Culture

Fuck It, I’m Staying Here

My Jewish maternal grandparents came to America just ahead of WWII.  Nearly all of my grandmother’s extended family were wiped out in the Holocaust.  Much of my grandfather’s extended family had previously emigrated to Palestine. My maternal family history illustrates why many modern American Jews continue to view Israel as their ultimate safety net.  After two millennia of vicious anti-Judaism, many Jews believe they can eventually be run out of any country, even Untied States.  American Jews’ sometimes uncritical support for Israel is underpinned by a wistful glance and a knowing nod; if it does happen here, we can escape to there. Even though I am only half-Jewish, my familial immigration history is more recent than most American Jews.   Their ancestors typically arrived here a full generation or two earlier than mine, and most of them did not lose a slew of close family members in the Holocaust like my grandmother did. But unlike most American Jews, I can counter the fear of “It can happen here” with a sense of American belonging that stems from deeply rooted Southern WASP family history.  Depending on which of my paternal branches you follow, we’ve been here upwards of about three centuries. Or so they tell me. Exactly how long ago the Reinhardts, Lowrances, Younts, Dunkles, and Hollers I’m descended from first arrived here is besides the point.  In fact, not having an exact date actually helps; it was long enough ago that no one really knows.  And that feeds into the one common thread binding deeply-rooted white Protestant Americans, despite their many differences in class, education, geographic region, and religious denomination.  It’s the unassailable sense that you belong here because you’re from here. That you’re not really the sons and daughters of immigrants.  Rather, you’re descended from the people who took this land from Native Americans, and who fought to gain independence from the British.  That you’re part of the group who really “earned” it.  America’s your inheritance. You own it. This is also the core of Trumpism: believing you have a better claim to being here than other people do.  That you belong here more than anyone else.  And that you, not them, gets to decide how your country is run: who gets to stand at the front of the line, who’s at the back, and who’s not allowed in at all.

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On the End of the R*dskins

Let me start by pointing out that this blog post is for my general readership, which is largely non-Native.  And I of course am not Native.  So all I’m trying to do is contextualize the issue for those who may not know much about it.  I’m certainly not speaking for Native people.  If you’re curious as to what they think but don’t know any Native people you can talk to, there are plenty of Native people writing about it.  And the ones I’m familiar with have been unanimous on this issue for many, many years now. Let’s start with the word redskin.  It’s a slur.  Period.  This award-winning book cover for C. Richard King’s Redskins: Insult and Brand (2015) illustrates the point as succinctly and forthrightly as anything I’ve seen.  Is redskin equivalent to nigger?  I don’t know, and honestly, it’s not for me to say.  But it is unquestionably a racist epithet at least on a par with things like darkie and slant.  The parallel to slant is actually very relevant; more on that below. It’s time, once and for all to dispel the myth that the team’s name has ever “honored” Indigenous peoples in any way.  That’s utter poppycock for several reasons.  First, the name was not chosen to honor Native peoples.  It was chosen in much the same way many early-20th century Indian-themed team names were chosen.  Along with Eagles and Bull Dogs, Indians were seen as an animalistic mascot signifying something distinctly American. Furthermore, the man the team claims it was named for, their former head coach William “Lone Star” Dietz, was a criminal and a fraud.  He was NOT Native.  But he pretended to be.  A dark-haired white man of German descent from Wisconsin, he made a career out of lying about being Indian.

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In Memoriam: Charlie Daniels

Charlie Daniels died yesterday at the age of 83.  I have very mixed feelings.  As a kid in the late 1970s, I purchased two different Charlie Daniels Band 45s.  First was the decade’s seminal novelty song, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.  Not long after getting it, I’d memorized the lyrical tale of Johnny’s epic fiddle battle Satan himself.  It was the first Southern Rock music I ever bought.  A year later I picked up “In America,” particularly drawn its characterization of Pittsburgh Steelers fans people you just don’t mess with. In the early 80s I discovered Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers Band, music I still adore.  Looking back from that, I then dug deeper into CDB, as Daniels’ fans often called his outfit, and got A Decade of Hits.  It remains and outstanding collection of the band’s 1970s singles.  I eventually also bought Saddle Tramp (1976), the only full length original Charlie Daniels album I ever owned.  It’s also very good.  The one time I saw the Charlie Daniels Band in concert was in 1993.  They were opening for a reconstituted, but still respectably originalish, version of Skynyrd.  I’d repeatedly heard from others that Daniels always had a roster of crack musicians in his band, and they did not disappoint.  It was a great show. But there was also an odd moment during their set, an impromptu display of sadness and anger.

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