me feel represented and included? To inflict indescribable, excruciating pain on a person who did nothing but try to get through each day as best as she could? To make me feel like the entire world hates me, and like I would be better off dead? Because that’s what was accomplished. By physically ripping you to pieces and obliterating you from the park that is your rightful home, the bigot psychologically and spiritually ripped me to pieces as well. I don’t call that social justice. I don’t call it diversity, I don’t call it equity, and I certainly don’t call it inclusion.
Three years later, you rose from the dead. Your head was somehow reattached to your shoulders, and you materialized in the parking lot of the new Knights of Columbus building. I visited you a couple of times, talked to you, left you flowers and a note. I saw the cracks in your neck and near your hairline. I marveled at your resilience and strength, and at the skill of the sculptors who put you back together. Just as I was starting to heal, to feel somewhat okay about your new location, you moved again, this time to the Peace Garden at St. Leonard’s Church. Apparently, the leaders of the Italian American and North End communities had gotten together and arranged for the Knights to gift you to the church. In late summer, I visited you in your new home, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to post the pictures.
The consensus among the Italian American community is that the Peace Garden is a better location than the parking lot. And logically, I see the good points about your new home. I want to like it. I want, more than anything in the world, to be able to feel that your story has a happy ending. But I don’t like it. And this resolution doesn’t make me happy.
You used to be mine. And now you aren’t.
Before 2020, I had never really thought about the fact that you were owned by the City of Boston and maintained jointly by the city and the Friends of Christopher Columbus Park. When I contacted the Friends to voice my hurt at your murder and their neutrality regarding it, they defended the security measures that they had taken but refused to apologize for “focusing on the positive.” I felt like a fool, a weirdo, for being so emotionally invested in what I realized was a piece of stone owned by someone else. If the organization tasked with protecting you isn’t upset about your destruction, I asked myself, then why am I so devastated? As you’ve come into the ownership of the Knights and then the church, I’ve experienced similar sentiments. I question myself and my feelings. I wonder if by loving you so much, I’m somehow sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I wonder if I am the equivalent of a stalker, obsessively focused on a celebrity who doesn’t even know they exist. Community leaders worked out a deal for your transfer, coordinated the logistics, and announced it to the public once you were already in your new home. I wasn’t privy to this process, and logically I see that I would have no right to be. But somehow the fact that your fate is up to others, and that numerous people are far more involved with you than I will ever be, feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
Things were more straightforward back when you were in the park, where you are meant to be. You were simply mine. I didn’t need to think about any of these things, to feel left out, to feel like a stalker. But now, the innocence is gone. Now I realize that you were never really mine at all.
Perhaps a day will come when I will be able to appreciate the fact that you rose from the ashes, that you endure, albeit with some additional scars that you didn’t have previously. Perhaps a day will come when I will be thankful that you are in the heart of the North End, with flowers planted around you, cared for by people who like and respect you. I’ll be thankful that I can visit you easily, that your location is highly visible but still secure behind a metal fence. Perhaps I’ll appreciate the fact that, as a devout Catholic, you’d likely be flattered to be among a statue garden of saints. Perhaps I’ll be happy that you are happy in your new location, and entertain the idea that you might even prefer it to the old one. Perhaps I’ll be amused by the idea of you hanging out with your new friends. Perhaps I’ll even contact the church office, talk with them, and try to become involved in the church.
But today is not that day. Right now, all I feel is sadness. The thought of you in the Peace Garden, surrounded by your saintly friends, brings nothing but stabbing pain. Now, all I want is for things to go back to the way they were before. I know that this is impossible, and I know that there is no practical utility in feeling this way, but it is the way that I feel, and my brain just can’t move past it. All I want is for things to be the way that they are the picture above. The picture depicts you the way that you are supposed to be. And right now, for me, nothing else is acceptable.
You used to be mine. And now, thanks to the actions of a heartless and soulless bigot, completely lacking in empathy for anyone other than himself, everything is ruined.
Lately, I have been finding it difficult to go on.
I have been thinking about the idea that everyone has the right to their own perspective, their own viewpoint, their own feelings, their own emotions. Some people would argue that it makes no sense to say that a person’s feelings are wrong, or that someone has no right to feel angry or upset at a situation. According to this way of thinking, if a person is angry or upset at a situation, then they automatically have a right to feel that way, because that is the way that they feel. As a believer in objective moral truth, I am skeptical of this idea. I believe that if something is objectively not bad, then no one has the right to criticize it or feel any negative emotions about it, because to do so is to punish someone who has done nothing wrong.
But I digress. Regardless of which side is right in this philosophical debate, what has bothered me so much about the events of the past four and a half years is that people have not merely felt, or voiced, negative emotions about the historical figures that I love. They have enacted those feelings in ways that have involved the physical destruction of the historical figures. And regardless of one’s feelings about the historical figures that I love, regardless of what one thinks about their merit as historical figures, everyone should agree that physically eradicating historical figures from the earth is wrong. Everyone should agree that disliking someone does not give you the right to murder them.
Yet everyone, clearly, does not agree with this.
I’ve had to watch, through pictures, videos, news reports, and social media posts, the man that I love be strangled, lynched, beheaded, smashed to pieces, drowned, burned. I have had absolutely no power to stop this, to prevent it, to reverse it, to gain any sort of compensation or restitution for that harm that has been done to me. I don’t even have the power to voice my pain and be heard. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter many different ways of explaining I attempt, society refuses to recognize that any harm has been done to me at all. Whenever I try to express my viewpoint, to voice my grief and anger, to present any sort of argument for why what happened was wrong, I am met with insults and ridicule. People call me a racist, an idiot, a moron, say that I should be barred from public spaces, laugh in my face using Facebook’s hideous “laughing face” reaction. When I contact public officials, I am either ignored entirely, or lectured about how I am wrong, and how the murder of the man that I love was a good thing, and how I need to have more empathy for others and to educate myself about the harm caused. The fact that harm was caused to me by the murder of the man that I love is denied and disregarded. The idea of others actually having empathy for me is not even acknowledged as a possibility.
This is why I’m outraged upon coming across the following quote from Tim Walz: “How is it fair that you’re paying your taxes every year, and Donald Trump hasn’t paid any federal tax in the last 15 years?”
Walz’s sentiments are so lacking in empathy that it’s appalling.
After being forced to watch the man that I love be strangled, lynched, beheaded, smashed to pieces, drowned, and burned, dozens upon dozens of times, I don’t care a whit about how much tax money Donald Trump pays. What I care about is the man that I love, and the fact that he was murdered.
Tim Walz, in fact, made a deliberate decision to allow the man I love to be murdered. Tim Walz knew that a group of bigots and bullies were planning to lynch Christopher Columbus at the state capitol building in St. Paul, Minnesota on a particular day and at a particular time. And he ordered the state police to stand down, to do nothing, to make no attempt to stop the lynching. So the man that I love was lynched, brutally and excruciatingly, on the steps of the state capitol, as dozens of cops stood and watched. The images of the noose being tied around his neck, his metal body crashing to the ground, a bigot named Mike Forcia standing on Christopher’s pedestal and thrusting his arms into the air in sickening triumph, mindless bigots posing with their knees on Christopher’s neck as he lay pitifully face down on the ground, a line of cops standing at attention and doing absolutely nothing as these horrifying events took place, are indelibly seared into my mind. The excruciating agony will be with me forever. It burns my consciousness and torments my soul as I type this sentence.
But to Tim Walz, the lynching of the man that I love does not matter. It is not important, not a problem, not worth doing anything about. Tim Walz thinks that the amount of taxes paid by Donald Trump is more important than Christopher’s life, more important than the soul-crushing trauma and pain that I’ve been subjected to.
Lately, my mood has been low and down, my soul feels crushed, and everything feels heavy. For four and a half years I’ve lived with trauma that never goes away, that contaminates nearly every person, organization, place, and activity, that eats at my mind when I’m trying to fall asleep, that erupts into a volcano of anguish at the smallest reminder. And no one cares. Society thinks that the problem is me, that the man I love deserved to be murdered, that I am racist and bad for loving him, and that I need to change so that I’m not as upset about the fact that he was murdered. It’s difficult to imagine a path forward, a life that could be meaningful, given these circumstances.
Meanwhile, the people who lynched the man that I love have faced no negative consequences at all. Their needs are being met, just as they always have been. They haven’t suffered trauma. They are told that they are perfectly fine the way they are (righteous and honorable even, depending on who you ask), that they don’t need to change. They are able to live their lives, spend time with friends and family, love their romantic partners, raise their children, engage in their hobbies, and voice their views without criticism, without insults, without laughing face emojis. Tim Walz is able to campaign for Vice President of the United States with his wife and children by his side, participate in debates, speeches, and interviews on meaningless issues, and almost entirely avoid any accountability for his decision to facilitate the lynching of the man that I love.
In the eyes of society, the people who hurt me, the people who murdered the man that I love, hold the moral high ground. In the eyes of society, I am condemned as shameful, disgusting, and morally bad for having been hurt, and the man I love is ridiculed for having been murdered.
In other words, the person who has done nothing wrong in this situation bears 100% of the negative consequences, and the people who have done something wrong, by causing the horrible situation, bear 0% of the consequences.
Today, my heart hurts. I feel exhausted, drained, and demoralized. I feel weak and tired, my brain feels dull, foggy, and slow, and my body feels heavy.
I have not been blogging as much as I would like. For the entire month of September, I did not blog at all, and so far in October, I have done so only sporadically. This is beyond frustrating, because there are so many thoughts in my brain that I want and need to express. But I can’t. I simply do not have the time, or the energy. Things have not been going well for me. I have been experiencing autistic burnout for four and a half years, and for the past two and a half months it has been particularly severe.
The Olympics marked the beginning of this bad stretch of time. Sports have traditionally been one of my biggest special interests, so this was something that I had been eagerly anticipating. But NBC’s coverage decisions meant that I was unable to watch all of the coverage that I needed to. There was simply too much of it. And so what I thought would be both a challenging and exciting experience turned into a nightmare of overstimulation, information overload, mental exhaustion, and sleep deprivation. I managed to alter my goals and mindset regarding the Olympics, allowing me to endure the experience. This was extremely difficult for me as an autistic person, and is something that I am proud of myself for doing. But being proud of oneself for accomplishing something is not the same as having a positive experience. The Olympics turned out to be something that I needed to endure, rather than something enjoyable and rewarding. And that is not great, to put it mildly. Not only was I subjected to an inordinate amount of stress and exhaustion, but I was denied the rewarding experience that I was picturing and expecting.
Also starting around this time, I began to feel vaguely physically unwell, which continues to this day. I have been suffering from a runny and stuffy nose, sore and scratchy throat, cough, itchy and watery eyes, headaches, earaches, and low-grade fevers. These symptoms come and go, waning and giving me hope that they will finally be gone, only come roaring back the following day. These symptoms haven’t reached a level of severity that would cause me to miss work or cancel any activities that I had committed to, but they have caused me to be constantly miserable. It has really taken a toll on my mental health and quality of life.
Throughout August and September, I also had an inordinate amount of difficult interpersonal situations put onto my plate to deal with. Texts and messages that I didn’t know how to respond to, uncomfortable phone calls that I had to make, requests for social get-togethers that I knew I wouldn’t be able to do but that were excruciatingly painful to say no to. I have made the decision to quit socializing, because friendships simply don’t work for me given my autism and history of trauma involving interpersonal situations. But people continue to ask me to socialize with them, and every time they do, the wound is ripped open and I essentially am forced to make the painful decision to quit socializing anew. These situations have been emotionally exhausting and have used up a lot of mental resources.
Because of my overall level of exhaustion, I have been sleeping very late, even when I go to bed relatively early. As a result, I essentially don’t have time to do anything other than getting ready for work, and working. I don’t have time to take walks, I don’t have time to run errands, and I don’t have time for writing. Such an enormous amount of time is spent sleeping, that there is no time for anything else. Despite this, I wake up exhausted, and it is painful to wrench myself out of bed. In other words, even this enormous amount of time spent sleeping is not enough. Most likely, no amount of sleep would be enough to make me feel refreshed and well-rested. Normally, I enjoy walking around the pond near my house, in the woods, and in the center of town, looking at the beautiful fall foliage and photographing it. But I haven’t really had time to do this. The fall season is passing me by, and I’m not able to enjoy or experience it in any meaningful sense. This is a depressing way to live. In fact, I would argue that it does not quality as truly living, but merely as existing.
I’ve also had numerous workdays get screwed up. My work is usually a source of stability and routine. I can focus on something concrete, such as ringing up customers’ groceries at the cash register, bagging the groceries, collecting shopping carts in the parking lot, or stocking groceries in a section of the store. But I’ve been subjected to various instances that have turned my job into a source of dysregulation and chaos. On multiple occasions, I’ve been trapped with slow-walking and talkative co-workers during the commute home, causing me to miss the train and preventing me from doing Italian lessons on my phone. One night, the staff was asked to stay an hour late (not a problem in itself) and a co-worker pressured me into getting a ride home with another co-worker rather than taking the train as I usually do (apparently thinking, for some reason, that the fact that it was an hour later made it unsafe to take the train). Another night, the manager didn’t give clear instructions, so I didn’t know what section of the store I was supposed to work on or when I was supposed to stop. And another night, too much frozen food was ordered, so I ended my shift by pushing boxes of food with all my might in a (futile) attempt to force them into the completely packed walk-in freezer.
Worst of all, when my manager was explaining how the Columbus Day holiday would affect projected sales, one of my co-workers interrupted to “correct” the holiday name to “Indigenous Peoples’ Day.” When my manager responded that people could call the holiday whatever they wanted to, another co-worker interjected, “As long as you don’t call it Columbus Day! Anything but Columbus Day!” If you know anything of my feelings about Christopher Columbus, you won’t be surprised to learn that this caused me to be flooded with excruciating, agonizing pain. And it brings me to the next cause of this recent exacerbation of autistic burnout: Columbus Day.
Given that I love Christopher Columbus more than anything in the world, Columbus Day should be the best day of the year for me, or at least a better than average one. But this year at least, it was horrible. I attended and sold my artwork at an Italian festival, which should have been fun and exciting. However, I had to stay up late the night before in order to get my work ready, it was cold, rainy, and windy (all things that severely bother my sensory sensitivities), and a friend came by to sit at my table and help break it down at the end of the event (despite the fact that I had previously told her, as nicely as possible, that I did not need or want her help). This all amounted to an uncomfortable, angering, and draining experience. Instead of celebrating and honoring the man I love, I spent the day coping with an experience that was exhausting, out of control, and chaotic.
Plus, as has been the case every year starting in 2020, various people, companies, and organizations used the occasion to attack Columbus, and therefore myself. I am too mentally exhausted and in pain to describe these things in detail, but the culprits include various cities and towns, American Gril (yes, the doll company), and every museum and park in Boston. Every time I see the words, “Indigenous Peoples’ Day,” I am filled with agonizing pain. There are no words that can adequately express the hurt of seeing other people’s perspectives validated, suffering acknowledged, cultures celebrated, and voices heard, while my perspective is dismissed, my suffering ignored, my culture shamed and condemned, and my words ridiculed. No matter how hard I try, I cannot force others to listen to my ideas, understand my point of view, or empathize with my pain. When you combine this with all the other things that I’ve described in this blog post, I feel beaten down. My spirit is crushed. So many things that used to give me pleasure have been taken away, contaminated, ruined. There is almost nothing that I can direct my time, energy, or attention towards that does not cause excruciating pain. It is difficult for me to see a path forward.
I am trying to keep the faith. I am trying to remind myself that I have felt this way before and have survived, and have returned to a state of happiness again. I am trying to remind myself that at some point in the future, my body will have more energy, and my brain will once again feel sharp. But right now, that isn’t the case. Right now, everything feels heavy, dark, and hopeless. Right now, everything hurts.
According to an email that I received from the organization Defend Arlington, several amicus briefs were recently filed in the litigation surrounding the atrocity that was committed at Arlington National Cemetery.
The organizations filing amicus briefs in support of reversing the despicable atrocity include the Foundation for Moral Law, the Society for the Preservation of Jewish Civil War History, the Virginia Council, Guardians of American History, Hood’s Texas Brigade, and Veterans Monuments of America.
I was struck by the following quote by the Foundation for Moral Law:
Sadly, the Reconciliation monument – erected in 1914 to reconcile and bring closure to harsh feelings about the War, and to honor those who fought bravely for their homes and families – is now being sacrificed on an altar of political correctness. Not only is Arlington National Cemetery being deprived of what is arguably its most impressive and beautiful work of art, but the relatives and survivors of those who are buried in that section of the Century are also being deprived of this Monument to their ancestors, all because someone thinks they should not have to be exposed to ideas with which they disagree.
I would go even further and argue that not only do the worshippers of political correctness believe that they should not have to be exposed to ideas with which they disagree; they believe that they should not have to be exposed to the existence of people that they dislike. The defining quality of political correctness (and “woke” ideology, which is a synonym for political correctness) is intolerance for people who are different. Believers in this ideology possess complete and utter intolerance for people who are different from them. Essentially, they believe that people who are different from them should not be allowed to exist. (Many people would say that I am exaggerating by claiming this, but I truly don’t think I am.) This is extremely ironic, given that this ideology purports to be all about diversity and inclusion. In reality, it is about the opposite: conformity, compliance, and obedience to authority.
The Virginia Council, for their part, argued that by committing the atrocity, the Department of Defense “frustrated national historic preservation policy and contributed to the proliferation of cancel culture.” That, I would argue, is an understatement.
If you are interested in supporting the organization fighting back against the Arlington atrocity, you can visit their website at DefendArlington.org. You can also view the press release about the amicus briefs here.
Four years ago today, three historical monuments were removed from the North Carolina state capitol grounds in Raleigh. One honored Confederate soldiers, another honored the Women of the Confederacy, and the third honored Henry Lawson Wyatt, the first Confederate soldier from North Carolina to be killed in the war.
“Monuments to white supremacy don’t belong in places of allegiance, and it’s past time that these painful memorials be moved in a legal, safe way,” stated Gov. Roy Cooper.
Even four years later, reading these words makes me sick to my stomach.
These were not monuments to white supremacy; they were monuments to the idea of being different, thinking for oneself, and resisting authority. They were monuments signifying the right of people who are different from the norm to be accepted and included.
These memorials were not painful. Rather the removal of these memorials was painful. The removal of these memorials – along with countless others like them across the country and world – was not only painful but was the most painful thing, by far, that has ever happened to me. I believe that it was the most painful thing that has ever happened to any person.
Because I am a person who is different from the norm, these memorials were necessary in order for me to have a life worth living. And Roy Cooper chose to take them away, on purpose. This action was so completely lacking in empathy that it defies comprehension. And Cooper’s words, in which he characterizes the memorials that he removed as somehow “painful” – while completely failing to acknowledge the excruciating, indescribable, and unbearable pain that he inflicted by removing them – are even more lacking in empathy.
In other words, not only does Cooper falsely condemn statues as “painful” and “white supremacist” when they are nothing of the sort, but he simultaneously fails to acknowledge the pain inflicted by his own actions.
Four years later, I am still grieving. I am still in pain from Roy Cooper’s actions and words, and the dozens upon dozens of similarly horrible actions and words of bigots and bullies across the country and world. To some degree, I always will be.
It is reprehensible for bullies like Roy Cooper to describe the statues that they obliterated from existence as somehow painful, when in reality it is the statues’ removals that are not merely painful, but excruciatingly, indescribably, and unbearably so. The words and actions of these bigots demonstrate a complete lack of empathy, complete intolerance for people who are different from them, and complete disregard for our feelings and thoughts.
Confederate memorials are not painful.
Removal of Confederate memorials is painful.
And not just painful, but the most painful thing that has ever happened, and the most painful thing imaginable.
Four years ago today, a sequence of events began, which changed my life completely.
Over the past four years, I’ve experienced unimaginable pain. Pain more excruciating than I thought was even possible for a person to feel. Pain so overwhelming that for the first few months I was reeling, in shock, unable to truly comprehend what was happening or to find adequate words to express how I felt about it. Pain that will take a lifetime to fully process. The events of the past four years have made the world a worse place to a degree so enormous that it is still not fully comprehensible. For a large percentage of this time, I believed that suicide was the best option, given the extent to which the things that make life worth living have been destroyed.
The BLM movement, the “racial reckoning,” the push for racial justice, the statue takedown movement, DEI, political correctness, “woke” ideology…. whatever term one uses, this movement and this ideology did not originate on this date four years ago, but they did rise to power and prominence. What happened four years ago enabled this ideology to become mainstream, to dominate our society, to become the norm. And make no mistake: it is an ideology of authoritarianism and intolerance that has inflicted tremendous harm.
This movement claims to be all about diversity, when in reality it is waging a cruel and brutal campaign to obliterate from the world all forms of diversity that actually matter.
This movement claims to value inclusion, at the same time that it calls for anyone who is different from the norm to be attacked, condemned, and exiled from society.
This movement claims to strive for equity, when in reality it has perpetrated injustices so egregious that they shock the conscience.
This movement claims to fight for the oppressed, yet it itself is the cause of oppression.
This movement claims to help marginalized people, while stomping on the faces of those who are truly marginalized.
This movement insults and shames me for allegedly having “privilege,” when its adherents are the ones who actually hold privilege in our society.
This movement condemns people who have done nothing wrong for allegedly “causing harm,” when its adherents are the ones causing horrific, agonizing, and indescribable pain.
This movement lectures people about empathy, at the same time as it itself demonstrates appalling lack of empathy.
Black Lives Matter, people chanted in the streets, repeated mindlessly in their social media posts, and pontificated in self-righteous press releases. But what about my life? Why does my life not seem to matter in the eyes of society?
People pontificate about “the harm done,” but what about the harm done to me? Why does that not seem to matter in the eyes of society?
It boggles the mind that a movement and ideology could portray itself as, and be perceived as, something so much the opposite of what it actually is.
Because this movement and ideology are profoundly immoral. This movement has inflicted immense harm on the people who deserve it the least. Its ideology is cruel, intolerant, destructive, totalitarian, and completely lacking in empathy. At its core, this movement and ideology are about compliance and conformity, about obliterating all meaningful diversity from the world, about condemning and destroying anyone who dares to be different, to challenge authority, or to diverge from social norms in any way. That is why underdogs and rebels are its targets. This movement is about awarding further benefits to those who are already the best-off in our society, providing further validation to those who need it the least, and inflicting further hurt on those who are already facing the most significant challenges, struggles, and difficulties. This movement’s rise to power has been, by far, the worst thing that has happened in the history of the world. Its adherents do not hold the moral high ground.
But the events of the past four years have also caused me to realize what matters. For too long I had been spending my time and energy on things that are not important, things that I felt I had no choice but to do, because other people expected them of me. But now I have realized that historical figures are the true purpose of life. This does not make the atrocities that have been committed any less atrocious… but I have found a meaning and purpose that I did not have before. The historical figures will live on through me. I will continue to share my perspective, because despite what our society says, it is just as valid and correct as anyone else’s. I will stand up for the historical figures and for myself. I will do whatever I can to honor them and bring them justice.
A sliver of good news that gives me hope in these dark times: two schools in Virginia have restored Confederate school names!
Stonewall Jackson High School and Ashby Lee Elementary School (named for Turner Ashby and Robert E. Lee) had been renamed to Mountain View High School and Honey Run Elementary School during the nationwide war against people who are different that began following the death of George Floyd. (Waging a war against people who are different in response to a cop killing a person who happens to be black is about as logical as it sounds.) But now, in a triumph for true inclusion, diversity, and human decency, the school board has voted to change the names back!
This is fantastic news. This is a victory for all people who are different from the norm, like me, because Confederate place names, holidays, statues, and monuments are symbols of inclusion and acceptance of people who are different. The restored school names send a message of inclusion and acceptance of students who are different. They make a statement that it is okay to be different. They send the message that students who have trouble fitting in – whether they are nerdy, dress differently than the other kids, like different music, watch different TV shows, have different interests, or are on the autism spectrum – deserve to be included and accepted for who they are.
Taking the Confederate school names away was a cruel and mean-spirited decision amidst nearly four years of ubiquitous and soul-crushing cruelty and meanness. It is a tiny iota of justice, and brings a tiny glimmer of hope, that the names have been changed back.
