by Alex Bonilla
Categories
Disability in America: Past and Future
Author: Antisearch
Categories
Um, Like, Don’t Interrupt Me:
The Effects of Filler Words and Conversational Interruptions Among Genders on College Students at Seton Hall University
Categories
What is Ethics? And What is Ethical?
Categories
Had They Only Smelled the Roses
Charlie knew something was off when he felt the largest toe on his left foot graze the inner tip of his long-worn work boot. Charlie had owned these boots for a decade, and over the countless miles he strode, the firm boots accepted him and had developed a kindness to him. They had always fit perfectly before, as did everything in his quaint little home. Well… Who is meant to tell feet when to stop growing? Certainly not Charlie. He made the best of situations, never letting himself get caught up in hysterics or drama.
Truly, the only thing Charlie could ever be caught up in was the tidying of his home and excessive grooming of his grounds. In reality, his front yard could fit no more than four giraffes standing side-by-side. Four very relaxed giraffes I might add. To Charlie however, his grounds were the Orangerie. So meticulously plucked and pampered, his yard bloomed with exotic dahlia and peonies in the summer, and a cornucopia of tulips, every color. Even a few black tulips shipped in directly from France. Charlie was not very fond of Dumas himself, however, he thought it would amuse the more cultured guests. Not that he could expect to even have uncultured company.
To say that Charlie “lived alone”, was an understatement. To say that Charlie was alone, doubly so. He had never wed, nor had he sprouted any fastidious children. Charlie had always meant to start a family but a certain type of nothing seemed to have delayed that plan for so long he had chalked that down to one of life’s necessary tragedies. Besides, he had his home to look after. He also felt a certain dread at the thought of his own flesh and blood tearing up his garden. Or worse, neglecting its tending and watching it fall to ruin. A ghastly thought. Though not because of the death of so many a beautiful flower. Rather, he would mourn the loss of his image, for he believed that presentation was everything.
Charlie’s home reflected his condition acutely. There was a palpable history held within its walls. A history which Charlie had always been so eager to tell. Unfortunately, he had never been granted the opportunity. If he were given the honor however, we would have started with the china. It had been a gift to him from his mother. That china set had been her most valuable possession. Charlie (she always called him Charles), remembered how overjoyed she was when she saw what a lovely home he had acquired. He believed he was doing her honor by having the dining table always set for a great gathering.
Salad forks, wine glasses, cloth napkins in the shapes of stars, and a glorious golden candle holder. The candle it held had been lit before, but only once. The day he first set the table. This happened to be just before he fancied a stroll around the grounds. Even Charlie knew not to leave a lit flame unattended. By now, even the candle had given up hope for good company, settling into the life of a coping mechanism. Speaking of which, Charlie had an open pantry that was always overflowing with fresh breads, fruit preserves, salted meats, fresh potted herbs, and aged wine. He believed in always being ready for company, and that meant, always being ready for a good feast.
Some may pity his condition, but he lived a very purposeful life, in his own regard. Never giving himself enough rest to become truly comfortable, for fear he would grow sedentary and neglect his grounds. Coincidentally, rest was also the first thing it took from Charlie.
He could not tell why at first. He had always gone to bed when the sun would fall and wake when she would rise again. This time was different. It could not have been him for he certainly did not do anything out of the ordinary, he always made a point of that.
Before the week was out, Charlie had flipped the mattress eight times, rotated it five, and had repositioned the bed against the wall. Not that this helped any great deal, he just convinced himself it did so he could get back to his garden. Sighing, he stepped out the door with his gardening shears and gloves in hand. It was then that he noticed the third extraordinary occurrence. In a struggle to fit his hands into his gloves, he tore a hole in the palm. It was evident his hands were too big to fit into the gloves he had used for the last two tulip seasons. His mind and gaze went to his feet, feeling his big toes rub against the tip of his boots.
That night, after long hours of careful grooming, Charlie dreamt that he is woken by a great thumping outside his door. When he looks out the window, he sees a monster, no less than twenty-feet tall. The books his father used to read him as a child would have called the ugly beast a giant. The giant was using its massive feet to stomp his precious tulips into mince. Without the slightest thought, Charlie runs out his door and is frozen as the giants cold, dark eyes meet his. Without a word, the giant comes barreling towards him. In its wake, a cloud of topsoil, earthworms, and missed opportunity. Charlie narrowly dodges the giant’s bum rush only to find that he was not the beast’s target. It was his beloved home to take that blow. In one charge, the giant had torn through the whole house before calmly thumping off into the surrounding wood.
Charlie woke in a frenzy. Dashing and leaping off every piece of furniture on his way out the front door. He nearly collapsed to the ground at the relief of seeing his grounds safe and sound. Feeling a little light-headed and a bit out of sorts, he stepped back into the house and rummaged around the kitchen for some breakfast. He settled into familiarity. Two eggs (sunny side up), a thin slice of salt-cured roast, and a glass of fresh orange juice. Perhaps it was residual paranoia from his night terror, but it seemed to him that he had finished his breakfast a bit faster than usual. Most people would not pick up on these nuances. But to Charlie, it had to be noted.
He had been weeding his flower patches (now barehanded) for a few hours when he began to feel a slight rumbling in his abdomen, which his brain immediately interpreted as hunger. This was an entirely unusual feeling that years of routine meals sheltered him from. He looked at the time. Still two hours till lunch. He tried not to let more irrational paranoia pry into his subconscious. Upon stepping back inside, a bowl of fresh pears on his dining table seemed to call. No. Shout to Charlie. He heedlessly rushed to the table to retrieve one, his forehead making-contact with the stained-glass lighting fixture hanging above his table.
This could not be written off as another coincidence. Yet another meticulous feature of his home, was that every lamp, rafter, doorway, and cabinet door was positioned at least a few inches higher than himself, as to not encounter such a fate. Dazed, Charlie fell into a wicker chair beside the table that abruptly gave way under his weight, sending him crashing twenty-two inches with a thud that woke up all the mice that lived under his floorboards. The squirrel in his attic however, was completely unphased (he was pretty easy going about these things). After a moment or two, the haziness subsided.
Stumbling to his feet, he made way for the bedroom. In these types of situations, a good night’s rest is the only thing for you. Unfortunately, just as that thought crossed his mind, his head connected with the doorway and before he could even register what happened, Charlie was laid out flat on his back.
He woke to a familiar thudding outside his home. He recognized the giant, barreling out of the wood towards his home once again. He thought of nothing but his precious acreage (more yardage speaking technically). Deep in his subconscious, he tore out the front door far faster than humanly possible. Managing to reach the edge of his grounds before the giant. This time, utterly fearless, he stood ready to defend his livelihood. Strangely, when the giant reached him, it stopped. Somewhere in the neighborhood between carelessness and bravery, he stood reverent.
The great creature let out a great huff of air and bent down. Frozen, he was merely a spectator in his own undoing. Expecting to be squished or chewed on, Charlie found himself in the gentle grasp of the great giant. He was pulled closer and higher, almost expecting to see a smile on the giant’s face. He was met with quite the opposite.
The gnarling brute stared through him with its bowling ball eyes. The giant took in such a breath, Charlie nearly felt he would be swept away. The beast bore its foul teeth and out of his mouth came a cacophony of voices. It was as if, behind the giant’s grizzly maw, a mob was erupting.
He awoke on the floor, where he had just suffered a slight head trauma. His father, Charles senior would have said he merely “rang his bell”. Charlie was never very fond of that expression because to him, a bell always meant dinner. This was quite possibly the farthest thing from a home-cooked meal. Groggy and beaten, Charlie managed to slink himself into his bed. He would normally have felt pathetic in this moment but thankfully that feeling was overshadowed by the feeling of a mild concussion. He probably would have felt pathetic the next morning as well, if it had not been that his feet were now sticking about one dinner roll’s length past his bedframe.
Charlie was never much for superstition, but he certainly knew how long his bedframe was. He was the one who built it. The frame had once been a mighty oak with roots far older than Charlie or his precious china. He decided to chop it down very early into his residence. He thought it would make more room for guests at his famous garden receptions and summer soirees. Famous to him and the tulips that is. These theoretical shindigs were the real reason he decided to move away from home and settle down in the first place. The image of strangers venturing far and wide to visit his humble home motivated him to a point of obsession. He believed, if he cared for his flowers with all his mind and body, that one day the forest breeze would carry their sweet scent into the busy streets of the city outside the wood. The overworked laborers and artisans would follow the aroma to his home where they would be greeted with fresh food, music, and most importantly, good company. Charlie was sure that he could convince everyone in all the land to stop and smell the roses, so to speak.
Seasons had come and passed, his flowers grew high and bloomed the most beautiful colors. When the winds would bellow, Charlie would don his wicker tables with cloth and crystal. He would arrange the freshest fruit picked from his trees and sit on the lawn playing his strings waiting company to emerge from the wood. After five blooming seasons, Charlie looked upon his grounds. Every blade of grass groomed, every tree pruned, every blossom flourishing. This disconcerted him and forced him to direct his criticism within. Charlie had become fixated on perfecting every single aspect of his home. He was sure that once all facets of his dwelling were complete, his estate would flood with visitors and his perfect life would be complete.
In the following days, paranoia and fear gripped Charlie. Only leaving the house to quickly tend to his grounds. He found himself looking at the corners of his house, questioning how his fork and knife fit in his palms, and how his shadow seemed to climb higher and higher on the wall each evening. On one particularly quiet night he managed to quell his worries and sink the part of his body that still fit on his bed into a deep sleep.
Charlie woke up to the sun shining in his eyes. He would probably have wondered how he slept so late, but he was entirely preoccupied by an unfamiliar bustle. He meandered through his home cautiously, anxious as to the source of the ruckus. As he passed through his oaken front door, the sunshine illuminated something far more surprising than a snarling beast. Before him was…a gathering? What a turnout. Charlie did not know whether to start sobbing or dancing a light jig as he studied his own property. People were telling stories, stuffing their faces, and laughing like the very first joke had debuted at that very reception.
Awestruck, Charlie gazed over the guests. Cherishing their presence and doing his best to take in every aspect of their existence. He tried to commit each of their faces to memory. He wished he could imprint every word of their conversations into his memory so he may recall them as a symbol of triumph. In a trance, Charlie strode towards the commotion. With every step, he felt the distance between himself and the ground stretch. Foot over foot he began to tower over his guests. Their heads began to look like marbles in the games he played as a child. Slowly, the guest’s eyes began to meet his and he saw as their cheery faces turned horrified. Some let out shrieks of terror, mothers clutched their children, some made haste into the woods, some stunned petrified in their seats.
Charlie tried explaining himself but when he opened his mouth, only snarled rumbles escaped. Almost all the guests were now to their feet and Charlie panicked. He chased after them trying to show his visitors that he was not the monster they saw before them. In his desperation, he grabbed hold of a woman stumbling into the forest at the back of the pack and brought her to his line of sight. She let out a frantic call for help before passing out seemingly from lightheadedness. Charlie placed her gently down on a topiary the border of his property and turned dejected back toward his home. He noticed that in his panic, he accidentally trampled his precious plot of tulips. He dropped to the earth in agony. Collapsing into unconsciousness himself too now, just after catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his kitchen window. Realizing he was now face to face with the giant beast that had plagued his nightmares.
He woke to a crash, a thud, and a flop. His oaken bedframe had buckled under his now, hulking frame. His pajamas were hugging him much in the way that a suitcase hugs its contents when one has been told that there is not enough space for two pieces of luggage. Upon rising, all of Charlie’s buttons altogether gave up their post and set off, in search of greener pastures. One even flew clear across the room and landed gracefully in a porcelain carafe that he had been using to house a blushing orchid, as well as, unknowingly, a small family of stinkbugs who had lived in the carafe for the past four years. One would assume that the stinkbugs would have given up their position at this point because of the species’ titular emissions. The Franklins (that was the stinkbug family’s surname) however, were a compromising lot that understood how to coexist and always made a point of respecting the owners of the homes they inhabited. Though Charlie knew nothing of their existence, given the opportunity, he would probably have gotten along quite well with the Franklins.
Stepping into the kitchen, Charlie’s clothes wrenched, snapped, and pulled until they forcibly sloughed off his body onto the wooden floor. From a great distance, it may look as if Charlie was molting. Much unlike a butterfly, he felt naked, cold, and void of any wings (one tends to notice that sort of thing). He scoured his modest closet for any oversized articles that may shelter his looming form. Unfortunately, like everything in Charlie’s life, all of his clothes were not oversized, they were merely… sized. He was now too big for his britches, literally. If the situation were not so distressing, he may have been able to enjoy the irony.
Charlie was further gripped with the fangs of paranoia. He was growing into a monster and there was seemingly nothing to be done about it. He could not face the prospect of being seen. Remembering what happened to the woman in his dream, he would not allow any other nightmare prophecy to make its way into his reality. With sleepless eyes and a weary heart, he began to board up each and every window, door, and mousehole. And as the last traces of natural light were snuffed out, he saw his once pleasant home turn to a detention cell.
The first few days we’re the unkindest to Charlie. He wept first for his tulips. Imagining them being overtaken and slowly consumed by the weeds he so vehemently kept at bay. Picturing their gentle petals gnawed on by the mammalian inhabitants of the forest. Charlie then wept for his dreams. He would never get to see his garden full of life and conversation. No one would hear his songs or enjoy the sweet smells of his flowers. It made him wonder if he would have been better off just trying to enjoy his own company all these years instead of yearning for other’s.
By the end of the first week, Charlie was confined to his bedroom because he was no longer able to stoop low enough to duck beneath the rafter between his bedroom and kitchen. By the end of the second, he could no longer stand straight up without making-contact with the ceiling and was forced to shift between crouching or laying in the fetal position. He laid there, deep in thought, trying to find some semblance of a silver lining. The only thing he was thankful for was the boards on his windows obstructing his view to his garden. He wasn’t sure he could take seeing his tulips fall to ruin as well as himself.
It was at around the month benchmark. No matter what position Charlie sat, kneeled, or laid, pieces of furniture stabbed into his body. The rubble that was once his bed was now splinters in his shins and his dresser dug sharply into the space between his second and third left rib. His spine had caused small fissures to spread in the rafters of his vaulted ceiling and he now pressed uncomfortably against the dark wood. He expanded in shallow breaths and with each inspiration, the pressure against the ceiling mounted. He would sometimes hear the little musings of wooden boards give way. A snap here or a crack there terrified him. His sanctuary would not hold him for much longer.
Because of the shallow breaths coupled with his bent posture, Charlie had been suffering from a mild hypoxia. Lightheadedness gave way to confusion and soon enough, he sank into a dreamlike state. In his delirium, he was no longer confined to his claustrophobic dwelling. He dreamed he was back in his garden.
The space around him felt effortless. Like time was somehow moving slightly slower than Charlie. Just slow enough to take each moment in fully, wholly, as it was. The breeze danced along his cheekbones and the sunlight swaddled him tightly. It all felt different than before. Like it was entirely there this time. Not missing any pieces to the puzzle. Not a puzzle, he thought. There were no pieces, no parts, no links to go missing. It was home.
He felt the grass in his hands. Tangible, genuine, impressionable. The heard the sounds of the trees. Their words, verbose and prosaic. He stepped forth and felt his knees extend on cathedral-door hinges. Heavy and burdened but willing. He felt pressure in his chest as he approached the bed of tulips. His precious cultivation was calling to him in an unspoken but omnipotent language. Consumed with every step, the will to reach his creation sustains him but barely. At the foot of the flowerbed, he topples limply into them.
Rather than being crushed under his weight, the tulips embrace the wilted body, and the crash makes almost no sound at all. Charlie is lucid as he watches the light pass through the leaves of the trees above. Reflexively, his body retracted into itself. Gently rolling onto his side, his arms and legs withdrew into his chest. Bathed in light, he had returned to the place he kept safe for himself. His eyelids became heavy and a part of him wondered if this is what a final resting place is meant to feel like. Peace.
He felt the tulips envelop him. Their roots and stems begin to fasten and intertwine around his fatigued form. The light passing through the spaces in the lattice become scant and he feels himself being to unravel beneath the foliage but felt the sting of uncertainty. Not disturbed, but unready.
With what little room there is left beneath his leafy cocoon, he managed to plant his palms upon the rich soil. His complete absence of vitality was proven fundamentally dishonest as he began feeling the pressure of the roots and vines against his back. What starts as light snaps and tears become heavy fractures. Charlie can feel the first stitches of light through the cracks in his canopy and soon the shelter gives way.
Standing, Charlie was blinded by light. Not soft and maternal as before, but harsh and oppressive. He felt the breeze as well. But it did not dance as it did before. It seemed to slice thick channels through the spaces between his appendages, chilling him to the bone. It was then that he realized.
Still adjusting to the light, the Charlie was forcefully torn from his illusion. The feeling of utter nakedness came just moments before absolute mortal fear. Shock proceeded. Followed by a momentary regret of not giving into his delusion and fading away into his flowerbed. By this time, the image of Charlie’s surroundings was beginning to become clear.
The scene was mosaic. Though overgrown and partially neglected, the garden retained its beauty in a new, symbiotic way. It was no longer an oasis, constantly resisting the diplomatic engagements taken by the forest perimeter. But rather, a welcome addendum to what already seemed complete.
Despite the implications, Charlie did not feel he did in his nightmares. His legs felt atrophied, his voice thin. He felt in no way tremendous. He was not looking down upon his flowers nor did he feel monstrous strength behind his flesh. He felt small, weak, and fractured. It was then that he finally let his gaze fall to his feet.
He felt wholly mistaken. What was once his mighty bastion, now little more than splintered wood and fragmented cement. His home, far more than he; had become small, weak, and terribly fractured. He knelt just briefly to ensure that he was in no way deceived by the sight.
Shifting bits of rubble around with his forefinger, he scraped his hand around the bedroom, then what had once resembled a kitchen, and finally the dining room. The wreckage was all but unrecognizable until something shiny caught a small fractal of light through the debris. Charlie managed to grasp between his thumb and forefinger, the candleholder that at one time had been the centerpiece of his dining room table. Now barely a toothpick in Charlie’s hand.
All at once, the unkempt grounds and forest came back to him. Still, just as he left them. There was only a moment of mourning. An instant of remembrance for his home. He remembered it spitefully, for it had been a prison for much longer than he had been boarded inside.
He embraced his flowers briefly. For they looked back at him with fervent familiarity. He was just the same. Bare, disheveled, but in no way disproportional to the world around him. No larger than the day he first stepped onto the grounds.
Then, without another glance, Charlie began a determined and unsteady pace into the wood. Naked and fragmented, leaving the image of home in his wake.
Categories
Don’t Watch Her Leave
Don’t Watch Her Leave
A juggler announces fair beauty And she sits upon a pedestal Smaller than she was before Accommodating his need To keep her on display One can’t help but wonder If this porcelain figure Truly traveled through the past For if she did Where are her cracks? The juggler continues his craft Each ball glowing with life He stole from the world Slinging them round And crafting his own universe So come to the circus! Where the elephant forgot to dance The lion has lost her voice And the porcelain display Whispers warnings For all but him to hear What a lovely circus! But don’t look away Or the elephant disappears And the lion won’t stay The figure will fade Smaller than before And the juggler will curse His vanishing display When the tent lights with color Strobing blues and reds Wonder what you’ll find And what you wish It was instead There is wailing in the circus So call all your friends See a juggler win a game Like he always does In the end Popcorn litters the floor But don’t mind the smell The festering comes From someone else’s Hell The lion returns to stalk the stage Ribs bare Flesh rotting off the bones And head held high This is how you know The porcelain doll is For a moment Safe Promise me Promise you’ll watch her stay Let your heart break When the lion turns to glass Watch when her joints shatter And when she leaves shards on the ground But promise me Promise That you won’t watch her leave.
Categories
God And Nation:
Categories
PAUL IS DEAD
Categories
Childhood Pictures
BY SAUL LOEB/AFP VIA GETTY IMAGES.
Amid the pandemic, a frequently disregarded portion of the GOP gained notoriety: Republican Governors. In a recent article, The Washington Post referred to Gov. Ron DeSantis of Florida (R), Gov. Kristi Noem of South Dakota (R), and Gov. Greg Abbott of Texas (R) as the “vanguard of GOP resistance to public health mandates.” As the article aptly notes, both DeSantis and Abbott have banned mask mandates, but this hardly qualifies them as thought leaders. Yet, people seem to keep referring to them as such.
Liberal news sources from The Washington Post to Vice have made Republican Governors, particularly Greg Abbott, front page news. From Abbott banning local officials from mandating masks in their regions to the announcement that he has contracted COVID-19, journalists have reported on Abbott religiously– and Democrats, nationwide, have dutifully shared these articles and infographics so everyone can watch Texas in abject horror. Unfortunately for them, that’s exactly what Abbott wants.
Okay, maybe he doesn’t want everyone to be horrified, but in a political climate where “owning the libs” is the centerpiece of the GOP’s strategy, the coverage does exactly what he needs it to.
Gov. Greg Abbott is up for reelection in 2022, and despite facing several challengers in the primary, even Democrats are sharing articles calling him a leader. With that kind of press, how could he lose? While his polling numbers are starting to dwindle, he’s winning the optics game. Even with increasing criticism from his own party, the election is still considered “Abbott’s to lose.” That assessment seems fair, considering that Gov. Abbott has raised over $55 million for his reelection campaign, more than any Texas candidate has raised in the state’s 176-year history.
It’s insufficient to just say Gov. Abbott wants attention; that can be said of any politician. Instead, there is something unique about how the governor is covered in the news that works to his benefit. National headlines about state governance typically do one of two things: prompt outrage or elicit praise. For Greg Abbott, these headlines do both, often while furthering the causes he supports.
By now, every major news outlet has reported that Abbott has contracted COVID-19. While Abbott is firmly anti-mandate, he, through personal choice, is fully vaccinated, making this a breakthrough infection. CNN declared that this experience should teach Abbott that masks work, emphasizing that should reverse his stance on mask mandates. The article acknowledges that this is a lesson Abbott is bound to ignore, but the implications of Abbott’s infection and its coverage may go far deeper than the maintenance of the status quo.
As of August 16, only 45% of Texas is fully vaccinated and less than 60% of the state has received their first dose. While Abbott has encouraged his state to get vaccinated, his efforts appeared half-hearted and failed to convince many of his constituents to get the jab. Breakthrough infections are to be expected and cases involving unvaccinated patients now make up the vast majority of deaths, but when these breakthroughs happen at the highest level of vaccine-hesitant states, the greatest negative impact will be to that state’s vaccination rates. Spreading the news of Gov. Abbott’s asymptomatic case will not change his mind about mask mandates, but it can very easily convince the unvaccinated and the partially vaccinated that they don’t need the vaccine.
The discussion of Greg Abbott’s infection often includes one seemingly key and outrageous detail: he attended a maskless campaign event the day before. However, Democrats need to consider the consequences before grabbing their pitchforks. Can crowded, maskless events (where, statistically speaking, most people are unlikely to be vaccinated) be superspreader events? Absolutely! That’s why the CDC recommends even fully vaccinated people don masks in high transmission areas. Will the mass criticism of these events followed by limited to no outbreak encourage more of these events? Again, yes. When people share messages, they amplify their reach, but it’s not always clear what messages are gaining traction. Disease spread by asymptomatic vaccinated people, like Gov. Abbott, is something that the CDC has yet to publish data on. While this is an important thing to monitor, using an unknown to drum up concern is bound to panic the Left and bolster the Right. To raise concerns and be wrong seems to be one of the most dangerous things Democrats could do as we attempt to beat the pandemic.
It’s important that people remain informed and that constituents stay critical, so this is not to tell you to stop reading and writing about Greg Abbott and other Republicans. But if you’re a Democrat (or anyone who has a vested interest in not amplifying Republican messaging), here are a few ways to not do what Greg Abbott wants:
- To journalists, be cognizant of what you write. Do you really want to give someone you’re being critical of the reputation of a ‘vanguard’? How could your words be adapted for messaging you disagree with? Is the detail you’re adding something the people need to know, or is it just to maximize the clicks on your article?
- To Texans, don’t give up. Greg Abbott hasn’t won the gubernatorial race yet and, despite what experts have said, this race isn’t his. Learn about what Abbott has done and then amplify the message of a candidate who promises to do what you believe in. Talk to your neighbors and your peers about what can be done to improve your state. Channel your outrage into motivation and prevent the governor from getting the kind of attention he thrives on.
- To the vaccinated, talk to people about it! It’s easy to shame the unvaccinated and people hosting maskless events, and even easier to call them selfish and move on. However, the majority of unvaccinated people aren’t declining the vaccine out of malice for the human race. Data suggests that people who are not vaccinated are more likely to schedule an appointment if a friend or family member discusses it with them. (Technically, Greg Abbott doesn’t care about this one– it really benefits the country, though, so it’s staying on the list).
- To people on social media, stop spreading outrage and start spreading insights. Yes, the title of that slidedeck was eye-catching, but who does it help? Instead of sharing the things that make you angry, start looking for and sharing ways to solve it. The next time you want to share something about how another state is run, ask yourself if you want to give that event a national audience. And if you’re sharing it to start a discussion, know what direction you want to steer it in.
So, yes, people have given Republican Governors what they have wanted for months. Attn: Democrats─ today is the perfect day to stop.
Recent protests on the Cuban island filled Western newspapers in July, including a cacophony of calls for regime change and further intervention in the socialist-led nation. Thousands took to the streets in cities across Cuba in the largest protest to have taken place since the fall of the Soviet Union, certainly the largest show of dissidence since President Díaz-Canel took power April 19th, 2018. The less covered and oft-downplayed counter-protests saw at least tens of thousands of participants, however, with the government even saying that numbers reached over 100,000 marching in support of the revolutionary government.
The protests initially broke out on July 11th and lasted for about a week’s time before petering out as the initial fervor faded. The concerns of the protestors varied, with some in the streets due to the government’s coronavirus response, lack of vaccines, an ailing economy, and disillusionment among younger Cubans. All of which are extremely valid concerns as the virus continues to rage around the globe, and while economies continue to struggle with emerging from the ever-continuing pandemic. While many of the complaints are valid, and the necessitation of the right to protest must be guaranteed, some protestors were clamoring for something that has only had disastrous effects: American military intervention and regime change. Cuban Americans in Florida have been at the vanguard of calls for President Biden to invade the Caribbean Island, on a humanitarian and regime change basis.
If history would serve correct, as it often does, American military intervention in Cuba would be disastrous to say the least. The consequences of the recent departure from Afghanistan by American and allied forces should be a clear indicator of what would become of another regime change and occupation campaign. The American role in Cuban affairs is and has historically been over-pronounced, beginning with the US occupying the nation following its defeat of the Spanish alongside Cuban rebels in the Spanish-American War (also known as the Cuban War of Independence).
Read More on Afghanistan HERE
The Americans would go on to invade Cuba four additional times following May 20th, 1902, when the US officially announced the end of its military occupation of the island and Cuba declared independence. The justification of the interventions varied from protecting American business in the sugarcane industry, to crushing an Afro-Cuban led revolt, as well as invading to defeat leftist insurgents although the Cuban government repeatedly declared it would handle the situation. All three situations utilized the enshrinement of the Platt Amendment in the Cuban Constitution, virtually making Cuba a protectorate of the US rather than a fully independent nation. The language of the amendment gave the US a massive amount of discretion in its enaction. Specifically, Article III required the government of Cuba consent to the right of the United States, while also allowing the US to construct what would become known as Guantanamo Bay. Not until 1934, in accordance with his “Good Neighbor Policy”, did President Roosevelt repeal the Platt Amendment, ending the repeated involvement of the US military in Cuba since 1898.
Since the rescinding of the Platt Amendment the United States relations with Cuba have fluctuated extremely: from openly working with elected officials, to supporting strongmen, assisting coup d’états, and ultimately attempting a CIA-led invasion, followed by decades of crippling sanctions. The events of the 1950’s and 60’s have been extremely influential on the relations of the two nation’s beginning first with the seizure of power by General Fulgencio Batista in March of 1952.
General Batista had already led a prior coup in 1933, toppling a provisional government which had replaced Dictator Gerardo Machado. In this revolt Batista amassed a cult of personality and rose to one of the most powerful men in Cuba, leading the nation through several puppet presidents and institutions until being elected President in 1940. Following the end of Batista’s term, he then traveled abroad and lived in the United States, investing huge sums of money he had amassed through his monopoly on political power in Cuba from 1933-1944. Batista would then find the need to return to Cuba under perceived rise in corruption and collapse of public works, running for president in the 1952 elections that were to take place in June.
Batista, though, was not as popular among the Cuban people as he had calculated, and all indications pointed to Batista losing the 1952 elections. Prior to his defeat materializing Batista took decisive military action against the elected government of President Carlos Prío Socarras, who ironically had participated in Batista’s previous coup in 1933. Three months before the elections were to take place in March, Batista, with support of the armed forces, took over the Presidential Palace as well Havana proper in effect ousting the elected government.
While having constructed the 1940 Constitution, which by all measures was a progressive document, Batista didn’t return to its promises but instead reneged on all previously progressive positions and grew increasingly conservative in ideology and authoritarian in practice. During his 1950’s rule, Batista was incredibly corrupt, inviting American Mobsters onto the Island to run its casinos and embezzling funds from Congress, amassing a huge fortune with everyday Cubans footing the bill. Batista would then rule with the backing of the United States until being overthrown via popular revolution led by Fidel and Raul Castro alongside Che Guevara in early January of 1959.
Che Guevara, Raul Castro, and Fidel Castro
The turn of the decade─and ruling powers in Cuba─marked the greatest shift in American policy, as for years it had been one of either controlling the island or backing various political leaders, with Castro’s ascendence turning the US position to downright hostility. The ideology of the Marxist-Leninist revolutionaries was arguably the nail in the coffin for US-Cuba relations; as the latter became closer with the Soviet Union, the US grew increasingly hostile with the island. On January 3, 1961, citing “unwarranted action by the Government of Cuba that placed crippling limitations” regarding the ability for the Embassy to function, the US government officially closed its embassy in Cuba.
Shortly before closing the embassy, on October 19th, 1960, President Eisenhower authorized the partial embargo which would be the initial step toward the blockade we know today. That step to the embargo of today was made less than 18 months later on February 3, 1962, following the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, President Kennedy signed Proclamation 3447, which declared an embargo on all trade between the US and Cuba. The embargo would be strengthened a year later with the Cuban Assets Control Regulations, an economic sanction that forbade financial transactions with Cuba, cutting off Cuba from all American business and banking institutions.
Following a thaw in the 70’s under the Carter Administration, the US returned to its hardline stance under the George H.W. Bush and Clinton Administrations in the 90’s passing both the Cuban Democracy Act (1992) and the Cuban Liberty and Democratic Solidarity Act of 1996. The bills further prohibited US business dealings with Cuba, extending the ban to foreign subsidiaries of US companies, restricted remittances, and allowed sanctions against companies that invested in formerly American owned property, seized as a result of the nationalizing of Cuba’s resources and land. President George W. Bush further increased sanctions and their penalties which would largely stay in place until the re-establishing of relations under the Obama Administration.
Under the Obama Administration, Cuba-US relations were the warmest since the Castro’s came to power following the toppling of the Batista regime. The pair of countries re-opened their respective embassies, while under Obama the US alleviated some of the sanctions concerning financial transactions, travel to the island, and official trade between the nations. Even with this much progress toward normalization having been made, most if not all has been lost as the Trump administration rushed to reimpose sanctions Obama had rolled back, as well as imposing additional sanctions while additionally listing Cuba as a sponsor of Terrorism – joining Iran, Syria, and North Korea.
All this history of US involvement in Cuban affairs along with the turbulent relationship between the two nations brings us back to the recent protests we have seen. Thousands of people took to the streets protesting food and medicine shortages, the handling of COVID, as well as police brutality and political freedoms. Each are more than valid reasons to protest, and such problems should be met immediately by the Cuban government. On the international stage the Cuban government has been met with widespread condemnation on the use of police and security forces to disperse protestors, as well as the arrest and detention of some protestors. To date, upwards of 700 people have been detained by the government for their role in the protests, which government officials often label as riots. While it isn’t a positive development in Cuba, it would serve the US government, international community, and media class to recall just one year ago the protests that rocked the US from coast to coast, north to south, for months.
In those protests, which were in response to an extrajudicial killing of an unarmed Black man by US Police Forces, millions, not thousands, took the streets demanding at the very least a reformation of police forces and at the most complete restructuring of power and redistribution of wealth in the nation. Of those protesting, which were also often labeled riots by government officials, over 10,000 people were arrested in the first weeks alone, while those not arrested were met with tear gas, steel-rubber coated bullets, and baton charges. Journalists were fired upon with tear gas and rubber bullets, including a reporter struck while on air, as well as another being arrested on live TV. Such a comparatively harsher response to valid protests against governmental action should be expected as a scene unique to oppressive regimes… although it was (and is) the status quo in the United States.
In remembering our own mass protests, and the government’s response, it seems hypocritical at best and malevolent at worst for the US to respond in such a hostile manner. President Biden issued additional sanctions on Cuba, on top of the Trump-era sanctions the President promised to rescind on the campaign trail. If our President truly wanted to aid the people of Cuba he wouldn’t have levied additional sanctions against the government, sanctions of which were designed with isolation, suffering, and regime change in mind rather than anything else. The State Department’s own documents outlined the early strategy of the US toward Cuba which would become the status quo:
“If the above are accepted or cannot be successfully countered (points detailing Castro’s and Communist influence and popularity), it follows that every possible means should be undertaken promptly to weaken the economic life of Cuba. If such a policy is adopted, it should be the result of a positive decision which would call forth a line of action which, while as adroit and inconspicuous as possible, makes the greatest inroads in denying money and supplies to Cuba, to decrease monetary and real wages, to bring about hunger, desperation, and overthrow of government”
Memorandum From the Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Inter-American Affairs (Mallory) to the Assistant Secretary of State for Inter-American Affairs (Rubottom)
Washington, April 6, 1960.
Considering the historical positions of the United States, its own documents, and the continuity of strategy across the Trump-Biden presidencies, I find it hard to believe the United States has a moral and political upper hand with Cuba as the former often postures. That sentiment was borne out in the international community in a recent UN vote that blasted the continued embargo of Cuba with the General Assembly voting 184 in favor of a resolution condemning the blockade. Only two nations voted against, predictably the United States and its hardline ally Israel, after voting with the US in 2019. Brazil chose to abstain from the vote, as did US allies Colombia and Ukraine. This rendition of the resolution calling for an end to the embargo has now been passed by the UNGA 29 times since 1992.
To truly help the Cuban people, the United States must come into compliance with the vast majority of the world, as well as its allies, and end the embargo of Cuba while rescinding relevant sanctions. The “economic warfare,” as the Cuban foreign minister puts it, has no place in American diplomatic efforts. They haven’t worked in most cases─Cuba, Iran, North Korea, and Venezuela─where they’ve all been employed to enact regime change. The reality on the ground is that these measures hit the people the US claims to want to help the hardest. It’s time for the US to end the embargo, render aid to Cubans in need following normalization, and then diplomatic efforts can proceed. Historically, as ties have warmed, so has the Cuban Government often softened its stance. In 2021, after all the suffering we’ve seen in this pandemic, we must do the objectively correct thing and end Cuba’s isolation, for it’s their suffering that our diplomatic polices exacerbate.
