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Category Archives: True story?

Jeannette Rankin: The First U.S. Congresswoman Was Also Antiwar – Updated

24 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by Alice Salles in True story?

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Tags

congress, heroic, war

The first woman ever elected to the U.S. Congress was Montana’s Jeannette Rankin. Her most noteworthy feat was her opposition to war. Then, very much like now, being against the war was seen as a treason.

Jeannette Rankin

The first U.S. congresswoman Jeannette Rankin.

In an essay she wrote in 1958, she explained her votes against World War I in 1917 and against World War II after the country had been attacked at Pearl Harbor in 1941.

While she did have some support the first time, she stood alone before congress the second time around.

According to her own account, she would not be able to face her remaining days in office if she had not voted against the war. In her remarks after a long investigation into data available then, Rankin claimed the war was nothing but an attempt to blame the Japanese for the aggression the United States had started by imposing economic sanctions against them.

The very first U.S. congresswoman, a Republican, was vehemently against war and dedicated to bringing details the administration would rather keep under wraps to light no matter what. Her decision to stay true to her role as a representative of her people was all she needed to act honorably.

In 1958 she said:

And how much do the people and even the members of Congress know about the moves now being made by our government or other governments which may lead to another war? Our being kept in ignorance arouses my apprehensions today as it did more than forty years ago when World War I burst upon my world.

It breaks my heart this is still true today. ~


Quote taken from: We Who Dared to Say No to War – American Antiwar Writing from 1812 to Now, Edited by Murray Polner & Thomas E. Woods, Jr.

About not shrugging

27 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by Alice Salles in Living, True story?

≈ 2 Comments

sitting

An uncle of mine whose life was cut short due to that beast we are all well acquainted with, cancer, taught me a couple of things about living life. Not because we spent that much time together, but because we were probably the only two introverts in a whole family of musicians, highly intelligent doctors, men of law, teachers and somewhat well-connected politicians.

He was a surgeon, freemason and sweet father of two children who… didn’t turn out much like him. He used to sit for hours in silence, staring at nothing, paying attention to nothing and everything. Once he learned he had the same type of cancer his father had had, he didn’t rush to do all the things he wanted to do or asked his loved ones to cry him a river, he carried on with life like nothing had happened. He chose not to get treatment. He chose to live as if he had no idea he had cancer at all.

He chose to shrug.

When he visited us in São Paulo, I gave him a little bronze medal with the “Ôm” symbol. When he touched the medal, he smiled and paused for some time. He then looked up and said “listen to me little Alice, you must remember to never do something the same way you’ve done it before for the second, third time or even fourth time in a row.”

I was a bit confused. “What do you mean, uncle?”

“Well, when walking home from school, take a different path; when catching the bus to the theater, take a different line; when saying good morning to your neighbor, say it with different words.”

“Why is that?”

“Do what I didn’t do. I’m a man of habit. Let your brain create new connections, let your routine allow your brain to discover new ways of seeing things.”

He smiled. Sweetly, the way he always did. He was lovely and lovable and he never asked for attention. He lived at a slow pace and left early but didn’t forget to ask me to do just the opposite, as if he was meant to show me that not all that runs smooth on the outside is also running just as smooth on the inside.

“The Girl Camp”

05 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in Dirt, Family & Friends, Living, True story?

≈ 6 Comments

The weekend was in front of us, full of the possibilities of awesomeness. We had packed fishing gear, slingshots, bikes, swimsuits, whiskey and (most importantly) two dirt bikes.  And though I am a wee bit too small to wield a 125 KTM two-stroke, I had brought along my new boots and helmet; I may not be able to drive but ride along I certainly would.

My blood raced thru me as my anticipation rose.  I packed with gusto; baking fresh blueberry muffins & even remembering to charge my camera.  I helped load the trailer and tie down the dirt bikes.

Along with us we also brought a friend and his girlfriend; a couple that resonates city life and city mentality as much as I still grasp at my country roots. They are great people but I can’t quite abide by the “boys will be boys” and the girls will stick around and cook, do the dishes and sunbathe as they so easily live by.

Somehow, that’s where I was. The weekend that I had dreamed about—the one I was so sure would be bursting with excitement—turned into me hiding from the sun, resenting those very dirt bikes as I twiddled my thumbs at the campsite.  I listened to the engines scream as they echoed thru the valley while the Girlfriend lounged in the sun, reading her romance novels on her Kindle.  I searched the area for something to do. I splashed for a while in the river by myself. I rode my bicycle in circles. I thought a lot about home where its never girls and boys—it’s us. It’s whoever wants to have fun.

Later, when there was obvious resentment, us ‘girls’ were dropped at another bend in the river—expected to enjoy our “lady time”—though we have little more than the friendship between our boyfriends in common.  It was a beautiful beach on the river. There was a tree to climb and launch off into a pool of water. Yet somehow, I couldn’t help but to be annoyed. I wanted to ride. I wanted to play together.

When the bikes were parked—the ride, the technique—the dirt bikes themselves flooded the conversation. So now that they were here, I was left out of this too.  I had nothing to add because all that I had done was sit around in frustrated boredom.

I am a fairly girlie-girl. I wear dresses and red lipstick. I bake and giggle constantly. But I am also a bit wild—I am rowdy—I am an equal.  And I want to have fun just as much as the boys do.

I don’t need to be “one of the boys” but I sure as hell won’t be designated or left behind in the “girl camp”.

Love story ~

15 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in Living, True story?

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Indigenous people, love story, native americans, Sioux

Legend has it that when the Sioux were ambushed and they were suddenly taken by the necessity of fleeting or fighting, a man could take whatever pony he could get his hands on. Common sense, however, advised warriors to keep in mind that everything they snatched from their invader’s possessions would later belong to the man who owned the pony they rode, or his immediate family.

Legend also has it that the only reason any ‘hostile’ Indian ever accepted to go to war and fight the white man was to respond to the very contemptuous way Americans treated them while exterminating their peers: an entire Nation of perfectly flawed human beings.

Four years after Abraham Lincoln decided to authorize the mass execution of over thirty Indians because they reacted to the brutality of Colorado settlers, Johnson decided to go ahead and veto the deceased’s Civil Rights Bill but congress stepped in and overruled his disregard for their fellow Americans. In 1866, The United States government finally gave equal rights to all individuals, black, white, green or blue who were born in the United States, except for those who were natives of the land: the red skins.

Much is discussed, little is known but one of the greatest histories of genocide of all times is that of the Indigenous peoples of all Americas.

Running after game, singing for peace, dancing for rain.

While I learn about them, all I can think is that it must have been terrifying, for the white man, to see how the Indian man lived off his land. When a blizzard blinded his ride or a heat wave knocked his bravest men down, the Indian knew better. When a whirlwind blew his tepee away or the buffalo barely came into view, the Indian knew better.

How awfully uncomfortable it must have been to the white man to know that these people knew how to heal the land, plant seeds and grow corn. How extraordinary it seemed that such people sang songs to their dead, treated their awkward-looking guests in a decorous and praiseworthy manner and found no reason to fear being out, under the only roof they knew: the wide skies that covered their lands.

How dramatic it is to learn of someone so infinitely comfortable with the world you’ve fought so hard to stay away from, how arresting the sight of this people must have been to the people of Europe.

I know, every story has two sides, coins fall facing different directions every time and every single man finds a good reason to act the way he acts, thus, I too believe were I to be there at the same place and time they were, I would also feel just as overwhelmed by the natives’ beauty and confidence as they felt; I too would feel compelled to look at them in awe.

What I wish they had remembered when the violent wave of intolerance kicked in is what I always knew to be the truth: the colors that tint the contents of their sharp edged eyes are exactly the same colors that tint my own. ~picture: Aaron Huey; source: Honor The Treaties.

One, or is it all?

27 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in True story?

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

oh brother!

I write.

I do that constantly and I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.

For many years I decided I would continue doing so in hiding, away from everybody’s criticizing words, invasive eyes and piercing judgment. I would write silently, in a corner; pretending I was studying for the History test I never needed to study for, pretending I was perhaps concerned with the state of the world’s affairs by keeping the newspaper clumsily folded on my desk or pretending I was reading some book when all I was really doing was to picture Rimbaud grabbing coffee by the counter while Clarice smoked outside, talking to the birds.

I’m a professional speculator, a realistic romantic. The I in mine speaks so loud to me I was coerced to believe I was wrong to feel the way I felt. To think that the things I saw and wanted to experience were a kind of misunderstanding of what will of power stood for. They led me to believe I could fly but took the parachutes off my backpack; oh boy. They sure like doing that.

How many stories like this have we heard?

Countless.

I wanted this, I saw that, I wished for this but got only that. I wanted, I hoped, I dreamed, I lost it, what I never had.

What the world lacks is nothing, because the world needs nothing and asks for nothing: the world is a perfect environment because it expects nothing from its attributes – and that’s why it thrives. Animals need nothing but opportunity and humans, the most opportunistic of creatures, learned with the world that elements struggle to stand their ground. They fight to death for territory, hope for nothing but authority because elements do not carry the world’s take on existence.

We might want to make ourselves believe we were born tyrants, hopelessly addicted to power and dominion yet, the whole world knows better. Authoritarian and starving bellies do not stand a chance on their own, the same way a tree is not responsible for a forest nor a wave can cover the whole ocean on its own.

Man, as one, is good because he or she is all they know but man amongst men is what the group dictates and the power it sustains by being heavy in heart, in body and in mind.

For fear of all, I chose to be one – in hiding. And then I chose to be one – in plain sight.

Where does one go when one is gone? No one will ever know… but I. One of these days; shall do.

About what must be removed

27 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in True story?

≈ 1 Comment

This intrusive thought that blurs the conclusion I seek with the kind of passion she will never know; this… thing that should be extirpated but I so painfully and carefully maintain at bay. I often wonder why and look for answers but how could any response be allowed in when I’m the only one making all the rules?

At times, this monster steps into my waters and aims deep but the smallness of her aspirations makes little of such attempts. She suddenly realizes she could die trying and swims back thinking she isn’t fooling anyone: trying harder was never her forte. Abandonment is what she seeks and back at bay is where she stays.

At arm’s length and at a safe distance.

It’s not the lack of volume or the lack of passion I find irritating; it’s the overwhelming inaptitude to care one embraces and sees as their most precious gift and the capacity to gnaw at a type of unaware apathy that could drive any average man insane.

Superficial is a word one may use to describe this being but not even the most delicate of layers could be as shallow and that’s why I choose to keep it

At bay.

At an arm’s length, never truly letting it in nor expelling it at last, for I’ve always known the ocean gives life and takes it back at ease but it never fails to offer everyone a chance.

And that is what I offer,

A chance. Prove me wrong if you will, because I can sense it is surely bound to happen… someday.

For the soldier I caught watching the birds

14 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in Dying, Living, True story?

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

camouflage, soldiers, war

They will assume they’re quite aware of what you thought.

Reshape the content and alter the tone without shifting the words. They will use that shot of your weary eyes and mention how fine you looked when you smiled. They will tell your story in a matter-of-factly format and use your rise and fall to illustrate recent statistics. They will cry you a river and give your family two minutes of air time, run a segment on the ever-rising suicide rates and what the president has recently declared regarding such matters but they will never know what you felt like.

They will never imagine how you smiled satisfactorily the day you learned to watch the wind playing with the sand over there, across the oceans and lands you turned up to be. How you learned to use the blend landscapes to enhance the outreach of your fantasies, how you learned the camouflage in your fatigues was a joke and fighting grounds is nothing but green dots on a black screen.

They will never learn how you felt like when you heard the sound of your Skype account on and the alerts you received when your lover logged on. They can’t fathom how you managed to stay calm every time you saw your little one’s eyes blinking at yours on the screen of your laptop and how you always knew you were going to make it.

You were so sure.

They will reform you and reinvent you until your name is forgotten. The camouflage will remain a joke and the reasons behind your own private war will never be disclosed. The data locked away in the heavy safe of your aspirations will never be claimed and the things you’ve seen will stay memories no one will ever revisit.

Truth is they will assume what you thought and how you felt and sometimes they may get it almost right, but still

They will never know about the heavy peacefulness you experienced while watching pigeons fighting for bread that very day you left home to step into the abyss of somebody else’s misconception, with all the reasonable doubt in the world branded like a dark tattoo on your chest.

But I will, soldier. I’ll always do.

When I was born, they knew what love felt like

23 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in Reality check?, True story?

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bosnian war, History

In the year I was born, Sarajevo had showed the world the power of unity.

In 1984, Yugoslavia’s industrial center held the 1984 Sarajevo Olympics and for as long as the event was carried on, the town and its people seemed vibrant and hopeful like the rosy-cheeked teens you would meet at random at her streets, attempting to shed the cold by running off into a restaurant or a café. During those days, all they had to run away from was the freezing winds of winter.

Yugoslavia was traditionally the most diverse country in Europe. That is a well-known fact. Colors flashed before the world’s eyes and tongues dared not to doubt its people’s acceptance of one another. Muslims, Catholics, Czechs, Jews, Germans living together, worshipping together, doing business with one another in a seemingly harmonious manner. It all looked far from perfect but tolerant enough. Maybe, just maybe, some would have said it then, WWII had taught its population lessons they would never forget.

Lessons dealing with intolerance and resentment one should never forget.

Or maybe the war didn’t teach anybody a thing.

Numbers are not enough to illustrate the kind of loss we’re talking about here. The Bosnian War exposed an open sore that is still fresh, like the wound in the flesh of a weak animal never seems to cicatrize. You can see through the decaying muscles and it smells like rotten meat.

I’m not Bosnian and I’m not a Serb. I’m not a Croatian, nor a Slovak. I’m not European. My father was Brazilian and so is my mother. My grandparents were mostly born in Portugal with the exception of one of my paternal grandparents who we believe may have been Dutch.  They all looked different from one another. My mother’s mother looked Jewish and her husband looked Gaul. My father’s mother looked Hungarian and her husband looked like a gipsy king.

I do not know of any family members who were originally from Eastern Europe. I have never asked my father about my grandfather’s true origins. I believe our history is grand and worth searching but I really do not mind. History itself is enough.

Mankind is enough for me and the history of one man’s defiance is also my own.

Modern times have seen the type of genocide only monsters were known for committing. Monsters like the vegetarian dictator of Germany, the genocidal warlord of Mongolia or the organized criminals who decided Tutsis should be extinguished from the face of earth. A type of killing spree that could be easily classified as ethnical cleansing. And it is.

Modern eyes have seen eyes thirsty for blood. Blindfolded to what history has proved not to be wrong or right but roundly bad. Modern history has known that history has not a damn thing to teach. “It is going to be a feast”, a general went on to claim. “There will be blood up to your knees”. The monster that allegedly used these words to declare to his battalion that the war was worth it is only now being tried before international justice. At this very moment, after long years of running, Ratko Mladic was finally caught and is now waiting to be judged before the world’s eyes but the world’s eyes no longer see: all I ask is,

Have they ever?

We haven’t learned a thing from the consequences of our ancestors’ actions and we shall continue doing so, ferociously. Eagerly. Like vultures, we cannot seem to link our loathsome appearance with the kind of prey we covet. We ask not what we can do to change it around and meet each other in the middle, we replicate.

We repeat. Like trained monkeys or lousy parrots, we repeat the actions without judging the consequences. We burn in the hell we engineer and we call it home.

Our words are nothing but certified copy and our presence shallow waters. Disease-filled mosquitoes hover about us. A murder of crows fly above us. Vultures sit and wait, a few feet away from us and we don’t get it.

“But we don’t hate. We still don’t hate”, a young Croatian woman who had lost everything had told a journalist amidst tears. Vulkovar in flames in the background. While I write this, an angered and terrifying-looking man screams from across the street: “shut up! Shut the fuck up!”.

From the third floor of my building, a group of Latin folks crying a prayer in unison. ~

The man is simply wrong

06 Sunday May 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in True story?

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

books, Sam Shepard, Springtime

Something about these spring days in Southern California. Maybe it’s just the book I’ve been reading. Sam Shepard says books don’t change lives. Actually, that’s not what he said. “Maybe a spellbound. A day or two but, change your entire life? I doubt it” or something to that effect. I’m not sure, I left the book in my hand bang and now I’m too lazy to go pick it up.

I try to give him a chance to make my mind. Maybe, I repeat to myself, he’s right. Maybe, this whole transcendent feeling I’ve been harnessing my entire life about how little things like a book or a movie have changed me are all just stories I snuggle with. A thing or two to prevent me from blowing my brains out or walking into the ocean with a belly full of red wine. I don’t know.

Something tells me he’s right but I refuse to believe him, I mean, look at me now. I’m reading him and feeling he’s changing my life. Could it be? Could he be wrong and right for being so? Could it make any difference in the end? Could I stop this stupid rambling about how a book that is changing my life tells me not to worry, that a book cannot change a man’s life?

I wouldn’t know. I keep on reading.

Maybe it’s just because everything looks so promising right now. Something about these warm days, just before it gets so hot I can barely remember how my favorite pair of boots looks like.

Well. It doesn’t matter. Sam was wrong and he changed it all indeed.

*picture: Sam Shepard in Days Of Heaven.

Irasshaimase Means Welcome in Japanese

16 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in True story?

≈ 3 Comments

Flying over the great Pacific Ocean, I realized that this was going to be one of two things: incredibly amazing or chew-your-arm-off awful. The airfare was bought spontaneously; mine first and then his.  Bags were packed and we were shuttled off together to explore the Eastern side of the world. We were throwing ourselves into a place were they ate things that we had never seen; they spoke a language that neither of us could navigate thru and a land that we knew so little about.  It could end (if not tragically) than dramatically.

But we got lost in the markets of Tokyo, caught within the gates of the train terminals, aimlessly searched for our Ryocan as Kyoto rained down upon us. We got sick and sunburnt. We devoured every moment greedily; feasting on golden temples, the green of the forests and streets that our feet had never known.  We drank Sapporo in a little tavern (ordered by pointing at the glass of frothy beer on the menu & smiling) until we barely recalled stumbling back to the Ginza district where we attacked each other’s bodies passionately. We saddled onto the stools of a crowded hole in the wall restaurant where they served us the most amazing Ramen my lucky lips have ever had.  We laughed at our wild dance in the International district.

On that side of the world, we took a ride on the fastest train. We spent all of our yens. We chewed on odd pieces of meat that someone ordered. We walked for hours—stumbling upon shop after shop of guitars and kitchen equipment. We breathed in the warm flowers of spring. We were mesmerized by the lights of Tokyo and the strong, humbling presence of Kyoto. A day trip to Kamakura brought us to the great golden Buddha and a hidden village tucked behind a rock wall. We sipped on tea that warmed the coolness of the rain out of us. We counted all of the fat people that we saw. We stayed up late talking. We slept curled around each other night after night.

On that side of the world, we fell in love.  For good. It wasn’t tragic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was down right romantic.

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