Dachau

Dachau: (n) a city in SE Germany, near Munich, the site of Nazi concentration camp.

We forget how dangerous populists can be—because they always say such popular things.

It would be difficult to be critical of a man proclaiming the delicious virtues of chocolate until you realized he was advocating only the consumption of chocolate—to the exclusion of everything else—thus leaving his followers to many dangerous acquired conditions.

Adolph Hitler was a populist.

Long before he was a dictator—perhaps even before he became maniacal—he was a public speaker touting the exceptional nature of the German people.

He explained to them how they had been mistreated among the Europeans after World War I and that it was necessary, for the good of their heritage, to rise up and be counted.

That’s how he started.

It was difficult to disagree with him. Germany had been devastated by the First World War. There was a need for some sort of pep rally, to inspire a renovation.

But as I said, long before populists become dictators, they seem to be prophets of possibility and messengers for magnification.

When does it change?

When do populists–who seem harmless–need to be recognized for their vicious natures and set to the side or pushed out of our lives, so we don’t elevate them to positions of authority, where all of their overwrought ideas can be manifested?

That’s easy.

When the populist starts making a group—a nationality, a gender, a lifestyle or a race—the source of all difficulty and preaches that the situation could be greatly alleviated by targeting these offending individuals.

For Hitler, it was the Jews.

Candidly, he would never have gotten away with killing Jews if the German people didn’t secretly harbor a deep-rooted prejudice against them. Going back to the music of Wagner and the lesser works of Martin Luther, there was an abiding notion in the Germanic tribe that the Jews were responsible for most evil things.

For you see, no populist could have brought about such a dastardly genocide of an innocent people without feeding off the nervous apprehension of those who came to hear.

The end result is Dachau—a prison camp organized for one purpose: to find unique and efficient ways to torture and annihilate the Jewish race.

Perhaps we should do ourselves a favor in this election season.

We should acknowledge that there are populists who desire to rule our country. Their messages may seem innocuous at this point. Matter of fact, it may appear that they are merely extolling the value of American purity or standing up for the poor and disenfranchised.

But listen carefully.

Are they whispering words of disdain, or even hatred, in the direction of a particular group of people?

What is it they are saying about humans with brown skin?

What is it they’re intimating about citizens with a lot of money?

What is their stand on gender equality?

What do they think about those brothers and sisters around them who are different?

I never listen to a populist—no matter how humorous or inspiring the message might seem.

For a populist who honors fat people will eventually do so by portraying that skinny people are evil.

And a populist who regales the beauty of being thin and healthy will eventually encourage you to hate the obese.

We can prevent Dachau.

We can remove the fuel from the ovens that killed millions of souls.

Stop feeling the need to constantly be encouraged, or eventually you will steal someone else’s dignity to supplement your own.

 

DACA

DACA: (n) Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals: a program intended to allow undocumented immigrants who were brought to the U.S. as minors to legally remain

Horror stories.

Whenever you find yourself in a conversation with other folks, and one side tries to justify their position by telling you a horror story to reinforce their point, and then the other group equally intends to rationalize their thoughts by relating a horror story from their perspective, you need to realize that both parties have not thought this situation through to a conclusion.

There are so many issues in our country that fall into this category that it would take many essays to isolate each one.

All of these groups are obsessed with extremes. It is a competition to portray that their members are more logical and super-patriotic.

Meanwhile, there are children in this country who are here because their parents brought them from other countries.

The children didn’t plan the trip.

These youngsters were not in on the deception to be illegal aliens.

No matter how hard you may try to prosecute them, they will always be innocent and unable to be proven guilty.

Yet the validity remains that they are not naturalized citizens.

If you wish to insist that they should be welcomed into our country no matter what the circumstances, then I’m sure you can present a case in which frightened young humans are being terrorized by the state with the threat of deportation—a removal, by the way, to a land they have never known.

On the flip side, if you think that it’s completely irrational to have these children receive blanket immunity when their parents were breaking the law by bringing them here, then you will certainly have a cautionary tale about how some of these unwelcome “nesters” have grown up to commit crimes or continue to flaunt their improper status right under the nose of the law.

My feelings on DACA are simple.

No one should be allowed to stay in this country simply because they look pathetic.

But also, no one should be thrown out of this country simply because they look pathetic.

Here’s an idea.

Offer a crash course—a two-month study of our nation, complete with community service to the neighborhood, a test to become Americans, and if these “offspring without a country” complete this journey without bad attitudes or cutting corners, their amends should allow them to become part of “we, the people.”

Dabble

Dabble: (v) to work at anything in an irregular or superficial manner

I would like to introduce myself.

My name is Mr. Dabble.

I can’t think of a word that more describes what I have done throughout my life than dabble.

As a teenage boy, I was interested in Southern Gospel Quartets. That particular dabbling had me doodling for a while. So if I’m ever in a gathering where such old-time music becomes a point of conversation, I can hold my own.

Then, for a long time, I was involved in the music industry in Nashville, Tennessee—at least up to my armpits, though it never quite reached my eyeballs.

I met famous people.

I recorded in famous studios.

And I appeared on stage in a variety of ways—from having my own music group to doing backup singing for a Las Vegas show.

I dabbled for a season by taking my clan on the road and having my own little Partridge Family—singing, traveling in a car, pulling a trailer, wearing colorful costumes and attempting to believe that we sounded good enough to be doing what we were doing.

I dabbled with writing novels.

I dabbled by flying coast to coast putting on shows.

I dabbled in writing classical music for a symphony we began in Tennessee.

I dabbled in screenplays. Thirteen of them turned into independent movies, which won awards at film festivals.

Why did I dabble?

Because I am a curious sort.

I have never believed that fame is possible—mainly because it is unsustainable. So the second-best option is to continue to try new things, and conquer them one by one, and have your own personal awards ceremony for your efforts. The nice thing about this is that you never come in second, but can always bestow top honors upon your performances.

The question might be asked by sane men and women everywhere:

What would have happened if you had focused, and not dabbled?

For instance, what would have been the conclusion if you had begun with screenplays and faithfully stayed with them?

I don’t know.

Because then I wouldn’t be a dabbler.

And I wouldn’t be able to write this article about my dabbling.

Dab

Dab (v): to pat or tap gently, as with something soft or moist:

I have written about him before.

But let me not be so foolish as to think that my readership is poring over each and every article, as if trying to discover the secrets of the Dead Sea Scrolls or the true intention of the Magna Carta.

His name was Mr. Wintermute and he was the town barber.

He was a small man, did not have a wife and possessed a very high voice.

dab, Brylcreem, Dead Sea Scrolls, Magna Carta, gay, hermit, hermit crab, haircut, barber, small town, a little dab’ll do ya, haircuts, community theater, Hostess Snowballs, tricks, bratty, fat boy,

Nowadays, we would joyfully proclaim him gay, but in that season, he was soft and sweet.

He also was a hermit. But he was a cheery hermit—in other words, not a hermit crab.

He always tried to relate to the young people who were forced to sit in his chair to get their monthly haircuts. (For some reason, our parents were extraordinarily concerned that hair not be given the chance to become wild and wooly.)

At the same time, on television, Brylcreem had begun an ad campaign with the slogan, “A little dab will do ya.”

It was an accurate statement, since Brylcreem had the consistency of toothpaste mingled with glue.

So Mr. Wintermute would come to the end of a very uncomfortable hair-cutting session—where in ten minutes he would have asked twelve questions and received no answers. And right before he let you out of the chair, he always said, “Would you like some good stuff? I mean, for the girls, remember—a little dab’ll do ya’.”

Honestly—it was well-rehearsed. Certainly up to the quality of community theater. But I was only eleven years old. I was not thinking about girls. I was more concerned with raising the funds to buy some Hostess Snowballs and how to relieve some of the galding between my chubby legs.

So I whimpered some sort of “no” in his direction, and he always countered, “You’re good-lookin’. You don’t need tricks.”

I never treated that man well.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anybody work so hard for seventy-five cents and the approval of a bratty, small-town fat boy.

It was years before I realized that I could use Brylcreem on my hair and it would hold it up and in place—so it wouldn’t fall down on my ears, causing my parents to insist that I get it cut.

Yes, Mr. Wintermute—a little dab actually does do you.

Da Vinci, Leonardo

Da Vinci, Leonardo: (Prop N) a famous artist, engineer and scientist during the Renaissance.

I guess if you paint well enough, no one remembers that you came up with an early design for a helicopter.

There’s a danger in being multi-talented.

You personally may want to be remembered for your designing or scientific mind, but since you emerged from the Dark Ages and were one of the first Renaissance Men, it may be a little difficult for people not to go ahead and put a name tag on you and assign you a permanent position.

Then there are those who found out that Leonardo was a gay man. Yet, for some reason, they didn’t take down the print of “The Last Supper” from the front of their church. I guess it’s okay to be gay as long as you paint well and you’re already dead.

It upset some other people when a conjecture was brought forth that the “Mona Lisa” was Leonardo painting himself in drag, yet that was survived.

After all, pretty is pretty.

So universal is our acceptance of Mr. da Vinci that we theorize that he had a “Code,” which turned into an action-filled book. Also, he was honored by being one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I don’t think we’ll ever get over touting Leo as a great painter.

But fortunately, he was a good enough painter that history gives him a footnote for his helicopter design.

Da Nang

Da Nang (Prop N): a seaport in central Vietnam.

In my mind’s eye, it is the responsibility of a writer to share what he or she feels, not just what is known to be true.

I don’t personally know anything about Da Nang.

Although the Vietnam War was ending as my viability for soldiering was nearing, I followed it like every other American—quietly and reverently watching the body bags of our young men return from a conflict we were realizing more and more had been birthed in lunacy.

Actually, there’s only one specific memory I have of Da Nang.

Da Nang was and ever will be associated with a fellow named Bobby.

Bobby was a nineteen-year-old Gospel-quartet-singing acquaintance who, because he was nineteen, had great fervor for the music and not so much reverence for the rules and regulations of the religious kingdom of the day.

He drank a little bit, he cussed a lot, he laughed more than he cried, and he chased girls until he finally caught a few.

He was delightful to be around and might have been considered a hypocrite had it not been for the fact that when he sang the tunes of the cross and the anthems of the resurrection of Jesus, he expressed the sincerity of an angel.

He was a believer.

He not only believed in God and shaped notes from a Gospel song, but he also believed in America.

It would never have crossed his mind to duck his responsibility to his country, even when that burden landed in his mailbox as a draft notice, to serve the nation in a bloody police action worlds away.

Bobby received his notice in March.

He was off to basic training in late April.

He was home for a short leave in early June.

He was shipped to Da Nang in Vietnam by July 4th.

And he came home in a box by Halloween.

That’s how I remember Da Nang—Bobby, with his chubby, silly grin, wearing a cheap, bright-colored polyester suit, singing Wouldn’t Take Nothin’ for my Journey, Now with a tear running down his cheek.

The history books cite the progress of nations by wars and innovation.

But as human beings, we reminisce the passing of time by those who have warmed our hearts.

 

Da Gama, Vasco

Da Gama, Vasco: (c.1469–1524), Portuguese explorer

There was a hundred-year time span in Europe when explorers were as plentiful as singers auditioning for American Idol.

It suddenly became popular to beg for money for an expedition crew, to set off to the west in search of fulfilling adventures and new lands.

Since there were so many of these itinerant fortune seekers, it’s difficult to remember them individually.

Christopher Columbus certainly fared well in that category.

Henry Hudson is noted (by having a river named after him).

Cortez came along to try to explain the difference between the Inca and the Mayans.

And Coronado is mentioned by every tour guide in Arizona, illuminating the crowd about the history of the Grand Canyon.

That brings us to poor Da Gama.

He, too, was an adventurer, a captain of a ship, a man of daring and do. He sailed around the Cape of Good Hope, making it clear why someday a better path needed to be found.

He had a cool name, though.

Whereas Hudson had Henry and Columbus had Christopher, Da Gama had Vasco.

So even though you may not remember his deeds or be able to recite the extent of his itinerary, the name “Vasco” will probably stick in your mind for a long time.

It is a humbling lesson to us all—that we journey through this life and we do many things, most of which will soon be forgotten.

So keep in mind—to have an unusual name which just might spark future bored fifth-grade students who are forced to peruse the Internet during their “discovery of America history lesson” and are suddenly drawn to you…

…because your name is something like Vasco instead of Benny-Boy.

 

D-day

D-day: June 6, 1944, the day of the invasion of western Europe by Allied forces in World War II.

When I was thirteen years old, my dog died in the middle of the night—without warning.

Well, that’s not true.

There was lots of warning. She was a toy dachshund and had put on immense amounts of weight. Her belly scraped the ground when she walked—that is, if she walked.

She was miserable.

Being miserable and being a dog, she felt no compulsion to avoid bouts of grouchy, growly and incontinent.

When we first bought the dog, I spent most of my time petting the animal, but by the end of her life, my encounters were primarily cleaning up her messes and yelling at her for dribbling.

Her name was Yogi Gretta.

It’s not one we gave to her, but rather, the one affixed to the papers, assuring us that she was pure-bred.

We probably should have put her to sleep earlier. It’s difficult to decide to kill something when you’re so emotionally attached.

I know it may seem strange, but that is the thought that crosses my mind—the decision on what to do with my house dog—when I think about President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill contemplating sending tens of thousands of beautiful, intelligent, vibrant Allied soldiers to hit a beach in Normandy, France, to try to take back the European continent from a madman named Adolph Hitler.

One thing was certain—many of these brave human beings would be killed.

They would cease to exist.

They would become memories.

Even though I was skittish and tearful over the demise of my pet pup, what was it like to pick a day in June and decide that it was going to be the end of the line for thousands of mortals?

Was there another way?

Could Hitler be left in power to rule over Europe, terrorizing the lives of the citizens?

Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill asked General Dwight David Eisenhower to plan the landing to free Europe.

Now it’s a piece of history.

Then, it was an agonizing, horrifying proposition to terminate human life, to save other human life.

Neither men nor women were meant to make such selections. It is beyond our comprehension and certainly, overly burdensome to our soul.

May we pray that when we see tyranny—even if it shows up initially just as stupidity—yes, may we confront it and curtail it before we’re forced once again to set aside a D-day, to lose countless brothers, to rescue us all.

 

D’oh

D’oh: (interjection) used to express dismay when one has done something stupid

It is difficult to comprehend that to most of the generations which inhabited the Earth, the name “Homer” evoked images of Achilles, the Trojan War and the adventures of Ulysses in the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Nowadays, “Homer” is only associated with a man named Simpson.

He lives in Springfield, Illinois, and is a cartoon character.

I seriously doubt if there’s anyone under the age of thirty who is much aware of the adventure-telling Homer from the past, unless in spending so much time in the library, he or she is bullied incessantly.

Just as the Greeks needed Homer, the great poet and writer, to lift their spirits about their culture, conquests and potential, we apparently required our Homer to make us feel a little less convicted and burdened by our mediocrity.

Let’s be honest.

It’s nice to know that someone is dumber than yourself.

Matter of fact, I’m going to venture a guess that each one of us has an individual—or maybe even individuals—that we keep around as friends just to make sure that we are the ones who answer the most questions watching the Jeopardy! reruns.

Not only does our “Homer of the Simpson” have a characterization of dullness and ignorance, he has a catchphrase, so we will know when even he has discovered how ridiculously inept he is.

“D’oh!” He doesn’t have to say anything else.

Marge, Bart and Lisa know that Papa Simpson has once again ruined a vacation, placed them deeper in debt, destroyed a barbecue or somehow or another put a huge hole in the roof.

While we extol the glories of education, we all must realize that we each fall short of the glory of our plans.

At that point, we need to be able to say something that is comical enough to curb the embarrassment.

 

d’Arc

d’Arc: (Prop Noun) Joan of Arc

That must have been a tough meeting.

All the town council gathering together to decide what to do.

It was a proud community, I’m sure. Matter of fact, there was even some buzz about putting out a wine from the region—one which could represent the vicinity tastefully.

Then all this “Joan” business came along.

Most of the citizens had been convinced that the young girl would be satisfied just to grow up, keep her mouth shut and have lots and lots of children, who could mature in similar ignorance, embracing the village credo.

But Joan got religious—which would have been fine if she had decided to be a nun. There are places for women who insist they love God. But there are no spots for a young girl who believes she talks to God, especially when she deems herself to be some sort of warrior who’s supposed to lead troops into battle.

At first, the community was encouraged. Joan experienced some success and there was a thrill in the air—she might actually change the history of the nation.

Matter of fact, someone suggested placing a slab of stone on the outskirts of the community, chiseled with the words “Joan Lives Here.”

Then things went astray.

She fell into disfavor.

She was deemed to be a witch, since she thought she heard the voice of God compelling her to battle.

And when they burned her at the stake, it became obvious that the town could no longer be associated with Joan d’Arc. Somehow or another, they had to calm things down, to the point that they were just “Arc” again.

There was disappointment among the leaders. It would have been wonderful to be known as the community that birthed a heroine.

But it is not quite as advantageous to be the hometown of a witch.

Maybe people would forget.

Perhaps very soon, the region could return to pursuing that “wine idea.”

But for now, it remains embarrassing.

Arc is tied to Joan. And Joan … d’Arc.

What would it take to change that?

Well, maybe it’s just as simple as making sure that Joan and d’Arc don’t appear printed side by side.