California Dreamin’

Everyone has one song that seems to embody the essence of their high school days. Mine is California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas. The big, fat harmonies, the sweet, plaintive melody, the freedom that the song implies lives somewhere in the future and of course, the images of a dreary, Eastern winter contrasted with the warm, sunny, care-free atmosphere of California in the ‘60s – at least, the idealized California I longed to experience. I finally did get to go to California for the first time at 17, and it did not disappoint. I was mesmerized by the gorgeous Pacific Ocean, the beaches, the trip to Disneyland, the big, blue skies, and the feeling that anything was possible. I returned to live in California some ten years later, and as the Mamas and Papas sang in another song, “California Dreamin’ was becoming a reality!”.

A MIRACLE

A MIRACLE

Yesterday the citizens of Iraq had their first free election in decades. Watching the footage on television, I was awestruck by the courage of these people. With the reality of suicide bombers in some cases, just around the corner, with the sound of gunfire as a constant background noise, with the tense, tight security and soldiers everywhere, with people being frisked routinely – even in one case I saw, a man in a wheelchair – it is a testimony to the human spirit that so many brave souls – men and women – dared to venture to the polls and make their choices, faced by a ballot with hundreds of names and a myriad of parties to consider. In case you didn’t happen to see it on CNN – There was, literally, dancing and singing in the street. Many voters brought their small children with them so that the children could witness this historic moment. Iraqi expatriates from all corners of the globe showed up at polls in fourteen nations to express their support for and solidarity with their country.

I had to ask myself if I would be so brave under similar circumstances. I honestly don’t know. I have never been deprived of my right to vote. I’ve been voting for some thirty-five years, and even if I didn’t like the ultimate outcome of an election, I knew I had the inalienable right to voice my opinion and to have my opinion counted. (Well, mostly, but that is a discussion for another day). I have never had my life threatened by the simple act of walking to my polling place. We don’t really know what we are capable of doing until we are faced with the situation.

As much as I have been opposed to the invasion of Iraq, and as little as I like many of the opinions and policies of the current administration, I have to admit that – for now, at least – it appears that the sacrifices of people of this country and others may have served a very high purpose. Whatever the true motivations for our military intervention in the first place, I cannot argue with what happened yesterday.

There was some violence, which is tragic. There may be more violence in the future, but hopefully, less and less. Free people tend to prosper, and prosperous people tend to love peace.

But there was a decided victory yesterday. No matter what the outcome of this election, the people of Iraq have come out in droves to defy terrorism and to stand up for their autonomy. That is a miracle.

© 2005, Robin Munson

PRIVACY

PRIVACY

There has been controversy in the past year about a new phenomenon in the Southern California area. The City of Los Angeles has been putting little cameras at strategic places in the city so that they can monitor potential crimes in progress. There have been cameras installed in a public park and now, a few of them have been placed on Hollywood Boulevard. Both locations are recognized as hotbeds of drug activity.

Critics of such policies say that the cameras are an invasion of privacy. Protect my privacy” in Americanese is usually code for, “Stay away from my sex life”.

To them I can only say – How can you be in a public place and be “private” at the same time? What kinds of “private” activities did you have planned for the next time you’re strolling down Hollywood Boulevard or feeding the ducks in Silverlake? Did you plan to strip naked for a lark? Maybe you had plans to have an illicit affair out in broad daylight? Come on, folks. If you don’t like the idea of cameras in the street, I’m guessing you’re not an exhibitionist. But even if you did something so stupid: 1) You wouldn’t be the first or the last, so get over yourself; 2) The risk of getting arrested would exist with or without cameras; and 3) Nobody really cares.

For myself, I say, go ahead! Take a good look! You will see me caught in the act of walking, perhaps singing to myself, petting a dog, saying hello to a stranger, window shopping, or picking up a free newspaper. Maybe I’ll be spied upon as I enter a Middle Eastern restaurant or a nail salon. You might even see me kiss my husband. Oooooooooooooooooooooh! Big stuff! In other words, behaviorally, I will be exactly like almost anyone else walking down the street. Visually, you may see me in glasses, without glasses, wearing sunglasses, having a bad hair day, having a good hair day, wearing jeans, wearing slacks, wearing a coat, or wearing a sweater. Again – What an invasion of my privacy!

But, why risk it? I say – Dismantle the cameras. Better safe than sorry! So what if a few drug deals go down? So what if a few cars are stolen? So what if some criminal element is allowed to kidnap a few kids and get away with it, even? A drive-by shooting, ah well, it can’t be helped. At least, we’ll all have our precious “privacy”.

I know, I know. This is not the position a “liberal” is supposed to take. But one of my own dearly held beliefs about freedom is that, no matter what label they slap on you, you still have the right to side with the opposition if they’re right about something. To me, that’s what true individuality is about, and it’s nothing that shows up on a camera. As for “privacy”, until the day the government trains cameras on our home, I’m okay.

© 2005, Robin Munson

I SPEAK AMERICAN

I SPEAK AMERICAN

Last night we were out with friends, and somewhere along the way, I found myself telling part of the story of my immigrant grandparents and how they happened to come to this country. I don’t know what was running through our friends’ minds at the time, but I found myself compelled to talk about it, even while I knew it was probably not appropriate light dinner conversation.

It runs like a rich, dark thread through the tapestry of my life, this saga of four brave people from Eastern Europe in the early years of the twentieth century. My father’s parents came to this country from Romania. My mother’s mother was from Hungary. My mother’s father was from Czechoslovakia. They were all young – under twenty-five. They were all Jewish. And at some point, each of them individually made the decision to leave everything they knew and loved behind to take a chance on the “New World”.

I never knew my father’s parents – they died before I was born. The stories about them are all from their life together after they met in Pittsburgh. Those stories are colorful, textured, and delightful thumbnail sketches of the people they portray.

But I did know my mother’s parents. Some of the stories have been passed down to me directly by my grandmother. Some of them come to me from my mother. The history of my grandmother and grandfather before they came to the United States are epic. They depict the horrors that motivated people to make the terrifying leap of faith, boarding a steamer and traveling in steerage across the Atlantic to a country they have never seen where the language, the customs, and even the food is totally foreign to them.

I will give you a sample – the same story I found myself retelling last night. My grandmother grew up in a tiny town in Hungary called Rozhehegye (Rose hedge). It was close to the Danube River, just across from Vienna, Austria. (My grandmother attended secretarial school in Vienna, taking a ferry across the Danube every day. She spoke fluent German, as well as Hungarian, Russian, and Czech).

When Grandma was a little girl, the Russians invaded and occupied Hungary. Among many of the rules they instituted, they decreed that Hungarians should no longer speak Hungarian, but were compelled to speak Russian only (at least in public). Grandma was walking to school alongside her best friend, and naturally, they were chattering away in Hungarian. A couple of Russian soldiers appeared and, having overheard the conversation, shouted, “No Hungarian! Speak Russian!” My grandmother’s friend, being a spunky little girl shouted back, “I am Hungarian! I speak Hungarian!” One of the soldiers simply lifted his rifle and shot the little girl dead – right in front of my Grandma.

There are many other stories about my grandmother and grandfather’s experiences in Europe. But this one, perhaps more than any other, speaks to me personally. It is emblematic of what brought them to their new home. In fact, I would venture to say that it is emblematic of what brought many, many immigrants to this country. That brave little girl’s spirit lived on in my grandmother and probably helped her to make that horrendous crossing to Ellis Island.

My grandparents (all four of them) learned English. I am told that they rarely lapsed into their native languages or even Yiddish except when they were fighting and didn’t want the children to know what they were saying. They worked hard at their new language and became fluent early on. But the important thing was that they spoke English by choice. Not by force. That’s why they loved this country so much. My grandmother would have proudly stated, “I am American. I speak American”.

© 2005, Robin Munson