When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God. Leviticus 19: 33-34
Follow the way of love and eagerly desire gifts of the Spirit, especially prophecy. 1 Corinthians 14: 1
Dad could tell the future. He was a Navy pilot who took off and landed on aircraft carriers, sometimes at night. His time to defend America was long ago. Aircraft carriers were then new to war, and pilots crashed their planes and helicopters a lot. Until the kinks got worked out over a period of many years, the Navy lost about one out of four pilots to mishaps at sea.
Dad predicted a number of crashes. Soon the pilots in his squadron wouldn’t fly if he got a “bad feeling.” His commanders respected him. Over time, good fitness reports and promotions led him to command an anti-submarine, jet-helicopter squadron during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Afterward, the Navy rated his squadron (HS-1) the safest combat aviation group on America’s east coast. Not one man was lost during his command.
Dad went with his feelings; when he got that “bad feeling”, he always flew the mission himself, or led it, rather than risk the lives of his men. Dad rose rapidly in the ranks, holding many important positions, not only in the Navy but also at the NSA (National Security Agency). Near the end of his career, a president appointed him to lead another intelligence agency not known to the public.
Navy fliers I talked with who knew dad said he was the best pilot in the United States Navy. He could fly anything under any conditions. Navy officers don’t lie. It’s against their Code of Conduct. Of course, I believed every word.
My dad was fearless to the very end of his ninety-one years of life. He once ate a half pound of spoiled cheese, because it was a gift, and he refused to embarrass the giver. The cheese smelled the way cheese smells when it has been ripened at the bottom of an army latrine; I almost threw up from the stench, but dad gulped it down like porterhouse steak. He grabbed the cheese with both hands, tore it in half, and inhaled a deep breath to savor the aroma. I was amazed that the rancid mess didn’t instantly kill him.
Today, many people seem to be having apocalyptic fears. People I don’t know well, who seem normal, have told me about vivid dreams they have had about good and bad things. Sometimes their visions trouble them. The thought has crossed my mind that a lot of folks are teetering on the edge of insanity. It’s sad and troubling.
The election added a lot of stress to people’s lives, did it not? Election tampering by foreign intelligence agencies ran rampant and was obvious to anyone who was paying attention. The United States has an unfortunate reputation for election tampering in other countries, which goes back many decades; our recent election seemed to give other countries a golden opportunity for pay-back, which some inflicted brazenly — perhaps as a warning for us to back-off; to stand-down. Who knows?
Anyway, the election is done; Trump won; Hillary won the popular vote but lost the electoral college. In the countryside of Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Michigan (among other states) Trump won by huge margins never before seen in the free world, ever. His biggest leads came in districts with electronic voting machines. These margins overwhelmed the leads racked up by Democrats in urban areas.
It was a strange election that lasted a very long time. Many “unprecedented” things happened during the contest that no one in America has ever experienced before. Is it any wonder that some people feel unhinged by an outcome that makes no statistical sense; by an outcome no one saw coming?
Republicans now control the entire federal government; they control enough state governments to enable easy passage of amendments to the Constitution, should the GOP decide to change America in that way.
Some people want to know: what’s coming next; what sudden shocks might rock their world?
How would I know?
Yes, I took the time to compile a list of bad things that could happen. Yes, it may have been a waste of time; maybe my effort might have been better spent helping the poor.
It’s possible that none of the bad things in the list below will happen. Maybe some will. My contribution to understanding the future is simply to point out things that have a chance of happening, which people may not have considered, or yet read about, or even shared (if they have thought about them).
My blog is read by not very many people; stilI, I felt compelled to write these “heads-up” warnings to help any curious humans (or bots) who might accidentally stumble onto my essay; to open the eyes of the few and the lucky, so that they might better understand what’s coming next; to inoculate some of them — especially the people I love — against the despair that can overwhelm any one of us when we find ourselves ambushed by the bad things in our future.
So here is my list of BAD THINGS. I might add to it from time to time if my imagination runs amok, or freaked-out people tell me scary stuff.
Here it is:
— The First Family refuses to live in the White House.
— Blacks and women start disappearing from news shows, replaced by white men.
— Athletes and entertainers step forward to confess: yes, they voted for Trump.
— Evidence emerges: The birth certificate was faked. Congress starts an investigation.
— The military draft of young people is resurrected.
— The USA drops a neutron bomb on a city for the very first time.
— The United Nations disbands.
— Russia reestablishes its control over Eastern Europe.
— The Philippines makes a military alliance with China.
— Donald Trump resigns.
— Mike Pence becomes president.
— A hot year kills hundreds of millions.
— Many popular foods become unavailable.
— The president’s wife reveals that he is gay.
— The Mueller investigators reveal that the new president is an agent of the Russian government — hand-picked by Paul Manafort.
— A major volcanic eruption inside the USA kills hundreds of thousands.
— The Post Office is privatized.
— The Veterans Administration is privatized.
— Social Security is privatized.
— Medicare is privatized.
— Prisons are privatized.
— Public education is privatized.
— Tax deductions are eliminated, raising taxes on the poor and middle-class.
— Inheritance taxes are eliminated, locking-in a permanent aristocracy.
— Unlawful assembly is redefined: three or more unrelated people who gather in a public space for any purpose other than private discourse shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, unless they have in their possession a permit signed by the president of the United States.
— A 1954 law denying tax exemptions to churches who endorse politicians is repealed.
— The WALL is retooled to restrain fleeing Americans.
— The Constitution is amended to eliminate all forms of naturalizationto block any pathway to citizenship for children bred by foreigners.
— An insect species is destroyed by a gene-driver released from an unregulated lab.
— Chipmunks are rendered extinct by a second gene-driver accident.
— Internet access is placed under federal regulation.
— SCOTUS hands over abortion policy to the states.
— SCOTUS rules that businesses have a constitutional right to choose who can buy their products and services, and who cannot.
— State governments add lithium to city water supplies to raise the spirits of unhappy citizens.
— Congress mandates that electronic nano-chips be injected into the buttocks of every person to help ICE track, identify, and differentiate people’s movements and immigration status.
— Congress declares that felony unlawful assemblyis ”from this time forward” a capital offense.
— The 2020 election is postponed until ”we can figure out just what the hell is going on.”
— GOP controlled state legislators amend the constitution to fight terrorism; they rescind the Bill of Rights.
Disclaimer by the Editorial Board: The following story, No Good Deed… is a work of fiction by Billy Lee. Events and persons depicted in the story exist only in the imagination of the writer and have no connection to living persons or actual events.
The old woman ahead of me in the checkout lane at the grocery sat in a battery-operated three-wheeler and struggled to move her purse off her wrist into the front basket. She couldn’t do it and gave up. She was grossly overweight; she couldn’t maneuver — her fat arms were black and blue right down to her fingernails. Diabetes, I thought.
I wondered if I should help, but she soon stopped and let the purse dangle where it was, on her wrist. It was a bad angle. It would be awkward for me to reach for it; and besides, it was her purse, a personal item she might try to defend. It was a good bet she fought this fight every time she shopped. No big deal. Let it go.
It was her own cart that she sat in, from the looks of it. She probably had used it for years. Held together by duct tape and bubble gum, it was dirty; a yellowed eggnog color; depressing to look at.
The cashier at the register — a black college-aged girl — finished the tally; the old woman sitting in the beat-up cart fumbled unsuccessfully to open her purse; the line of shoppers behind us continued to grow. It was busy. It was Christmas. I was in a hurry. What the heck… I reached over to the card reader and inserted my card. I’ll get this, I said. Merry Christmas.
The old lady looked up at me and said, thank you.
You look like you have enough to worry about, I said, beaming. We’ll make it one less thing.
Yes, she said. I worry about so many things these days. She fell silent and looked down. Something drippy fell from her mottled face into her lap. The eyes of the young black woman working the cash-register grew large and began to sparkle from tears, which she tried to hold back.
She would tell me later she had just immigrated from Ghana, Africa. She has stories, that girl, I would think to myself. The African regained her composure and gathered the old lady’s items.
As the cashier and myself exchanged a sympathetic look, the old woman with the black and blue arms and drippy face reached for a button on her cart and sped away. She didn’t remember to collect her receipt. I don’t think she felt embarrassed. Maybe she thought I might change my mind; make her pay for her own groceries, or something.
The cashier rang up my stuff. It was all good. I started to get that warm glow one gets when they’ve done something for someone, especially a stranger.
A melodic accent from somewhere out of Africa interrupted my reverie, Oh, look! Here is a bag of things. Are they yours? I think I forgot to give them to that person.
We checked the contents against the old woman’s receipt. Yup, they weren’t mine.
The cashier grabbed the bag and ran down the long aisle of the store to search for an old woman driving a beat-up mobility scooter with a missing bag of groceries. The folks in line behind me started to stir. A few threw unfriendly looks in my direction. My warm feeling turned to heat, then dread.
The cashier returned; she hadn’t found the customer. Since I had the receipt, I decided to take the groceries. If the old lady returned, she would be unable to convince anyone the groceries were hers, I reasoned.
I began to worry. It was Christmas. Undercover cops — temporaries with little training or empathy — lurked pretty much everywhere. They loved to patrol the parking lots, someone once told me.
What if store security decided to stop the old lady in the busy lot? What if they intercepted her before she could rendezvous with whoever was driving her home? Maybe she lived alone nearby, and there was no one to escort her. Minus the receipt, they might arrest her for shoplifting.
They might already have her in a little room somewhere, hidden from the public, to interrogate her. That’s why we couldn’t find her. I loosened my collar as my mind began to race. I felt sweat bead on the top of my head.
She would notice — under the intense pressure of questioning — one bag of groceries was missing. And she couldn’t produce the receipt. He took it, she’d realize. It was the old man! I could hear her screaming. She was cursing me — the old codger who had stood behind her and had the audacity to jump into her business for no good reason.
Of course she had the money to pay for everything, she screamed at the SWAT team as they held her down; as they restrained her. Of course she did. She didn’t need that smelly stranger’s credit card. And he stole a bag of her groceries! Arrest him! It was he, the grey-beard, who robbed her; it was he who took her receipt; it was he who confused her — and the cashier! He got her arrested. It was he, he, he — an old FART! — not her!
I imagined her anguish. By now she must realize that she would spend Christmas in prison; behind bars; isolated; alone; cold; away from family and a warm fire in the hearth — for I just knew she had no money for lawyers or bail.
I thought I could hear her weeping. I could hear her, but I would never be able to find her. No one else could hear her cries for mercy, no one would ever step forward to defend her and confirm her story. Take her out of here, I heard the arresting officer boom. Thief!
My parting words to the cashier were short enough. I hurried to my car and drove out of the busy parking lot, quickly, furtively. I cast a side-long glance into my rear-view mirror. No flashing lights. No siren. An old red van with a tree tied on top pulled up behind me.
It was Christmas; the most wonderful time of the year.
The Cuban revolution was one of the most exciting news events of my childhood. Our family moved to Key West, ninety miles from Cuba, in 1960, shortly after the transfer of power.
My dad’s job was to run HS-1, the Navy jet-helicopter squadron that defended southern Florida from attack by Russian submarines. Some of these subs were hanging-out around Cuba, Dad said, so I took an interest in what was going on there.
People born in the 1960s and later have no easy way to know that U.S. media once portrayed Fidel Castro and Che Guevara as heroes — at least during the early phases of their risky and dangerous attempt to unseat the president of Cuba, Fulgencio Batista. The two revolutionaries and ten of their close friends led the volunteers of a resistance they called Movimiento 26 de Julio to success on New Year’s Day 1959 — a month before my eleventh birthday.
To put some context on the Cuban revolution and its significance, recall that the land-mass of Cuba is almost four-fifths the land-mass of Florida. Florida is huge, as anyone who has driven its length or breadth knows. Cuba’s land area is an astonishing 42,426 square miles, which makes it one of the largest islands in the world. Only sixteen islands are larger.
Unlike Florida, Cuba has mountains, which add land area in the vertical direction. Florida lacks mountains. It’s flat. And Cuba is home to four-thousand satellite islands and cays.
Before the revolution, Cuba grew tobacco and sugar-cane. Pressures mounted on the country to grow more. By 1959, three out of four men in America used tobacco. Parents weaned their children off mother’s milk and replaced it with sugary cereals like Sugar Pops and Frosted Flakes. The USA became the world’s most voracious consumer of sugar.
Americans no longer warred in Europe and Asia. It was time for fun; for new ways to enjoy life. Demand for the products of Cuban agriculture grew beyond sugar and tobacco, led by new patterns of consumption in the United States.
To take advantage of the boom in agriculture, non-Cuban farmers and ranchers (most from the USA) began buying-up the island’s arable land. By 1958, foreigners owned three-quarters.
American oil-companies located refineries in Cuba. Pornography was catching-on in America, so businessmen from the USA began producing “dirty movies” and magazines in Cuba to distribute illegally inside the United States. International cartels and American crime-families constructed gambling casinos on Cuban beach-fronts for newly affluent American tourists who were seeking good times in warm weather.
By 1959, Cuba was showing the first signs of developing into an economic power-house. Anyone who has viewed the Godfather movies from the 1970s knows that organized-crime bosses vacationed in Cuba before the revolution; they were in bed with General Batista, the island’s dictator-president.
After the final success of the revolution on January 1 – 1959, everything changed. Sex-clubs and gambling casinos shut down never to re-open. Land-holders and business owners closed their estates and enterprises and fled the island for safe sanctuaries to wait for news about what might happen next.
At the same time, a holiday mood swept across the island. New Year’s celebrations in Cuba became ecstatic. The common people in their millions partied like it was 1959 in a kind of happy, helpless disbelief.
No one was sure the revolution would last, but most were grateful to the women and men who gave their lives to liberate them and throw out the hated and feared Batista family and their abusive friends. At one event in mid-January, a million people (one-sixth of the island’s population) gathered to hear Castro speak. It was the largest public demonstration in history up to that time.
For wealthy Cubans, events felt much different. They began flying off the island by the hundreds, leaving their property to lie fallow with relatives while they waited in the USA and other countries for the new government to collapse and fail.
But by autumn of 1960, despite a covert program of bombings and assassinations by the USA to destabilize the island, Cubans firmly established their revolution. When American oil-refineries refused to process Russian crude, Cuba nationalized them; the USA retaliated by unleashing an economic embargo, which remains in-effect (with some changes) to this day. When business owners refused to re-open their factories and farms, Cubans opened and operated them themselves.
I remember going to school in Key West with dozens of rich Cuban kids who all hated the revolution. In fact, I never did meet a refugee who liked Castro and his revolution despite the obvious benefits he promised (and later delivered) to average island residents who were impoverished at the time.
Come to think of it, I never met a black Cuban refugee either, though blacks and bi-racials made up a third of the island’s population. The role of race in the revolution is a part of the Cuban story that begs to be told, but I’m not the one to tell it, at least not yet. I need to do more research.
I didn’t live in Cuba.
The only black person I knew was our maid, and she was American. I do know enough to mention that Castro’s close friend and favorite military commander was Juan Almeida Bosque, the Havana-born freedom fighter (and song-writer) who was wildly popular among the then disenfranchised black population of Cuba. Enough said. I included Juan’s picture at the end of this post.
In the American press (which I read voraciously even at the tender age of eleven or twelve) adulation for the Cuban revolution went on pretty much unabated until the USA caught the Soviet Union installing missiles on the island, most probably in late 1960 or early 1961. By September, Congress would ban aid to any country that had relations with Cuba.
Later, in early 1962, a friend of our family and former neighbor, Art Lundahl, uncovered possible nuclear missile-sites and the construction of submarine bases during photo-analyses of the island. (The British “knighted” Lundahl in 1974 for his discoveries as well as for contributions made in prior conflicts.)
After these unsettling discoveries, our leaders felt betrayed by Castro, to say the least. President Kennedy in April 1961 permitted the CIA to drag the USA into the fiasco of the Bay of Pigs invasion and, when that backfired — the USSR reacted by sending more military-aid, not less, including 42,000 soldiers, 42 MIG fighters, 42 bombers and, yes, the nuclear missiles — the stage was set for ensuing nightmare of October 1962, which is now called the Cuban Missile Crisis.
After a couple of nervous (some would say terrifying) weeks — during which Cuba shot down one of our high-altitude spy planes — the Soviets offered to remove their nuclear missiles from Cuba, if we removed ours from Turkey, a country near theirs. We agreed.
It’s a good thing, because we learned later that operational nuclear weapons had already been deployed on the island; weapons we knew nothing about. According to historian Richard Rhodes, three-megaton hydrogen bombs mounted on SS-4 missiles hid in Cuba’s tropical forests; the missiles when fired could reach Washington D.C and obliterate it. The missiles we photographed were not yet operational, which gave our leaders false confidence.
A preemptive military attack by the USA on Cuba would have precipitated nuclear war with the Soviets, according to former Defense Secretary William Perry, who operated a high-tech listening post during the crisis.
Because of anti-Castro hysteria developing in right-wing political circles at the time, government officials told the public only that the Soviet Union and Cuba capitulated to our demands after we promised not to attack the island. Full details of the quid-pro-quo weren’t released until years later.
The crisis ended, but both Kennedy and Khrushchev (the Russian leader) did not survive the aftermath. Khrushchev fell from power in a kind of coup by Communist Party leaders on the third anniversary of the missile-crisis. He became depressed and died in 1971 of a heart attack.
Lee Harvey Oswald, a former employee of US intelligence, assassinated Kennedy in 1963, almost exactly one year after the crisis and almost exactly two years before Khrushchev fell from power. Within two years of Kennedy’s assassination and coincident with Khrushchev’s fall, Cuba formally adopted Communism.
In those days, magazines like Time, Newsweek and US News and World Report were the main sources of in-depth news and analysis for most civilians. It was a time when electronic calculators, computers, IPads, IPhones, and Internet services simply did not exist.
Television news was little more than fifteen minutes of reading headlines interrupted by a few commercials. Half-hour news programs didn’t start until the fall of 1963 — just a few weeks before the Kennedy assassination. Newspapers were important, but many of the best reporters worked for the three news-magazines, which shared a huge readership by today’s standards.
These magazines ran adoring pictures of Cuba’s revolutionary heroes alongside in-depth analyses of all they did and were accomplishing, both before and after 1959. Our country’s pervasive print-media seemed fascinated by the idea of common people overthrowing an invincible dictator tied to organized crime.
This fascination continued for almost two years until the day of April 17, 1961 when Americans woke up to learn that Cuban exiles living in the United States had launched an invasion of their former country against Fidel Castro. Within three days, over 1,200 of these Cuban exiles were captured by Castro, who led the Cuban defenders. Almost instantly, USA media turned against Fidel and the Cuban revolution.
The invasion came as a shock to the general public. No one knew at the time that the CIA had organized it. No one could understand why Cuban exiles would attack their own country in what was clearly a suicide mission — at least that is what the Bay of Pigs would have become had Castro not shown restraint.
Few civilians outside of government knew then that Castro was in the process of aligning himself with a Communist super-power, the Soviet Union, with whom we were then fighting a vigorous cold war. Apparently Castro and his advisors felt that in the contest between the USA and the USSR — where they found themselves toyed-with like a chess-game pawn — the USSR was the lesser of two evils.
I remember reading articles in Time magazine about Fidel and feeling thrilled that people like him actually walked the earth who weren’t afraid to stand up to the gangs we learned years later to call the Mafia and to all those other evil-monopoly-types who corrupted popularly elected governments.
The press in the United States covered Castro and Guevara in much the same way they covered, a few years later, the Beatles during the British Invasion of 1964. I found myself seduced by the good guys verses bad guys dichotomy described by the popular press.
Of course, everything changed after our family friend, Mr. Lundahl, discovered that the new Cuban government was in bed with our nemesis, the Soviet Union. Even today, people forget that Cuba did not become Communist until 1965, three years after the Cuban Missile Crisis. American civilians had no idea that the USSR was trying to get a toehold in the western hemisphere through a military alliance with the Florida-sized island.
As soon as Americans saw the photos of missile silos (or whatever those blurry images were that appeared ominously in Time and Life magazine in the fall of 1962) the honeymoon was over. Whatever good-will remained between Americans and Cubans after the Bay of Pigs now officially ended.
Overnight, Cuban heroes became in the eyes of our media reckless peasants who were in-over-their-heads and playing-with-fire as they entertained what were apparently their Russian suitors, mentors, and friends.
During the missile crisis, my dad led — from a military base on the island of Key West — the Navy anti-submarine helicopter squadron, HS-1.
HS-1 (de-activated in 1997) was tasked to keep under 24/7 surveillance the nuclear-armed Russian submarines then swarming the Florida keys and Cuba. I remember Dad scattering about on the islands in our area the squadron’s assets (including helicopters) to better protect them from a nuclear strike he believed might actually come.
I remember the military ordering everyone in Key West to fill their bathtubs with drinking water and to take other precautions they thought might help if the Russians shut-off our supplies. In those days all fresh-water came through a small above-ground pipe which ran alongside the only highway through the Florida keys.
Should the Russians cut both the water pipe-line and the highway — to isolate Key West from the mainland — we would at least have bathtubs of water to drink.
Well, as everyone knows, the crisis resolved. Neither side fired nuclear missiles.[In 1989, the Soviets revealed (and U.S. intelligence confirmed) that 24 locked and loaded nuclear missiles were already installed on the island of Cuba, which the Kennedy administration knew nothing about — according to historian Richard Rhodes. Had the USA attacked Cuba as advocated by some advisors, a nuclear exchange would have destroyed Florida and much of the Southern United States. The Editorial Board ]
The elites in both the USSR and the USA sobered up a little, thankfully, and endeavored to tighten their stewardship over these horrific weapons. We haven’t had a nuclear close-call (at least any known to the public) since.
What about Cuba?
The United States imposed a naval blockade around the island during the missile-crisis. Under international law, a blockade is considered an act of war, so President Kennedy referred to it as a quarantine.
After it ended, the USA resumed the embargo first established in 1960 in response to oil-refinery confiscations. This embargo, with modifications, persists to the present day. More about the embargo later.
In the meantime, within a few short years, the USA interjected itself militarily into the Vietnam civil-war where our French friends and their South Vietnamese allies were suffering a catastrophic defeat at the hands of President Ho Chi Minh and General Giap, the charismatic leaders of the North.
The United States ended up conducting intensive military operations for eight years in Vietnam before abandoning the South to certain defeat in 1972.
To provide soldiers for this war, a military draft of hundreds-of-thousands of civilians began in the middle 1960s. Young people, especially students, got upset — livid, really.
By the time I started college, a few of my acquaintances were traveling to Cuba to train in the art of revolution. They went to learn how to challenge and transform the beast in whose belly they thought they lived.
What did the revolutionary leaders of Cuba teach them?
It turns out, the revolutionary vanguard taught them how to work hard to plant and harvest sugar-cane. The Cubans told them that no one in a country as wealthy as the United States was going to revolt so why waste their time?
They said that working hard for the benefit of all, not the few, was the way to build a fair and just society. They taught service to society through hard work and good example; they advised students not to take all they could manage to pile-up for their efforts but only their fair share to avoid humiliating those weaker and less able than themselves. They advised their American visitors to share their wealth instead of sequestering and hoarding it.
Some of my friends were disappointed by the attitude of the Cubans, which they hadn’t expected. But others internalized what they learned and became the better for it.
As we mentioned earlier, the United States, after the missile-crisis, imposed an embargo that has lasted to the present day. Over the next fifteen years the United States sharpened the teeth of its embargo and ratcheted-up a covert program of sabotage and assassination to destabilize the island.
By 1975, the draconian features of the embargo were damaging not only Cuba but other countries and a number of international corporations. In 1976 a rogue CIA operative broke the final straw by blowing up Cuban Airways flight 455 killing all seventy-three passengers on board, including elite athletes. It was the first terrorist bombing of a civilian aircraft in our hemisphere.
The harsh conditions of the embargo might have forced the Cubans to their knees, but lobbying by the international community convinced Congress to tinker with the embargo details to make them more humane. Congress made changes to the embargo that enabled Cuba’s survival and ascendancy.
One exemption was permission for the Cubans themselves to buy food and medical supplies. Blocked from selling cigars, agricultural products, and everything else they made to the countries of the Western hemisphere and virtually the entire industrialized-world outside the Soviet-bloc, Cubans decided to enter the medical business.
Leveraging their freedom to buy food and medicine, they opened medical universities and started graduating doctors as fast as they could. They invited students from around the world to attend their medical schools. They started sending doctors on missions of mercy to needy countries in South America, Africa and anywhere else they might be welcome.
Then AIDs broke out, in 1981. A few years later, in 1995, Ebola struck big in the African Congo. Cuban doctors found themselves on the front lines fighting diseases that really scared people.
People began to take notice. Famous people like CNN‘s Ted Turner, Chrysler’s chief executive, Lee Iacocca, and South Africa’s Nelson Mandela made pilgrimages to Cuba to meet its leaders and to spend time hunting and fishing with its dynamic president, Fidel Castro.
Influential people began to show concern for the people of Cuba, because Cubans chose to travel the humanitarian road of healing when other routes were blocked by the embargo and the efforts by the United States to shun and isolate them. To show respect and appreciation, leaders in countries around the world, some in Europe and the affluent West, decided to ignore the USA-led embargo and once again trade with Cuba.
Worried about Cuba’s growing prestige, the United States decided to undermine Cuban medical assistance to other countries by passing a 2006 law to grant automatic citizenship to any Cuban doctor who practices medicine outside Cuba and is able to find their way to one of its embassies.
Cuba’s response since 2006 has been to offer medical training to 30,000 students from 125 countries around the world — who aren’t covered by the act of Congress — even as they continue to add to their own legions of medical professionals.
In the spirit of the adage, when you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, about a thousand Cuban doctors have left foreign service during the past ten years to come to the United States, where they aren’t needed. Sadly, hospitals and licensing agencies inside the USA have been slow to recognize their credentials, according to the New York Times.
Most have taken jobs outside of medicine to keep themselves afloat while they hope for better days. In any event, the effect of the effort by Congress to undermine the Cuban world-healthcare delivery program, though annoying, has been largely unsuccessful.
Despite relentless programs by the USA to thwart everything Cuban, the island — with assistance from the civilized world — has begun to blossom. Today it is blooming into a splay of color and opportunity even the United States cannot ignore.
One indicator is its HDI (Human Development Index) rating, which has risen to 81.5%. Cuba is now in third place behind Canada and the USA in the Western Hemisphere. It stands 44th among the 187 countries on the HDI list; all this improvement in the face of a ruthless fifty-four year embargo by the United States and its allies.
A princess is emerging onto the world stage, and many countries seem to want to dance with her. The United States, her abuser — the country who told all the others to hate, forsake, and despise her — has found itself the odd-man out.
And the money! The money to be made is enormous. Our elites don’t want to miss the boat. They don’t want the choo-choo train of opportunity to leave them standing at the station, hat in hand.
They plead with princess Cuba. Let’s pretend the past is over and let bygones be bygones.No hard feelings, they insist. Can we visit from time to time?
They bat their lashes and bow their heads. They upturn their eyes and fill them with crocodile tears. They whisper seductively. They implore with outstretched hands.
Do you mind? We’ll build family-friendly casinos on your best beaches. It will be like old times — just the two of us, once more and forever.
Billy Lee
Post Script:The Cuban Revolution was a complex and drawn-out affair. To help readers better understand its twists, turns, detours, course-corrections, intrigues, betrayals, successes and failures, Billy Lee has, as usual, provided links to some good articles. For readers who may want to learn more about modern-day Cuba from someone who travels there, Billy Lee has provided this link. The Editorial Board.
[A New Year’s Message to our readers from the Editorial Board]
January 17, 2015 marks the first anniversary of the Billy Lee Pontificator. During the past year we published more than fifty posts on over thirty topics of interest to Billy Lee — like economics, history, humor, politics, religion, gay rights, literature, race, music, culture, technology, science and many others.
WordPress, our blog-site administrator, reported in year-end statistical summariesthat readers clicked on Billy Lee’s Pontifications 7,000 times.
Although some people might consider the number small compared to the tens-of-thousands of hits received each day by commercial web-sites, Billy Lee prefers to compare his numbers to what he might expect were his articles posted on the front of his refrigerator with little door-magnets.
It’s unlikely that more than a handful of visitors to his kitchen would take the time to read even a few of his posts during the year. Measured this way, it is clear to the Editorial Board that the Billy Lee Pontificator has been a spectacular success.
Billy Lee sometimes tells people he started his blog to entertain and inform readers. Not true. We know him. We work with him. He created his blog, because he needed a reservoir for his crazy ideas.
Billy intends to leave behind a public anthology of utter nonsense to his loved ones. He is convinced that the heart-palpitations he experiences every time he writes will kill him someday, probably prematurely. He doesn’t want to leave an empty legacy of a wasted life.
But let us face some harsh realities. Writing a blog is agonizing, thankless work. A famous person once said: no one who blogs is ever happy (or famous). Bloggers can sometimes suffer criticism, but more often than not, people ignore them. And it hurts.
The public seems not to care about bloggers and the useless self-indulgent crap they write. Blogsters who believe in what they do (and that includes Billy Lee) writhe beneath the stab-wounds of rejection every time they push the publish-button and sit glued to their computers to wait anxiously for their site-stats to dribble-in.
Most of the time the numbers confirm their worst fears — they really do suck at what they do. They bleed. They suffer. And everyone knows they self-inflict their own self-righteous agonies.
No one does it better than Billy Lee. Only when a blogger stops blogging, does the bleeding stop. Billy Lee has suffered and bled for twelve months now. Yes, he bleeds, but no, he’s never bled-out.
It seems that more and more blogsters are abandoning their sites and moving on to other meaningless projects. We hope Billy Lee never does. As boring and irrelevant as he is, we still want our paychecks! Stand up, Billy Lee. Keep on blogging!
Sincerest Regards,
The Editorial Board
P.S. One more thing. Some readers may have heard the news by now. Security guards arrested Billy Lee during his speech last night at the “New Year’s Eve Homage to Year One” Gala and Ball. The Board hosted the plaid T-shirt affair at the exclusive Rubber Chicken Dinner Club in Metamora.
Billy Lee has apologized.
Guess what?
We don’t care!
A transcript of his remarks is reproduced below.
Helloooo, everybody! Happy New Year!
(burps loudly, spills drink)
(audience applause)
I’m Billy Lee, the Pontificator, and I’m drunk as a skunk!
(Audience laughter, applause)
What’s my New Year’s Resolution for 2015? Who wants to know? Yeah? Oh yeah? You’re all a bunch of gnarly swamp rabbits…That’s what I think! I’ll pickle ur… Whoaaa! Easy big fella. Not you. Not you.
(Scattered laughter. Room quiets)
Ok, Ok… it’s an easy one, my comrades. Hold on. I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell ya.
(Stares wildly into the room)
I resolve… I resolve… in two-thousand one five… to be sexy all the time! Two – oh – one – five! I be sexy all de time. Yeah!
(hiccups, burps, takes a drink)
(gasps from audience, a few catcalls)
I resolve to be of good cheer, most of the year, and for god sakes don’t tell ’em I’m qu…
(stumbles, grabs podium)
Don’t tell ’em I’m qu…
(twirls a 360 and throws drink glass, shattering it)
Don’t tell ’em I’m qu…
(falls into microphone setting off loud reverb)
Don’t tell ’em I’m qu…
(sprawls onto stage floor, face down, butt in the air)
don’t tell ’em… don’t tell ’em…
(scattered screams, folks covering their ears, expressions of outrage in audience)
Note to our readers: Let’s just say, things escalated. Billy Lee decided to belt out a slurred and soggy rendition of Take Me to Church. He demanded that male volunteers come up on stage to kiss him on the lips.
Some in the audience rioted. People began throwing things, including chairs and salt shakers. Finally, marshals stormed in to escort BillyLee out of the building. He was hand-cuffed and dragged. He began bawling like a baby. Some say he mouthed the words, worship like a dog! worship like a dog! as the marshals threw him into the paddy-wagon.
An hour or so later, members of the Editorial Board — they shall remain unnamed — posted BillyLee’s bond, and all of us, together, asked that he submit his formal remarks — in writing — today. We demanded that he include an apology.
Billy Lee complied. We have attached his written “homage” (an e-mail) below. The Editorial Board.
January 1, 2015
To: the Billy Lee Pontificator Editorial Board
May I offer my profoundest apologies to anyone I offended last night by my outrageous behavior, inappropriate comments, and lewd singing? I am so sorry.
I am so ashamed.
I know it’s the tradition for people to drink small amounts of alcohol on New Year’s Eve, but last night I clearly exceeded the reasonable and customary limits of insobriety.
Under the influence of what some said was “excessive” consumption of liquor, it seems I offended both the gay community and those Christians in the audience who prefer to drive gays to suicide. For this, I am truly sorry. I said and sang stuff I didn’t mean.
My question to the board members is this: Can you forgive me? Or will you use my weakness as your excuse to torment, humiliate, scandalize, censor, and shun me?
Your silence seems to speak for itself. You forgive me. And you torment, humiliate, scandalize, censor, and shun me. Thank you so very much.
Let me reassure you. I am not myself gay, nor have I ever been. Do you believe me? Again, your silence speaks for itself.
You don’t believe me. I feel it.
And you shun me. I feel that, too. Ok, then. Now that it’s settled, can we move on?
And again, may I prodigiously apologize for playing the fool and making you hate me?
I am grateful for each of you: for each member of our illustrious Editorial Board and the over-weighted bureaucracy that supports you and makes up the backbone of the Pontificator team.
Thank you to the staff of sycophants, apple polishers, and suck-ups who inspire all of us to do our best work.
And thanks also to our black janitor and the two sluts who hang out in the parking-lot before work every morning. Thank you to everyone.
It is now my pleasure to present my homage to our first year and to discuss many of the articles I wrote that might have enriched all our lives had you taken the time to read them.
It’s no secret to me that you didn’t read my articles. Yet you call yourselves the “Editorial Board” !!! The only thing you edit is your paychecks. I’ve caught more than one of you erasing “ones” and “twos” and writing in “eights” and “nines”. It’s not right, people. Can’t you see that?
Well, enough apologies. I’m admonished and chastised. I get it. And no. I’m not dropping my pants, so you can spank me. It’s enough, already, Editorial Board! Let’s move on to my Homage to Year One!
I’ve included the following written transcript of the remarks I would have made last night had I not been drunk. And I made some changes to more accurately express my feelings after your reaction to last night’s sorry debacle and my role in it.
By the way, I’m thrilled to reveal the five most read Pontificator articles for 2014. Can you guess? They are… (May we have the envelope, please? Drum roll…)
Since you’re reading this report in your e-mail, Editorial Board, click on the links and read all five, right now!
The best article of 2014 (and far and away my favorite) is Bell’s Inequality. It packs a huge wallop for those who dig science. Not to totally pander to science freaks, but a close second is Conscious Life. Site stats say few people have read them. I know the Editorial Board didn’t read them.
Read them now!
Our best (worst) day of the year was May 3rd, when church leaders — alarmed by my famous Gay Love post — swarmed our site and eventually shut it down — for six weeks!
I never suffered emotionally in my life like I did during those weeks — they turned into months! Details of that unnerving fiasco are described and preserved in Writing Free.
Of course, I can’t expect any of you to read it. It’s 2,000 words. It has paragraphs!
Many people told me the post they liked best was Hearing Loss. It is a true account of real-life exchanges between me and my hill-billy wife, Beverly Mae. It is always good for giddy guffaws and lots of laughs. Next July, when you are all taking your six-week vacations, why not set one week aside to read it, Editorial Board?!
Another funny post, at least to me: Why Do Humans like Music? I belly-laugh every time I revisit it. It’s that good. You wouldn’t know!!!
I don’t know how many of you Board members know this, but The Billy Lee Pontificator got it’s start, believe it or not, from a desire to showcase an article I wrote titled, Horemheb, Exodus Pharaoh? I loved that essay. I loved the title. Wow. Horemheb, Exodus Pharaoh? Really? Everybody will read that one!
To my amazement, and through the tears of self-humiliation, I discovered — after I published it on my blog-site — Horemheb needed a re-write. Some family members may remember how much the re-writing of Horemheb dragged-on during its prolonged infancy on Facebook, before I blog-published it. It’s why we hired our Editorial Board team.
Maybe someday some of the Editorsmight want to read Horemheb to see if I missed something. If it’s not inconvenient or too much trouble, Editorial Board!!!
Anyway, sloppy execution of my article, Horemheb, led to the policy elucidated on our Billy Lee Process Page, best summarized as follows: re-write it ’till it’s right. People hate the policy, but I like it. In my bad heart, I know it’s right. And since my Editorial Board — yes, that’s you! — won’t spell check my stuff, I have no choice.
To sum-up: I can’t say I enjoyed my first year blogging, but I’m proud of the articles I wrote. I’m glad some people say they read them — even if my Editorial Board refuses. I regret the controversies, but it’s how we stay alive, stay engaged and grow. Does anyone agree?
The entertainment industry learned a long time ago that the way to appeal to the most people is to embrace ambiguity.
Ambiguity permits each consumer to put their own meaning on the art they buy; on music, paintings, theater, books, movies, shows, personalities, and stars.
Ambiguity, when combined with strictly enforced copyright laws — like those of the United States — can help establish a large paying audience, huge money, and wide-spread exposure and influence.
People like to feel they are part of something bigger than themselves. Ambiguity promotes mass participation in cultural processes. This mass participation can alleviate the ennui of alienation for many people.
Elvis Presley sang, you ain’t nothing but a hound dog. What did he mean by it? No one knows, and everyone knows.
The same is true with Bob Dylan who sang, Hey Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me. In the jingle-jangle morning I’ll come following you. No one knows what he was singing about. Yet everyone can tell you what he meant.
The ambiguity of these two artists — one from the nineteen-fifties, one from the nineteen-sixties — permitted both to accumulate the largest fan bases ever, until the Beatles.
The Beatles established an ambiguous sexual identity by wearing their hair long — unusual at the time. They deluged their fans with ambiguous lyrics such as, yeah, you’ve got that something, I think you’ll understand, When I’ll say that something, I wanna hold your hand… and hey Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better. No one knows for sure what they meant, but everyone knows what those lyrics meant to themselves when they first heard them.
Jesus presents ambiguities about himself which have attracted the largest following of worshippers in world history. The most obvious ambiguity is the concept of the Trinity. Is Jesus God, or not? No one knows. Everyone knows.
The concept of the Trinity presents the central ambiguity of Christianity. It has drawn the attention of a spiritually hungry world for two thousand years. It confounds us with a dilemma of logic and meaning which to this day fuels the faith-wars of Christians who, in their quest for certainty, have segregated themselves into over 40,000 denominations.
Every attempt to define the Trinity, to remove its ambiguity and establish certainty, seems to result in a new denomination, a new religion.
Of course, many other ambiguities in the Bible have spawned controversies. Abortion isn’t mentioned in the Bible — and homosexuality is barely mentioned — yet both have divided countless churches. Gifts of the Holy Spirit — which are discussed at length in the Bible and should be non-controversial to believers — have divided churches. Some denominations discount gifts altogether, in contradiction to Scripture.
In the 21st century, those Christians who detest ambiguity and worship certainty war with one another in a kind of theater of the absurd. 40,000 denominations?
Really?
Instead of embracing a small amount of ambiguity to unify Christians, a few leaders advocate from time to time certainties of thought and Bible interpretation which divide the faithful. Unity is the last thing these modern Christians seem to want. They lust for certainty.
Certainty is not biblical, it’s not Christian, it’s not even Jesus. Jesus didn’t stone the woman caught having sex with her married boyfriend, though the logic of the law demanded it. He reasoned with her, encouraged her, and forgave her. He wasn’t logical. He wasn’t dogmatic. He admonished the woman and gave her hope. He acted with all the stupidity and uncertainty of true love, based on a relationship with a messy human being who would never be certain of anything.
The most unambiguous statement Jesus made was this: Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.
No one knows for sure what Jesus was talking about when he made this statement. Yet everyone seems to know for sure what he meant. As unambiguous as the statement is, it can’t be literally true today.
No modern person has ever opened their front door and found Jesus standing on the front porch. Not one. Jesus’s meaning is uncertain. To different people, his words mean different things.
For Jesus, his statement had a meaning known to him, but it seems reasonable that his meaning might have nuances depending on the specific person he was talking to. And Jesus was talking to a lot of people, it turned out.
The Bible plainly says that we are saved by faith. But no one has perfect faith.
So how much faith does it take to get into Heaven?
Jesus said the amount of faith required to do anything was on the order of a grain of mustard seed, about the size of the period at the end of this sentence. How many people have this much faith? Not very many, it turns out. It’s not possible for us to be certain about the quantity of faith required to enter heaven. The amount is small, but uncertain.
In their demand for certainty, many churches fight over doctrine. They fight, because they are populated by people. If history is a guide, we can say with certainty that people love to fight.
One of the amazing things Jesus said was this: God is kind to the wicked and the ungrateful. As someone who has been wicked and ungrateful pretty much everyday of my life (and not proud of it), I love pondering those words. They give me assurance, not certainty, that God will be more gentle with me than I deserve.
Recently, my church friends, God love them, voted to leave our mainstream denomination to join a conservative denomination of the South, born in the Confederacy of the civil war. People unwilling to get on the boat for unchartered waters face the danger of becoming spiritually adrift. They face an uncertainty that might result in the loss of their religion.
I am one of those who have to face the unpleasant decision to get on that boat or face the dangers of remaining on shore. It’s not a good choice for me. My health has suffered under the stress of a change in my old age I didn’t see coming. The good part is this: people who love Jesus are in the departing boat and on the shore. And Jesus is protecting both the boat and the land it leaves behind.
The comfort Christians enjoy is Jesus, himself, in their homes, eating with them and sharing their life. That’s it. Jesus is all there is for those of us who suffer in this life, and he’s enough. Inside our private spaces, Jesus reasons with us, encourages us, forgives us, admonishes us, and gives us hope. He helps us endure and embrace the will of God, which is almost never our own.
Billy Lee
Postscript: On July 1, 2015 Billy Lee resigned his church and aligned himself with a non-denominational congregation. The Editorial Board.