By now, most of you know about my September 27 performance across the den floor.
What you do not know is who hexed me.
That’s right. Hexed me.
My youngest sister, Tilly. She’s been at it practically my whole life. And before she demands proof, I have prepared my case.
I was barely old enough to form memories when Mother gave us a simple instruction: Do not run down the hallway.
Naturally, my sister turned to me and said, “Let’s run down the hallway.”
So I did.
Please examine the photograph of me standing in front of the pickup. Does that child look dressed for a competitive sporting event? No. Yet there I was, entering a race in which, as best I remember, I was the only contestant.
I lost to a doorway.
Split my head wide open.
I remember my sister’s eyes getting enormous, as though she had just seen a ghost. Possibly mine. Judging by the blood, my spirit may have been checking for an exit.
Then I remember Mother screaming.
Mother had considerable practice at that during my childhood.
The doctor who delivered me stitched me back together. I cannot offer much firsthand testimony about either occasion. At my birth, I wasn’t taking notes. For the stitches, I was apparently unconscious.
I lived, and the story became family dinner-table entertainment until I supplied them with fresh material.
The next installment was a doozy.
I was six years old and attending first grade under protest. I had maintained that position since kindergarten. I disliked the school, the arrangement, and the expectation that I would keep showing up. I got stuck crawling out of the bathroom window twice. It was an attempt to run away. To home. We lived four miles outside of town.
The teacher’s grandson was about the only person there I took to. I had difficulty speaking the way the other children did, and he was Japanese. Perhaps we recognized something in each other about being different. Somehow, we understood one another even when the words didn’t quite cooperate.
We remain friends to this day.
Anyway, the day before my next disaster, I brought home a stack of school papers. Somewhere in that stack was a notice offering school accident insurance for one dollar.
It was the last day to enroll.
My parents didn’t think we needed it.
Neither did I.
My sister and I also had one of our brother-and-sister disagreements over television. I wanted Gilligan’s Island. She wanted The Brady Bunch.
The Bradys won.
I submit that information merely to establish a possible motive.
The next day, I was playing on the monkey bars with a girl when I took flight.
It was a short trip with a hard landing.
I came down on the concrete playground beside the hot metal slide and broke my arm in several places. In those days, apparently, playground construction began with the question, “What surface would make this fall more memorable?”
That landing began an ordeal lasting nearly a year.
I went through two hospitals before finally getting a regular cast. The doctor told my parents it was a terrible break. Then he asked whether I had a witch doctor out to get me.
I tried to explain that it was a sister.
Unfortunately, pain medication and sedatives had done very little for my ability to present evidence.
I tried telling my parents later. They didn’t understand either.
Three months afterward, the doctor announced that I needed a specialist.
My mother said turned to my dad and said “I told you he was menta!”
The Doctor – snapped.
“No, It’s his arm! he explained. “It’s healing wrong.”
It would have to be broken again, reset, and put into a special cast. He could not perform the operation himself.
Dad responded with enough language to entertain the entire waiting room. The gold fish tank in the lobby was still bubbling funny when we left the office.
Then we drove thirty miles to another doctor, with Dad providing commentary all the way.
So I told him to let my arm grow crooked or I could chop cotton that summer to help pay the bill.
I finally seen what caused him to shut up and light a cigarette. And my mother to want one.
Fast forward to now…or current day if your have just caught up.
Then, without her help—or her hex—I began finding entirely new ways to need rebuilding.
There was a fall. A broken leg and ankle. Surgery. And absolutely no applause.
After everything else, I had hoped to get a little more mileage out of the rebuilt model before returning it to the shop.
But there is something I want to say about all these repairs.
I am grateful.
UnitedHealthcare and the physicians caring for me have helped me get the treatment I needed. In my experience, I have been able to obtain my prescriptions, appointments, and surgeries without being left wondering whether help would arrive.
I know other people have different experiences. I can only tell you mine, and mine deserves an honest thank-you.
I’m not a Golden Club member or a Silver Saddle Rider. I don’t have a velvet rope waiting for me at the doctor’s office.
Steve understood benefits and helped us choose coverage that suited our needs. That has mattered enormously. So have the doctors, nurses, office staff, and other people who helped us work through each new problem.
Over more than two decades of health needs in Arizona, I have had good people in my corner.
That doesn’t mean every recovery has been easy. The nose alone deserves its own complaint department. The doctor left town.
To be honest the nose doctor moved back East to be closer to his wife’s family. We kept track of where he went. He sent Christmas cards. It was actually a bill. We sent a thank you.
Seriously, when I needed care, those people helped me get it.
If you are struggling to get answers, ask someone to help you work through the process. Take someone along who can listen, take notes, and ask the question you remember halfway home.
And now to get me to stand upright. This piece is attached to my ankle.
Ask for an explanation you understand. If your concerns remain unanswered, keep asking or seek another opinion.
You deserve to understand what is happening to your own body—even when it seems to be conducting business without your permission.
As for me, I’m hoping the repair department can take a vacation.
I’d like to spend a little time enjoying the mileage.
The movie Them! from 1954 has nothing to do with he, she, they, or preferred pronouns. “THEM!” is simply what you scream when an ant arrives large enough to repossess your house.
Goodmorning – Coffee with “THEM”
I remembered the creatures as beings from another planet. Turns out they are homegrown ants enlarged by atomic radiation. Apparently, America was manufacturing its own problems even then.
Naturally, I detected certain similarities to the MAGA movement: traveling in groups, making a tremendous racket, and acting as though the entire country belongs to them. I had suspected another planet was involved, but some of those folks come from Texas, Alabama, Oklahoma, and Louisiana. Having lived in Oklahoma, I can tell you the investigation remains open.
Back to the ants.
One of the delights of this movie is spotting people whose faces would become fixtures in our living rooms. James Whitmore plays Sgt. Ben Peterson, and James Arness plays FBI agent Robert Graham. Arness would soon become Marshal Matt Dillon—the horse-riding one from Dodge City, for those of you thinking of the younger actor.
THEM
Fess Parker turns up as Alan Crotty, before most of us knew him as Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone. Leonard Nimoy appears as a uniformed sergeant, before anyone issued him pointed ears. Dub Taylor is a railroad yard watchman, and Dick York appears as a teenager in a police station, years before marriage to Samantha Stephens complicated his life.
And Sheb Wooley contributes an uncredited scream through reused sound effects. Some actors get dialogue. Others get to sound as though something has bitten them.
Now, Matt Dillon has Daniel Boone kept under observation because Daniel Boone claims to have seen something unbelievable. Considering what is running around outside, the man may be in the safest place in the picture.
Cue Porter Wagoner’s “The Rubber Room.”
But I don’t want to spoil the movie.
When it begins, the New Mexico State Police have an airplane and car-to-air radio communications. As a former dispatcher, I appreciated that. Somebody had a budget.
They find a little girl wandering through a desert landscape that looks suspiciously like California has agreed to impersonate New Mexico. There are Joshua trees standing around, apparently instructed not to discuss their whereabouts.
We move along.
Something is terribly wrong in the desert. Buildings are wrecked. People are missing. There are strange noises, mysterious tracks, and enough evidence to make a reasonable person consider vacationing elsewhere.
The audience catches on before the investigators do, of course. That always bothers me. The cameraman was right there. Surely he could have put the equipment down long enough to tell somebody.
At one point, I thought a cross had fallen on a soldier.
Wait. Just a timber.
Carry on.
Eventually, everyone agrees that enormous ants are a problem. The ants intend to establish more colonies, which presents difficulties for those of us already making mortgage payments.
The government’s solution is to kill every last one of them.
The ants, I should clarify. We left the political commentary several paragraphs back.
There are flamethrowers, soldiers, scientists, and people entering places I would have declined to enter even before my leg and ankle gave me a written excuse.
Nobody suggests setting out one of those little plastic ant traps beneath the sink. Apparently, we have moved beyond that stage.
I have watched this movie seven times that I remember. Twice with dogs, three times with people, and twice alone. It is a hoot with a little liquor and someone willing to listen to your observations.
The dogs offered the least criticism.
There may have been an eighth viewing in a motel. I cannot remember who or what was with me. The light outside kept blinking, and the television switched itself to the Weather Channel every fifteen minutes.
I may have watched Them! or simply endured a severe thunderstorm warning. The evening remains under review.
Anyway, the movie ends the same way every time. The people win.
Which is good, I suppose.
But after watching it this many times, you would think the ants would finally catch on.
By now, at least one of them ought to say, “Don’t go down that tunnel. Matt Dillon’s in there with a flamethrower.”
Love the person standing next to you. They can’t be all that bad. And if they smell a little, love them from upwind.
Words are few I have spoken. I could waste a thousand years. Wrapped in sorrow, words are token. Come inside and catch my tears. You’ve been talking but believe me. If it’s true you do not know. This boy loves without a reason.
The rain was pouring down when Steve and I pulled into a parking lot in Kansas City. Earlier that day, I had scored tickets from a motel manager. Steve knew we were going somewhere. He just didn’t know what I had up my sleeve.
Ben & Steve out & uptown in Kansas City!
By the end of the evening, we would be having cocktails in an old gangster bar and standing pressed against a stage, looking directly up at Boy George.
Behind us stood a group of women whose enthusiasm—and boobs—were firmly planted against our backs. The crowd, which I didn’t think about packing in around us.
We weren’t going anywhere. Even if we had wanted to.
There he was in that funny hat. A familiar face with a few more years on it. I suppose he could have said the same about us, although we hadn’t been consulted about our costumes.
I first knew George through his music, back when he and Culture Club were getting their start. Steve had some of that same flair in those days. I admired it, even while worrying about what might happen if the wrong people noticed. (Steve didn’t have that much.)
In western Oklahoma, looking different could attract more than disapproving glances.
There were people who went looking for someone like us. Some came by the truckload, carrying enough hatred to make up for whatever else they lacked.
George kept singing, “Do you really want to hurt me?”
Well, no, George. I didn’t.
But I knew people who did. And that was the part of the song I understood without needing anybody to explain the lyrics.
I was a lawman. I figured I could keep the peace.
Or so I thought.
A badge gave me a job to do. It didn’t erase the fear of what might happen if people learned too much about the man wearing it.
Then along came “Karma Chameleon.”
Now, a chameleon knows something about blending in. Plenty of us in Oklahoma had already mastered that particular skill. We could change the subject, watch our words, and make certain nobody saw us looking too long in the wrong direction.
George, meanwhile, wore the hat, put on the makeup, and gave the world something to look at.
He and those merry bandmates brought color into years when some of us were trying very hard to remain invisible.
Somewhere between the music and the nerve it took to present himself that way, he made the world feel a little bigger.
Even out in the Oklahoma hayfields.
And yes, there were boys in those alfalfa fields who might have enjoyed flying from bale to bale like Peter Pan, trailing glitter and a generous sprinkling of fairy dust.
Some of us just knew to save the dancing until nobody was looking.
We had chores. We had families. We had reputations to maintain and people whose reactions we couldn’t afford to test.
So, years later, there Steve and I stood in Kansas City, looking up at a man whose songs had followed us through all of that.
For that evening, I could enjoy the music beside the man I loved. The surprise had worked, and nobody was asking us to explain ourselves.
Although, with those women pressed against our backs, a little more room would have been appreciated.
Love the person standing next to you, folks.
And if you’re at a crowded concert, you may have to love them at considerably closer range than you planned.
Apparently, I should have picked a subject Washington would have more difficulty turning into a controversy. Something less combustible. Like gasoline.
Readers who followed the story will remember that I later received an explanation connecting tree removal to repairs around the Tidal Basin. My May 24 follow-up acknowledged that the seawall work was real. Another update followed in July as concerns about trees at East Potomac Park developed. Those earlier pieces are the background to this report, but they should not be mistaken for proof that every subsequent tree removal involved the same project.
Now hundreds of trees have been cut down at East Potomac Golf Links, and a federal judge is demanding answers about the government’s conduct.
Before going further, two distinctions matter.
First, approximately 430 trees were removed in the October operation. The available reporting does not establish that they were all cherry trees. Earlier claims that dozens of cherry trees had been removed at the golf course also exceeded what could be verified.
Second, the Tidal Basin seawall repairs and the East Potomac golf course dispute are separate projects. One cannot serve as a blanket explanation for the other.
The seawall explanation was real
In March 2024, the National Park Service announced a $113 million seawall rehabilitation project at the Tidal Basin and West Potomac Park. Its plans included removing 158 cherry trees, along with other trees, to make room for construction. Replacement planting was part of the project from the beginning.
That history deserves a clear place in this update. The seawall project was announced before Trump’s second administration. Its existence was not an invented excuse, even if it did not answer questions about trees being removed elsewhere.
Interior announced the restored seawalls’ reopening on April 21, 2026, reporting that the project included planting 546 trees, among them 353 cherry trees.
What happened at East Potomac
According to ABC News, the government notified the plaintiffs at 4:55 p.m. on Friday, October 9, that tree cutting would take place over the holiday weekend. Crews began the next day. A Justice Department attorney subsequently told the court that 430 trees had been removed.
The administration maintained that the work implemented recommendations from a 2019 cultural landscape report and was separate from President Trump’s proposed golf course overhaul. CNN reported that officials could not explain to Judge Ana Reyes why so many trees needed to come down so suddenly.
Reyes’s October 26 opinion described the operation as removing hundreds of healthy, nonhazardous trees with less than eighteen hours’ notice. At the preliminary-injunction stage, she rejected the government’s effort to characterize what happened as routine maintenance and found the cutting connected to the broader redevelopment.
There is a considerable distance between removing a dangerous limb and removing a landscape. The court is now examining how the government crossed it.
Why the judge was furious
Reyes had repeatedly sought meaningful advance notice before irreversible work occurred. Government lawyers had offered assurances about providing it.
But accuracy requires acknowledging that she had not yet put the earlier notice requirement into a formal order. At the October 12 hearing, she expressly identified that omission as the reason she had not initiated contempt proceedings over the cutting.
The supported account is therefore serious enough without embellishment: hundreds of trees were removed after repeated judicial warnings, with notice arriving late on a Friday before crews began Saturday.
By the time the court could intervene, the trees were already down.
The restrictions—and today’s development
On October 26, Reyes issued a preliminary injunction requiring court authorization for further tree removal or damage, with a narrow exception for imminent public-safety threats. She also required ten days’ written notice before other irreversible changes to the course. These protections apply while the lawsuit proceeds; they are not a final judgment resolving every disputed issue.
The dispute escalated again on October 30. Reuters reported that Reyes ordered an investigation into whether Justice Department attorneys violated ethics rules, appointed a special master, and directed the preservation of relevant documents. Her concerns included potentially misleading statements and omissions about the administration’s renovation plans. The investigation is not itself a finding that misconduct occurred.
Where that leaves this story
My April piece was satire. The seawall repairs were real. The October golf course cutting was a separate event, and the government’s explanations for it are now under judicial scrutiny.
I cannot establish that the person who contacted me was a White House insider. Nor does this latest dispute prove that every suspicion I had earlier was correct. Readers deserve those distinctions alongside the criticism.
What troubles me is the permanence of the action compared with the time needed to examine it. Lawyers can revise a filing. Officials can offer another explanation. A judge can demand testimony.
A mature tree does not get a correction notice and stand back up.
An April Fools joke ought to end with somebody laughing. This chapter has ended, so far, with hundreds of stumps and a federal judge demanding the truth.
In a time long, long ago—before your telephone could give you directions and then criticize you for missing the turn—people installed radios in their vehicles so they could talk to other people driving down the highway.
Imagine that. Strangers talking to strangers. On purpose.
They were called CB radios. You picked yourself a handle, mounted an antenna, and suddenly you had company all the way across Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, or any place you wanted to go.
You could find out about an accident ahead, ask where to get a decent hamburger, or learn that a highway patrolman was sitting just beyond the next hill.
Naturally, that last piece of information was provided strictly in the interest of public safety.
We were supposed to be driving fifty-five miles per hour. During the energy crisis, the federal government pushed the country toward a national fifty-five-mile-per-hour limit to conserve fuel.
Everyone was pitching in. Whether they wanted to or not.
Some days, gasoline lines stretched for blocks. You could spend a considerable amount of your afternoon waiting to buy the fuel you needed to get somewhere you were already late arriving.
And those places selling gasoline were called service stations.
That word “service” meant something.
An attendant came out to your car, pumped your gasoline, washed the windshield, and often checked the oil. Someone might notice a low tire or something under the hood that needed attention before it left you stranded twenty miles outside town.
Then came the growing spread of self-service.
Somehow, we were persuaded that getting out in the wind, rain, or summer heat to do the work ourselves was an improvement.
I still have questions about that arrangement.
The attendant disappeared. The windshield stayed dirty. And that little problem under the hood became your problem somewhere down the road.
Of course, things change. I understand that.
What troubles me is how easily we seem to have accepted a similar disappearance of everyday courtesy.
I remember waving at people as we drove through town. Sometimes you knew them. Sometimes you didn’t. A hand came up from the steering wheel, and another hand answered.
Nobody needed your voting history before returning the greeting.
If someone was stopped beside the road with the hood raised, other drivers would pull over. Somebody might have jumper cables. Somebody else knew enough about engines to be useful. Another person would stand back and wave traffic around.
There was usually at least one fellow offering advice nobody had asked for.
But he had stopped, too.
I know there are still people doing those things. I would hate to overlook them while complaining about everybody else. Good people stop to help every day, and plenty of folks still wave back.
I just wish their example got as much attention as the anger.
Turn on the television during election season and you would think the entire country was populated by dangerous strangers, crooked neighbors, and people whose greatest ambition was to destroy your way of life.
Apparently, some of them also want to be county commissioner.
Now, political mudslinging certainly wasn’t invented yesterday. We had ugly campaigns long before any of us were born. And the America I grew up in had serious injustices that a friendly wave did nothing to erase.
I remember those things, too.
But I also remember an expectation that you ought to know how to conduct yourself around other people. A person could disagree with you and still deserve a chair at the table.
An election could end, and the next morning you still had to live together.
You bought groceries at the same store. Your children attended the same school. You might need that neighbor’s help getting a truck out of the mud before the week was over.
Calling him an enemy on Tuesday could become inconvenient by Thursday.
These days, suspicion seems to arrive before the introduction.
The little old lady you have seen at the drugstore for twenty years volunteers to work an election, and suddenly somebody wants you to believe she belongs to a secret organization capable of manipulating the entire country.
That is quite a promotion for a woman who mostly wanted to help her community and get home before dark.
Elections deserve scrutiny. Mistakes deserve correction. Actual wrongdoing deserves investigation.
But an accusation needs evidence. Hearing it repeated until we can recite it in our sleep does not make it true.
And a neighbor who voted differently has not automatically become a threat.
I hear people say their small town still looks after its own. I am glad when that is true.
But what happens when someone unfamiliar comes through?
Someone with a different accent? A different skin color? A husband where you expected a wife? A political bumper sticker you wouldn’t put on your own car?
That seems like a fair measure of a community’s hospitality.
It is easy to be pleasant to someone who reminds you of yourself. A stranger gives us a chance to find out just how far our good manners extend.
The same goes for the people who come here hoping to work and build a life. We can discuss immigration laws without pretending to know every person’s motives by looking at them. We can uphold voting requirements without treating an accent as evidence of a crime.
Surely we can manage that much.
I do not believe every ounce of American civility has disappeared. I have received too much kindness to say that honestly.
But I think we have allowed contempt to become far too comfortable in our daily lives. We hear it, repeat it, laugh at it, and eventually carry it out the front door with us.
Maybe we ought to pay closer attention to what we are carrying.
Those old CB radios could be noisy. People interrupted each other. Some talked too much. Others had no business singing into a microphone.
Still, somewhere beyond the hood of your car was another person traveling the same stretch of highway.
You might never learn their real name. You might never meet them.
But they could tell you about trouble ahead. You could do the same for them. And for a few miles, the road felt a little less lonely.
I miss that.
So if you see me waving, go ahead and wave back.
I am not conducting a political survey.
I am saying good morning.
And if you know a place ahead that still serves a decent cup of coffee, I am listening.
After leaving home my greatest Halloween – Trick or Treat, was getting Steven. But I never tell him that. Forty four years later, I still want him to think he got me…
Forty-Four Years Later, He’s Still Sitting Next to Me
Forty-four years ago, Steve and I sat in a movie theater together for the first time, not knowing that someday we would be sitting next to one another in Phoenix, Arizona, listening to a doctor tell us we needed to balance our A1C.
Back then, we were more concerned about surviving the movie.
It was Halloween III: Season of the Witch, and it was new. So were we, although we weren’t actually a “we” just yet.
Being a bit of a rube, I screamed at things that probably wouldn’t interrupt our hound dog’s nap today. But what the movie lacked in lasting terror, I apparently supplied for the folks sitting in front of us. My sudden outbursts sent them scrambling out of their seats.
They had paid to be frightened by something on the screen. I was providing additional services from behind.
Steve says that was when he fell in love with me.
He didn’t anything about me yet. Apparently, the screaming made an impression. Some people catch someone’s eye across a crowded room. I startled an entire section of a theater. Because of that. And, the laughter it created, Steve and I meandered back to our hotel talking about how I wasn’t prepared for the shows gimmicks.
Then hours later, it was Joan Rivers with The Tonight Show on television. In a full sized single bed at a Holiday Inn off Interstate 40 and Meridian in Oklahoma City. That was where the fellow from the theater became someone, who had come to see if the haunting of the theater was over? And if I needed somone to protect me? I being naturally curious as an investigator. I had to decide, if it is someone I wanted to know better? Which I had already decided it was.
Forty-four years later, I suppose you could say that worked out.
I begin here because this is the story folks ask us about around Halloween. Most couples have a romantic song that takes them back to the beginning. Something tender. Something you could slow dance to without anyone questioning your judgment.
Somewhere, there are couples celebrating their beginnings with candlelight and a beautiful love song. We hear that little Halloween tune, and I remember frightening strangers while my future husband apparently decided I had possibilities.
It does explain a few things about us.
Which brings us to the Halloween photograph accompanying this story. A pumpkin stretched across the garage door seems appropriate for a household whose love story began with Halloween III. Other folks can put out a tasteful wreath. We have a history to live up to.
Besides, after forty-four years, Halloween has some competition in the frightening department. There are medical appointments, lab results, and conversations about whether something has too much sugar in it.
We have reached the age when the candy comes with a discussion.
Still, there is something wonderful about looking at the person sitting beside you and remembering him when all of this was ahead of you. Before you knew the ordinary routines you would share. Before the moves, the dogs, the laughter, and the difficult days when having someone beside you would matter more than you could have understood in that theater.
I couldn’t have imagined our life in Arizona. I certainly wasn’t thinking about A1C.
I was trying to get through the movie.
And Steve, for reasons he has had forty-four years to reconsider, wanted to meet the fellow doing all that screaming.
I’m glad he did.
Happy Halloween, folks. If you hear a scream coming from our direction, it could be another scary movie.
I thought I’d throw a little English banter into today’s chatter. It seemed fitting while I sat here with a cup of coffee and a recording of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds playing in the background.
I record shows when they air and watch them when life gives me a moment. This morning, while the Enterprise traveled through space, my mind wandered back to the days when I was a young chap watching cowboys ride across the television screen.
There was Rawhide, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry singing his way through the West. I enjoyed them all. But even as a boy, I thought some of those fellows had an easy time of it. The cowboy I knew best had horses to feed, cattle to tend, and work waiting for him whether the cameras were rolling or not.
That cowboy was my dad.
I watched him care for our animals day after day. He was tough, capable, and steady. To me, he was the real thing. He was my hero from the beginning.
What I don’t know is whether I ever told him that clearly enough.
We sometimes assume the people we love already know what they mean to us. Maybe they do. But hearing it from us can still make a difference. A few honest words can stay with someone long after the morning is over.
So while you have your coffee today, think of someone who matters to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Thank them for something they taught you. Let them know that the ordinary things they do have never looked ordinary to you.
You don’t need a grand speech. You just need to say it while they’re here to hear it.
My dad never rode across a television screen. But after all these years, he is still the cowboy I remember best.
For those who have been around a time or two, you know where to find Steve and me on a weekend morning. For anyone just arriving, let me bring you up to speed.
Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.
Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.
My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.
I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.
I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.
The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.
Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.
It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.
Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.
A diabolical person who can begin by telling you to click on a link and, within minutes, have you wondering why somebody is lying on the floor asking to be tasered, handcuffed, arrested, and possibly recruited into the United States Marine Corps.
###
I created the word myself.
While you might imagine a jester, this subject is dressed in a three piece suit and tie. Ready to take you for all you have!
A joppler begins innocently enough.
Someone says, “Click on the link.”
You click.
That is your first mistake.
Because a joppler does not simply lead you from Point A to Point B. A joppler takes Point A, throws Point B out the window, backs over Point C, and somehow arrives at Point Q without anybody noticing how you got there.
Imagine somebody volunteering to be tasered.
They lie down on the floor because they want to know what it feels like. Then apparently one tasering is not enough. They want another one. Stronger this time.
PING!
Again.
PING!
Perhaps they find the person holding the Taser attractive. Now we have introduced an entirely different problem.
Next comes the role-playing.
“Arrest me.”
So they get handcuffed.
Then, naturally, they begin fighting the arrest they specifically requested five seconds earlier.
Now they have earned another tasering.
PING!
At this point you may be asking:
What in the hell does any of this have to do with clicking on a link?
Exactly.
You have been joppled.
I started by talking about clicking a link. Then I moved you into Tasers, handcuffs, role-playing, resisting arrest, electrical impulses and possibly questionable romantic attraction.
Your original train of thought is gone.
Your brain has been joppled.
And I can keep going.
Now we’re talking about getting older.
Except we’re not really talking about getting older, because suddenly you’re thinking about serving your country. Maybe becoming a Marine.
Except the war in Afghanistan is over.
So now we’re talking about Afghanistan.
Which takes us back to September 11, 2001.
But September 11 was twenty-five years ago.
Soon, an enormous portion of the American population will have been born after 9/11. For them, it will not be a personal memory at all. It will be history—something they learned about from parents, teachers, documentaries and old television footage.
And now stop.
Think about where we started.
Click on the link.
That was it.
A link.
And somehow we traveled from clicking a link to Tasers, handcuffs, Marines, Afghanistan, September 11 and the passage of an entire generation.
That is the work of a joppler.
A joppler can begin a conversation on one subject and eventually deposit you at the end of another subject that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the subject you thought you were discussing in the beginning.
And the worst part?
You usually don’t realize you have been joppled until it’s already over.
So the next time somebody says:
“Click on this link…”
Be careful.
You may be dealing with a joppler. At the end, you will be told that you agree with them. And you will believe them. Because if you don’t you’re wrong. And if you don’t agree. The people around you, won’t like you. If you disagree with them, then you will be a bigger joppler. So you best be a little joppler and just shut up and just nod your head and go along. That is how this country so joppled!
Some of the most important people in our lives rarely receive a standing ovation.
A diverse group gathers for a thoughtful conversation among the library shelves.
They don’t make speeches.
They don’t arrive with trumpets sounding.
Most of the time, they simply show up.
They are the person who notices when your voice sounds different on the telephone.
The neighbor who brings your trash container back toward the house.
The friend who sends a message saying, “Just checking on you.”
The coworker who quietly finishes something because they know you’ve had a difficult day.
The family member who has heard the same story many times but listens again anyway.
These are not spectacular acts when measured individually.
But life is not held together entirely by spectacular acts.
It is held together by thousands of small ones.
We remember the people who were there when everything fell apart because their presence became part of the memory itself. Years later, we may forget exactly what they said, but we remember that they stayed.
There is tremendous comfort in knowing somebody stayed.
Sometimes that is all a person needs.
Not advice.
Not a solution.
Not someone trying to explain why everything will eventually be fine.
Just someone willing to sit beside them long enough for the world to become manageable again.
We often underestimate the value of our own presence for the same reason.
We think helping someone requires something remarkable.
Usually, it doesn’t.
A cup of coffee across the kitchen table can help.
A five-minute telephone call can help.
Remembering somebody’s birthday can help.
Asking, “How are you doing?” and actually waiting for the answer can help.
The ordinary kindnesses are rarely ordinary to the person who needed them.
So while you are having your coffee this morning, think about the people who quietly helped hold your world together at different times in your life.
Some may still be here.
Some may have already gone on.
Some may never have known how much their small kindness meant.
And then consider this:
You may be that person for somebody else today.
You might never know it.
That is the interesting thing about kindness. We rarely know how far it travels after it leaves our hands.
So make the call.
Send the message.
Hold the door.
Listen to the story.
Stay a few minutes longer.
The world has enough people trying to make grand impressions.
What it desperately needs are more people willing to make small differences.
Every morning gives us another opportunity to decide what we will carry into the day. We may not control everything that happens, but we can still choose kindness, patience and the small acts that make an ordinary day a little better.
The house may still be quiet. The day may not have completely decided what it intends to become. For a few minutes, there is only the warmth of the cup in our hands and the opportunity to decide what we are going to carry with us into the hours ahead.
And we do carry things.
We carry yesterday’s disappointments. We carry conversations we wish had gone differently. We carry worries about tomorrow, people we love, bills that need paying, decisions that need making, and questions for which we still have no answers.
But we also carry something else.
We carry kindness.
We carry the memory of someone who once helped us when they didn’t have to. We carry the laughter of people who have shared our table. We carry lessons taught to us by parents, grandparents, friends and sometimes complete strangers who crossed our path only briefly.
Perhaps one of the greatest choices we make every morning is deciding which of those things deserves the most room.
There will always be something to worry about. There will always be someone determined to spoil a perfectly good day. And there will always be circumstances beyond our control.
But we still get to decide what we contribute.
A wooden park sign shares a heartfelt reminder to treat others with kindness.
A kind word costs very little.
Holding a door takes only a moment.
Calling someone who has been on your mind might change their entire afternoon.
And sometimes simply listening to another person without trying to correct them, hurry them or outdo their story is one of the finest gifts we can give.
None of these things will make the evening news.
There won’t be a parade.
Nobody is likely to hand us a trophy for being decent to another human being.
But those small acts have a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, perhaps we can leave a little room in the day for something good.
We don’t have to change the whole world before lunchtime.
Changing one person’s moment might be enough.
And sometimes, without ever knowing it, that person may be us.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and the kindness you send into the world find its way back home.
Be kind to others, it is really the right thing to do.
We carry pieces of the people who have traveled through our lives — their lessons, laughter, kindness, and even their little habits. This morning’s coffee is about remembering what others left with us and considering what we might leave behind for someone else.
Before the telephone rings, before the television begins telling us what happened overnight, and before the world starts asking something from us, there are those few quiet moments when we can simply sit and think.
I have come to believe those moments are more valuable than we realize.
We spend much of our lives collecting things. Not necessarily possessions, but memories, lessons, sayings, habits, friendships, disappointments, victories, and even a few regrets.
Some of them we carry without realizing it.
A phrase our father used to say.
Something our mother taught us without ever sitting us down and calling it a lesson.
The way an old friend laughed.
A song that suddenly takes us back forty years.
The smell of coffee brewing in a kitchen that no longer exists.
Life has an interesting way of packing our suitcase for us.
By the time we reach a certain age, we discover that we are carrying pieces of nearly everyone who has traveled beside us.
And perhaps that is one of life’s greatest gifts.
People do not entirely leave us when they are gone.
They remain in the things they taught us, the stories we tell about them, the kindness they showed us, and sometimes even in those little irritating habits we swore we would never adopt — until one morning we catch ourselves doing exactly the same thing.
That is when you have to smile.
Because somehow, without noticing, yesterday has quietly found its way into today.
So as you enjoy your coffee this morning, think about the people who helped pack your suitcase.
Remember the ones who taught you something worthwhile.
And when the opportunity comes today, leave something good behind for someone else to carry.
A kind word.
A little patience.
A helping hand.
A good story.
Because years from now, when someone else is sitting quietly over their morning coffee, you just might be one of the memories that makes them smile.
And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing to leave behind.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may there always be enough coffee for one more story.
Coming home after a long journey does not always mean our hearts have caught up with us. Sometimes the ordinary things waiting at home—a cup of coffee, a familiar chair, a loved one nearby—remind us just how precious everyday life really is.
There is something strange about coming home after a long journey.
You walk through the same door. You set your things down in familiar places. The coffee pot is sitting where you left it. The dog seems perfectly satisfied that everyone has finally returned to where they belong.
Everything looks normal.
But somehow, you aren’t quite the same person who walked out that door.
Over the past several days, Steve and I traveled roads filled with memories. We saw family, visited familiar places, said goodbye to my mother in Oklahoma, and then pointed ourselves west and began the long journey home.
Now the suitcases are being emptied.
The laundry is finding its way into the washing machine.
The mail is being sorted.
The refrigerator is reminding us that apparently groceries do not magically restock themselves while you’re gone.
And slowly, ordinary life begins again.
But I’ve been thinking about something this morning.
Maybe ordinary life doesn’t really begin again.
Maybe it simply waits for us.
The coffee cup waits in the cupboard.
The chair waits beside the table.
The neighbor still waves.
The morning sun still comes through the window at approximately the same angle it did before we left.
And somewhere in all those ordinary things is a quiet invitation:
Come back when you’re ready.
Grief and memory have their own timetable. They don’t care much about schedules, calendars, appointments, or the number of miles between Oklahoma and Arizona.
You can unpack the suitcase long before you’ve unpacked everything you carried home inside your heart.
And that’s all right.
There is no requirement that we immediately return to being exactly who we were before we left.
Life changes us.
Goodbyes change us.
Reunions change us.
Standing in a cemetery surrounded by people who cared enough to simply show up changes us.
And sometimes a long stretch of highway gives us enough quiet to realize just how much.
So this morning, I am not asking much from the day.
I have coffee.
I have Steve.
I have Otis nearby, undoubtedly supervising everything and making certain no suspicious delivery trucks invade the neighborhood.
And I have another morning.
For today, that is enough.
Perhaps that is one of the lessons we miss when life becomes too busy.
We spend so much time looking for the extraordinary that we forget how precious the ordinary really is.
A cup of coffee.
Someone sitting across the room.
A familiar voice.
A dog sleeping nearby.
A home waiting at the end of the road.
And another sunrise giving us one more opportunity to love the people around us a little better than we did yesterday.
The road has finally grown quiet.
And this morning, I think I’ll simply sit here for a while and listen to it.
Have a wonderful Friday, my friends.
Pour another cup if you need one.
Sometimes the best thing we can do after a long journey is remember how good it feels to be home.
Have a Great Day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes the ordinary things waiting for us at home are among life’s greatest blessings.
After a long and emotional trip to Oklahoma, coming home feels different. This morning’s coffee is about gratitude, memories, and the quiet comfort of returning to familiar places and familiar routines.
There is something about the first cup of coffee after a long trip that tastes a little different.
Maybe it is because the coffee is being poured from your own pot again. Maybe it is the familiar chair, the familiar morning light, or simply the comfort of knowing that for the moment, there is nowhere you have to be.
The trip carried more emotion than miles. We traveled roads filled with memories, family, laughter, quiet moments, and goodbyes. We visited places that have been woven through my life for as long as I can remember. We spent time with people I love, remembered those who are no longer with us, and completed a journey that had been waiting for us for quite some time.
And now we are home.
The suitcases may still need attention. There are probably things sitting somewhere they do not belong. Otis is undoubtedly pleased to have returned to his familiar territory, where he can once again supervise the neighborhood and make certain nothing suspicious happens without his approval.
But this morning, none of that seems terribly important.
Sometimes coming home is not simply walking through your own front door. It is the moment when your mind finally catches up with your body.
You sit down.
You pour the coffee.
And suddenly you realize just how much has happened.
There are trips we take for vacations, trips we take for adventure, and trips we take because life has asked something of us. This Oklahoma trip was one of those journeys that asked something from the heart.
I returned carrying memories I did not have when I left.
Some made me smile.
Some brought tears.
Some reminded me exactly where I came from.
And perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts of going home to the places that helped make us who we are. We discover that although the towns change, people move away, generations pass, and familiar landmarks disappear, a part of us never really leaves.
It waits there for us.
Along an old highway.
Inside a cemetery gate.
Around a family conversation.
Beside a familiar Oklahoma field.
And then we bring a little of it home with us again.
So this morning, my coffee is not asking me to accomplish anything profound. It is simply reminding me to be grateful.
Grateful for the journey.
Grateful for the people who showed up.
Grateful for the memories.
And especially grateful for the privilege of coming home.
Sometimes the greatest comfort in traveling a long road is discovering that your own coffee cup was waiting for you at the end of it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes coming home is where the healing begins.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
The act of good will you do today may be the blessing you receive tomorrow.
Good morning, my friends,
Pour yourself a cup of coffee, settle into your favorite chair, and stay here with me for a few minutes before we get started with the day.
Have you ever noticed how the smallest kindness can stay with you for years?
Someone once offered you a seat when you were tired. A friend called at exactly the right moment. A teacher believed in you when you weren’t quite sure you believed in yourself. Perhaps somebody simply looked across a table and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
They may have forgotten the moment entirely.
You didn’t.
How’s your coffee this morning?
That’s something worth remembering as we begin today. We never really know which of our ordinary actions will become part of someone else’s treasured memories.
So hold the door. Make the call. Give the compliment. Pour someone another cup. And if somebody seems like they could use a little encouragement, don’t wait for them to ask.
The world doesn’t always need another grand gesture.
Sometimes it just needs another good person having an ordinary day and choosing to be kind.
Go into today knowing that something very small you do may become something very big in the heart of someone else.
Would you like another cup?
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Ned: A shy and timid typesetter at the Daily Weeds newspaper, who resembles Brad Pitt on a bad day. Ned is modest and unaware of his value and attractiveness.
The Cute Bartender (Alex): A charismatic and charming bartender at Lucky C who falls for Ned over their shared love of Shirley Temples.
The Daily Weeds Higher-Ups: The newspaper’s executives who take credit for Ned’s brilliant headlines.
Rival Newspaper Competitors: A scheming group aiming to kidnap and kill Ned to stop the Daily Weeds’ success.
The Gay Mafia: A secretive, protective group willing to go to great lengths to defend Ned, although he is unaware of their existence.
Plot:
Ned lived a quiet life, hidden in the shadows of the Daily Weeds’ newsroom. His days were spent crafting perfect headlines, a talent that brought his employer acclaim and success. Despite his crucial role, Ned remained unnoticed, timidly working at his typesetting desk. His self-esteem was low; he never considered himself attractive, even though he had a rugged charm that could be likened to Brad Pitt on an off day.
Ned’s life took an unexpected turn one evening when he narrowly escaped being hit by a runaway city bus. Disoriented and seeking solace, he stumbled into a bar he had never noticed—Lucky C. With its welcoming atmosphere and vibrant clientele, the bar was a stark contrast to Ned’s usually solitary existence.
At the bar, he ordered the only alcoholic drink he knew—a Shirley Temple. Alex, the cute bartender, was immediately charmed. Alex loved making Shirley Temples, a drink rarely requested by patrons. Their shared moment over this simple drink sparked a connection, and for the first time, Ned felt seen and appreciated.
As Ned began to frequent Lucky C, he started coming out of his shell. The lively environment and supportive community at the bar brought out a side of him he never knew existed. His newfound confidence began to reflect in his work, leading to even more captivating headlines that left the Daily Weeds’ competitors scrambling.
Unbeknownst to Ned, the rival newspaper had been closely monitoring the Daily Weeds’ success. Frustrated by their inability to keep up, they devised a sinister plan to kidnap and eliminate the source of their competition’s success—Ned.
They would wait until he left the Daily Weeds back office and throw a hood over his head. Then, two thugs would throw Ned into a waiting van and speed him to the outside of town near a seedy pond where he would be shot, still wearing the hood and a weight tied around his neck, and thrown into a boat. One of the thugs would take a boat and shove it away from the shore, and when it got near the center of the pond, the thugs would fill it with bullet holes and make it sink, with Ned inside, weighed down. Never to be found.
However, the rival newspaper and their hired mobsters were unaware of a secret force. The Gay Mafia, a clandestine group operating within the city, had liked Ned. They admired his quiet brilliance and were determined to protect him at all costs. They had been listening through their glitter correspondences. The glitter correspondences were a network of highly sensitive individuals who could pick up on people’s intuitions from across the room. They had been picking up vibes from the thugs at a local coffee shop for over a week. It is what caused the Gay Mafia to concentrate their attention on Ned. There was so much vibing there was almost concern they would have to call in a team from Philly to assist with the operation. With well-laid plans and assistance from the Gay Men’s Choir, a plan got hatched to pull off operation “SAVE NED” at 1700 Hours sharp! The driver, who made up the only civilian of the Gay Mafia, yelled to the rest of the non-mafia members that it was 5 PM, you guys. The rest of the Gay Mafia had belonged to the same Troop in the Middle East when serving the Country and understood military time.
The rival newspaper’s plot set off a chain of events culminating in a dramatic confrontation. As the thugs moved in on Ned, the Gay Mafia sprang into action. A chaotic collision of forces ensued—a battle that turned the usually quiet city streets into a more vibrant and exhilarating scene than any Pride Parade.
There were unusually high pitches of the singing of Hallelujah coming from the alleyway of the Daily Weeds Office area and then sudden flumes of smoke and glitter, followed by the pomp and circumstance of a Gay Mens Chorus of Lilly of The Valley. The evil thugs were tied up and left in a neat pile for the local police to find—all courtesy of the Gay Mafia.
Amid the chaos, Ned remained blissfully unaware of the true extent of his importance or the danger he was in. All he knew was that for the first time in his life, people were surrounding him who valued him, both for his talent and who he was. The experience saved his life and transformed it, making Ned realize his worth and the power of community. As he left the Daily Weed, he shut and locked the door and walked to the Lucky C, where he sat on a bar stool and asked Alex for a Shirley Temple.
Today ––– The Daily Weeds continued to thrive, thanks to Ned’s unmatched headlines. And Ned, no longer the unsung hero, became a celebrated figure in both the newsroom and the vibrant world of Lucky C. His story was a testament to life’s unexpected turns and the hidden strength within us all, yet to be discovered.
This Story Originally Appeared On November 1st, 2025. On November 26th a shooting resulted in Washington D.C. It looks as if it resulted from pressure placed on an individual. A person identified from a sect or community. You can read the story connected to that event here. then consider the contents of this story and decide for yourself. It is not difficult to have predicted. More will come.
10–16 minutes
In every generation, the United States stands at a crossroads of its own making. From the outside, our country can look unstoppable. From the inside, we often feel the push and pull of competing values. These include hopes and fears. Beneath the headlines and politics are real people—neighbors, families, workers—trying to live meaningful lives. When pressure builds in a society, it rarely announces itself with fanfare. Instead, it creeps in quietly, showing up as worry, disconnection, or a sense that something familiar is shifting. This story isn’t about sensational headlines but about those quiet pressures—economic, social, and cultural—that can change a nation’s future.
Deportation, Prejudice, and the Risk of History Repeating
When governments treat specific communities as disposable, they create wounds. These often fester into something more dangerous. Today in the United States, many Hispanic families live under the shadow of deportation. They are sometimes sent to countries that are not their place of origin. Worse still, many are denied fair hearings or meaningful access to justice before being removed.
This pattern, though uniquely American in its details, has historical echoes elsewhere.
Lessons from Israel and Its Neighbors
Globally, people are voicing similar worries. Inflation, poverty, unemployment, and corruption rank highest worldwide. Local details differ, yet the underlying pressures on ordinary families are strikingly alike from one country to another.
In the Middle East, decades of restrictive policies have shaped the relationship between Israel and its neighbors. Palestinians have endured travel restrictions, settlement expansion, home demolitions, and barriers to full participation in civic life. While not every individual responds with violence, these systemic grievances have fueled a climate where radical groups gain traction. Street shootings, bombings, and attacks on innocent civilians are, in part, the tragic outcome of exclusion and marginalization.
When justice is denied, resentment grows. History shows us what happens when exclusion takes root. Will the U.S. repeat Israel’s mistakes?
The lesson is not that oppression always leads to terrorism. Yet, when large communities feel silenced, denied justice, or stripped of dignity, it becomes easier for extremism to take root.
The American Parallel
For many Hispanic communities in the U.S., there is growing concern that the same cycle begins here. Families who have lived in this country for years are uprooted without warning. Children who know no other homeland are deported to countries where they have no ties. Legal safeguards that should guarantee fairness are often bypassed through expedited removal or administrative shortcuts.
Deportation without dignity doesn’t just break families—it risks breaking society. Lessons from abroad show what happens when whole communities are silenced.
The danger is not only humanitarian—it is practical. Alienation breeds resentment. Resentment, left unchecked, can lead to anger that is so strong it erupts in harmful ways. If citizens and residents consistently feel betrayed by the very government meant to protect them, feelings of betrayal grow. Over time, these feelings lead to instability akin to that seen in other parts of the world.
A Cautionary Reflection
The United States faces a choice. It can double down on policies that treat Hispanic people as outsiders. Alternatively, it can recognize that fairness, dignity, and due process are not luxuries—they are stabilizers. By ensuring justice and compassion, the U.S. can protect both its people and its principles.
History reminds us that exclusion never produces lasting peace. Inclusion does. If America forgets this, it risks repeating a painful lesson already written across borders far from its own.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. The United States must choose which future it wants.
As this report was being prepared on September 10, 2025. Conservative activist Charlie Kirk was fatally shot during a speaking event at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah. He was addressing an audience as part of his “American Comeback Tour.” When a gunman, described as wearing tactical gear, opened fire from a nearby building. The event was not just violent in its outcome. It’s now being discussed widely as an example of how political tensions, rising polarization. Public rhetoric can set the stage for tragedy. AP News+3Reuters+3People.com+3
This shooting stands as a stark reminder of what happens when communities feel threatened, unheard, or unfairly treated. When specific policies—like deportations without fair hearings, rhetoric that pits “us vs. them,” or laws that strip rights from people—are merged with public disdain, alienation can grow. As with Kirk’s death, violence doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It is often preceded by months or years of escalating division, distrust, and dehumanizing language toward some group.
If similar pressures continue—where people feel they are being denied justice. Or they will be forced into exile, or silenced—the risk is not only that isolated individuals will lash out. More of these attacks will spill into public spaces, become more common, and target more people. Charlie Kirk’s shooting is tragic and shocking. Still it also foreshadows a pattern we’ve seen before elsewhere: oppression + exclusion + inflammatory rhetoric = violence.
THE QUESTION NOW FACING THE UNITED STATES
The U.S. be trailing a path? Is government policy and public rhetoric pushing some communities to a breaking point? Exclusion and injustice be more than grievances, becoming catalysts for violence?
Israel offers a stark example. It shows what can happen when a nation attempts to dominate or control another people or region. Despite decades of military action, surveillance, imprisonment, and harsh policies, the country faces ongoing terrorist attacks. These actions occur within its own borders. History shows that no matter the tactics, attempts to subjugate or marginalize an entire population often breed resentment. Such approaches lead to cycles of violence rather than lasting security.
Recent polling reveals Americans’ top worries focus on daily life basics. These include the economy, healthcare costs, inflation, and Social Security. Economic anxiety has become the leading stress point—and understanding it is key to shaping effective public policy.
In the United States, millions of people belong to the LGBTQI community—transgender, gay, intersex, and beyond. If laws or court rulings increasingly target these groups with discriminatory restrictions or hardships, the effect won’t just be legal. It will erode their existing rights and impact them deeply on a human level. People who feel cornered, threatened, or stripped of dignity often turn to protest, activism, and self-defense. Families, friends, and allies of LGBTQI individuals will stand with them. History shows that when marginalized communities are pushed too far, their collective response grows stronger. They become more determined, whether through the courts, the ballot box, or public action.
There are case studies in why inclusion and fairness matter. Disenfranchisement can occur across many lines. These include ethnicity, religion, gender, disability, or economic status. Prevention starts with recognizing early warning signs. It involves pushing for fairness and empathy. Other groups and individuals will be targeted in this sweeping of Americans’ rights.
1. Immigrant and Refugee Communities Beyond Latin America
People from African nations, the Middle East, or Asia sometimes experience parallel challenges. They face deportation, limited due process, and suspicion tied to their nationality or religion. Policies that reduce refugee admissions, delay asylum processing, or tighten visa rules disproportionately affect them.
2. Religious Minorities
Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, and other smaller faith groups have seen spikes in harassment or targeted legislation. Surveillance, mosque or temple zoning battles, and hate crimes all increase when public rhetoric frames these groups as”others.”
3. Indigenous Peoples
Tribal communities continue to face legal battles over land, water, and sovereignty. Changes to federal protections or environmental rules can undermine their rights. This fuels deep distrust and potential standoffs (for example, Standing Rock and other pipeline protests).
4. People With Disabilities
Budget cuts or shifts in healthcare, accessibility regulations, or education funding can affect people with physical or cognitive disabilities. Without legal protections and enforcement, they risk losing access to accommodations and services they depend on.
5. Women and Reproductive Rights
If policies continue restricting reproductive healthcare and bodily autonomy, many women feel increasingly alienated. This is especially true for those in rural and low-income areas. Such feelings lead to organized protest. It also heightens tensions.
6. Workers in Precarious or Gig Jobs
With unions weakened and worker protections often rolled back, low-wage and gig-economy workers are also vulnerable to systemic neglect. Economic insecurity can create fertile ground for unrest, especially if merged with racial or immigration-related grievances.
On a hot summer’s day, if you stir any of these pots, something unhappy will happen. Similarly, if you keep someone locked out on a cold winter’s day, the outcome will be negative. It used to be the explosive reaction we referred to as Cabin-Fever when someone no longer can take the pressure. When so many groups are pushed to the point of not being capable to handle it. What happens? America already has more firearms than any country in the world. It shouldn’t take much research to realize that becoming Palestine-Israel would be easier than ever. It would also be more violent than people thought.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. America must choose which future it wants.
There are Americans who are also to be considered part of the LGBTQI community. If laws or Supreme Court rulings turn against the transgender, Gay members, or Intersex community, these laws can cause hardships. Further restrictions can come into their lives. At some point, they and their families, friends, and supporters are going to find ways to defend themselves.
Yes — beyond the Hispanic and LGBTQI communities already discussed, there are several other groups. Experts and advocates often recognize these groups as vulnerable. These groups are often affected by shifts in policy, public sentiment, or legal rulings. Here’s a quick overview:
How Many Transgender People Have Been Mass Shooters?
This chart shows just how rare transgender or nonbinary mass shooters are in the U.S.—less than 1% of cases compared to an overwhelming majority by cisgender men. It’s a clear reminder that public narratives blaming LGBTQ+ people for mass violence are unsupported by facts.
How many trans shooters are there in real life?
Officially, the short answer: very, very few. Credible databases don’t systematically record gender identity. Still, the best available analyses show well under 1% of U.S. mass shooters have identified as transgender or nonbinary—i.e., only a handful of cases across many decades. Social Sciences and Humanities College+1
A few notes for context:
The Violence Project’s long-running database (public mass shootings, 4+ killed) shows hundreds of incidents since 1966. Researchers and fact-checks confirm that transgender perpetrators account for less than 1% of cases. This is in the low single digits in total. The Violence Project+1
News reporting that tries to tally specific incidents similarly finds just a few cases. It also cautions that many official datasets code by sex, not gender identity, which limits precision. Newsweek
Independent fact-checks conclude that claims of a “rise” in transgender mass shooters are unsupported. The vast majority of mass shooters are cisgender men. Reuters
Bottom line: Exact counts are hard to pin down because of data limitations. The evidence consistently shows that transgender people make up a vanishingly small share of U.S. mass shooters.
“Fewer than ten transgender athletes out of 510,000 NCAA players.
Yet, they’re at the center of a multi-million-dollar political storm.”
This makes sense—transgender people represent a very small part of the population, and their visibility often makes them targets. Out of more than 510,000 NCAA college athletes nationwide, it’s estimated that fewer than ten are openly transgender. Historically, families—including our grandparents and their grandparents—have coexisted with transgender individuals without controversy. Only in recent years have political attacks escalated, turning a once-private aspect of life into a public battleground. These attacks have generated hundreds of millions of dollars. Groups and politicians use transgender people as a wedge issue. They target individuals who are simply trying to live their lives.
What We Know (or Think We Know)
According to the Williams Institute at UCLA, about 300,000 youth aged 13–17 recognize as transgender in the U.S. Williams Institute
Of those, some studies suggest ~40.7% of transgender high school students play on at least one sports team. Applying that to the population estimate gives around 120,000+ transgender high school student-athletes Williams Institute
Nonetheless, when it comes to more specific breakdowns (e.g. how many play in women’s teams, or how many are in college/pro sports), the numbers are much smaller. For example, GLAAD reports that among ~510,000 NCAA college athletes, there are fewer than 10 known transgender athletesGLAAD
Key Takeaways & Limitations
Small in relative terms: Tens of thousands of transgender youth join in high school sports. Still, they are still a very tiny fraction of all athletes.
Very few at higher levels: At the college or professional levels, the known, openly transgender athletes are very rare (under 10 in the NCAA among all those athletes, per recent reports) GLAAD+1
Data gaps: Many sports associations don’t track gender identity carefully. Privacy concerns, inconsistent reporting, and changing eligibility rules make precise numbers hard to nail down.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. The United States must choose which future it wants.
Yet even in times of strain, The United States of America greatest strength has always been its capacity to self-correct. Communities do not simply absorb pressure—they also adapt, innovate, and rise to meet challenges. We have the chance now to choose empathy over division, solutions over rhetoric, and inclusion over exclusion. If we remember that the country’s heart beats strongest when its people are treated with fairness and dignity. Then the same forces that threaten to divide us can also become the sparks that unite us. This is not just a warning—it’s an invitation to hope.
This content was originally intended to be posted on September 11, 2025. Due to unfolding events at that time, its publication was postponed until November 1, 2025. It is reposted on June 26, 2026 due to the current decisions of the United States Supreme Court. The research began weeks before events on September 10, 2025 in Utah. If additional events have occurred since then, this report reflects the level of concern. It highlights the growing sense of unease emerging across the United States.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Returning home from basic training, John returned to a place he no longer knew. It was the same one he had left before going ‘to basic,’ but he was different. Between leaving and coming back, John had changed. Or had he accepted something about himself? He didn’t know.
From his perspective, his life was one in which he would have to live in double time: in his time for himself and when he was with his family in a perspective that fit their permissions. He had dated a girl before he left but had broken up with her before he returned. By letter. A ‘Dear Jane’ type of letter, letting her know she could date other guys and that he didn’t expect her to wait for him.
John wrote he would be in no condition as a datable companion if and when he returned. He included a few other words about how training had changed him, getting him ready for the fight, hoping it would get the message across and cause her to continue her life. He had been ranked and assigned to maintenance crews stateside for two years, which was the reality of his assignment.
When John arrived back in his hometown, he stepped off the bus, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and the familiar streets of his hometown unfolded before him. It was a hot summer afternoon, and the cicadas droned loudly, filling the heavy air with their constant hum. It should have felt like home, but it didn’t. Everything seemed smaller, almost claustrophobic. The neat houses, the familiar storefronts, even the people who waved at him with a mix of pride and curiosity—none of it felt right.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and started walking, the soles of his boots crunching on the gravel. Memories of his time in basic training flooded his mind. The relentless drills, the camaraderie with his fellow soldiers, and the quiet introspection late at night had been a time of transformation, of pushing his limits and discovering parts of himself he had never confronted.
One of those parts was realizing he couldn’t keep living a lie. He’d broken up with Emily in a letter, the words blunt and final. He’d told her that basic training had changed him, but he hadn’t told her how. He hadn’t told her the real reason was that he couldn’t keep pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He’d signed the letter with a shaky hand, hoping she’d understand and move on.
Standing on his childhood street, John felt the weight of his double life pressing down on him. He had come to terms with his identity, but he knew that acceptance came with a price. His family had certain expectations and beliefs, and he didn’t fit into their neat, tidy picture. The contrast between his inner truth and their external expectations was stark, and it weighed heavily on him.
As he approached his house, he saw his mother standing on the porch, her face lighting up as she saw him. She hurried down the steps, arms outstretched, and he found himself enveloped in her warm embrace.
“Oh, it’s so good to have you home!”
– she exclaimed, looking back at him.
“You’ve grown, and you look so strong!”
He forced a smile, nodding.
“It’s good to be home, Mom.”
Inside, the house smelled freshly baked bread and flowers from the garden. His father was in his usual chair, reading the newspaper. When he saw his son, he stood and nodded in approval.
“Welcome back, son,”
The dad said gruffly.
“You did us proud.”
“Thanks, Dad,”
John replied, ignoring the tight knot in his stomach.
The next few days went by in a blur of family gatherings and catching up with old friends. Everyone wanted to hear about his experiences, basic training, and future in the maintenance crew. John told them what they wanted to hear, leaving out the parts that didn’t fit into their narrative.
One evening, he found himself alone in his room, which felt more like a museum of his past than a place of comfort. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the photos on the wall and the trophies on the shelf. It all felt so distant, so disconnected from who he had become.
He pulled out his phone and stared at Emily’s number. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say a hundred times, but now that the moment was here, he felt paralyzed.
Finally, he typed out a message:
“Hey Emily, I’m back in town. Would you like to meet up sometime? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He hit send before he could second-guess himself, and the response came quickly.
“Sure, I’d like that. When and where?”
They agreed to meet at the local coffee shop they used to go to in high school. As John walked there, he felt a mixture of dread and relief. He knew this conversation was necessary, but he also feared the consequences.
Emily was already there when he arrived, sitting at a corner table. She looked up and smiled when she saw him, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Hi,” she said as he sat down. “It’s good to see you.” “You too,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “Emily, I need to tell you something, and it’s not easy for me.”
She looked at him, her expression softening.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He looked down at his hands, then back up at her.
“I broke up with you because I couldn’t keep lying. And I couldn’t keep lying to you. I’m gay, Emily. That’s why I ended things. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I couldn’t keep pretending.”
There was a long silence, and he felt his heart pounding. Finally, Emily reached across the table and took his hand.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said quietly. “I wish you had told me sooner, but I understand. I’m glad you’re being true to yourself.”
As they parted ways, John felt a sense of relief wash over him. The weight of his secret had been lifted, and he felt lighter, as if their visit had released a burden from his shoulders. He was grateful for Emily’s understanding and acceptance, and he felt a renewed sense of freedom and authenticity.
Returning home, John knew there were still challenges ahead—his family, community, and the double life he would have to navigate. But he also knew that he had taken the first step towards living authentically. For the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope.
When Politics Turns Deadly: What Recent Shootings Reveals About America’s Pressures
Political Violence in the U.S.: A Historical Lens Political Pressure Pots That Are Exploding
On September 10, 2025, conservative activist Charlie Kirk was fatally shot while speaking at Utah Valley University. The attack shocked audiences nationwide and revived a painful question: Is political violence becoming more common in the United States? While the details of this case continue to unfold, history offers context. The Kirk shooting is tragic, but it’s not unprecedented—political assassinations and attacks have occurred before. Understanding that history can help us prevent future violence.
Political Violence in the U.S.: Then and Now
Throughout U.S. history, public figures have been targeted for their beliefs, activism, or positions of power. These events—though rare—often show deep social, political, or cultural tensions. Below is a timeline of key moments, followed by how they compare to today.
Timeline of Notable U.S. Political Murders/Assassinations
Year / Victim / Role / Context / Motive
On April 14, 1865, Abraham Lincoln, the U.S. President, was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth, a Confederate sympathizer.
1901 William McKinley, U.S. President, was killed by anarchist Leon Czolgosz.
1935 Huey Long, U.S. Senator / LA Governor, was shot by Carl Weiss amid political turmoil in Louisiana.
1963 Medgar Evers, a Civil Rights Activist, was shot outside his home for his activism in Mississippi.
In 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. Lee Harvey Oswald was arrested for the crime. He was shot and killed by Jack Ruby before standing trial. The official record names Oswald as the lone gunman. The motive has remained an issue of widespread debate and speculation for decades.
1965 Malcolm X, a Civil Rights Leader, was killed during a public speech in Harlem.
1968 Robert F. Kennedy, the Presidential Candidate, was shot after a campaign rally in Los Angeles.
On April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—American Baptist minister, civil rights leader, and Nobel Peace Prize laureate—was assassinated. He was standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee when it happened. James Earl Ray, an escaped convict, was arrested for the murder two months later and later pleaded guilty. Ray claimed he was part of a larger conspiracy. He later tried to recant his confession. Nonetheless, the official record names him as the assassin. The motive remains the topic of debate. King led the civil rights movement. He opposed systemic racism. These actions made him a frequent target of threats and hostility.
1969–70s Various bombings & shootings Political & protest-related Weather Underground, far-right and far-left extremist groups.
2011 Gabrielle Giffords (survived), U.S. Representative, was shot at a constituent event in Arizona; six others were killed.
High profile, targeted instances of political violence
Charlie Kirk shooting*
Killed
Orem, Utah
Kirk was shot and killed while speaking at an event on the campus of Utah Valley University. Kirk was a well-known conservative activist who founded Turning Point USA.
Sept. 2025
*Officials have not confirmed that the shooting was politically motivated.
*Officials have not confirmed that the shooting was politically motivated.
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
2 killed, 2 injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Sen. John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
Two killed, two injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Senator John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
Two killed, two injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Senator John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro’s home arson
No injuries
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
The Pennsylvania Governor’s Residence was set on fire while Shapiro and his family slept inside.
April 2025
Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro’s home arson
No injuries
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
The Pennsylvania Governor’s Residence was set on fire while Shapiro and his family slept inside.
2025 Charlie Kirk, Conservative Activist, was shot while speaking at Utah Valley University; investigation ongoing.
Timeline of Notable Political Murders And Attacks In The U.S.(1865-2025)
Patterns and Parallels
Public Rhetoric Matters: In nearly every case, rhetoric and polarization preceded the violence.
Violence Rarely Comes From Nowhere: These events are almost always linked to broader grievances, social tensions, or extremist ideologies.
Modern Amplifiers: Today’s social media, 24/7 news, and intense partisanship can supercharge grievances faster than in past eras.
Lessons for Today
The Kirk shooting reflects how quickly divisions can escalate. This happens when marginalized or politically active groups feel threatened. It also occurs when public discourse frames opponents as existential enemies. Left unchecked, the result can spill over from online posts and protests into public spaces and deadly attacks.
History shows that violence rarely ends the debate—it deepens it. The antidote is not silence but inclusion, dialogue, and guardrails on how we treat one another, even when we disagree.
Closing Thoughts
The U.S. is not doomed to repeat its worst moments, but it does need to recognize them. Political violence grows where alienation and fear fester. The Charlie Kirk tragedy, like earlier assassinations, should not only shock but also instruct. By confronting polarization and reinforcing democratic norms, communities can prevent these cycles from repeating.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
What many LGBTQ+ people say about discovering who they are.
This is not the LGBTQ+ community going door to door attempting to convert people.
In some small town, somewhere in America, a young teenager is struggling to understand who they are.
They have begun to realize they don’t quite fit in with their classmates. Somewhere between elementary school and junior high, something changed—or perhaps something that had always been there finally became impossible to ignore.
No one taught them this. No one recruited them. No one sat them down and instructed them to feel differently.
“People may choose what they do. They may choose what they say. They may choose whom they tell. But many would argue they never chose whom they were attracted to. They simply discovered who they were.”
They simply do.
For as long as they can remember, they felt different from many of the people around them. They couldn’t explain it. They didn’t have the words for it. But as they grew older, they found themselves admiring classmates, friends, or even television stars of the same sex rather than the opposite sex.
They don’t understand why.
Most spend years trying to understand themselves before anyone else ever discovers their secret. Many pray. Many bargain with God. Many try to ignore their feelings. Some throw themselves into sports, church, relationships, or anything else they hope will make those feelings disappear.
Yet for countless people, the feelings remain.
That is why attempts to force someone to change through shame, punishment, or so-called “conversion therapies” have been so controversial. For many LGBTQ+ people, these approaches are not introducing a struggle they have never faced. They are intensifying a struggle they have already been fighting alone.
And when a young person receives the message that the people they love most would rather change them than understand them, the consequences can be devastating.
One of the most persistent myths is the idea that there is an organized effort to “recruit” people into being gay. The claim ignores a simple question:
When did you decide to be straight?
Most heterosexual people cannot point to a day, an hour, or a moment when they consciously chose who they were attracted to. They simply discovered it as they grew up.
Many gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people describe their experiences in much the same way.
People can certainly choose how they live, how they express themselves, and what relationships they pursue. But attraction itself is often described as something discovered rather than selected.
There are, of course, individuals who describe themselves as “gay for pay”—people who engage in same-sex activity for financial reasons rather than because of their personal orientation. That is a different discussion entirely. Behavior and attraction are not always the same thing.
The larger question remains: If people are being recruited into being gay, where is the moment of recruitment?When did you choose who you were attracted to? For most people, the answer is the same.You didn't.
I have spent most of my life trying to understand people by observing them. Watching. Listening. Gathering information. Trying to decide what was true and what was not. It is not always the easiest way to live. Sometimes it places you on the wrong side of popularity. Sometimes it means standing beside people others mock, avoid, or openly dislike. That can cost you friendships, opportunities, promotions, and acceptance. It can mark you long before you understand the price of it.
This is reportedly the first known photo of the white house.
But there is another price too.
The price of ignoring what you know is right simply because everyone else is moving in another direction.
I learned early there are always people willing to promise answers for everything. Politicians who swear they alone can save the country. Religious leaders who imply salvation can somehow be purchased through loyalty, donations, or obedience. Public figures who convince followers that happiness is just one more contribution, one more vote, or one more enemy away.
Over time, I began to distrust anyone selling certainty.
Life taught me that most people claiming to have all the answers are usually one of three things: mistaken, manipulative, or desperate to be believed themselves.
That does not mean faith is worthless. Or that government has no purpose. Or that communities should not come together. It simply means no politician, church, movement, or television personality can do the hardest work for you. They cannot build your character. They cannot create your peace of mind. They cannot decide your morals. They cannot make your home stable, loving, or decent.
Only you can do that.
As a child, I developed a strange little understanding of America during a fourth-grade civics lesson. I imagined our house as its own country. My father was the president. My mother was the vice president. My brothers were senators and representatives. My sisters and I were citizens living under the structure they created.
It made perfect sense to me.
There were rules. Responsibilities. Budgets. Expectations. Sometimes disagreements. Sometimes punishments. Sometimes celebrations. But the purpose of the “government” inside our home was not domination. It was stability. Protection. Survival. Keeping the lights on. Making certain everyone had what they needed.
We did not hold elections.
We did not need to.
In my child’s mind, my parents already held the positions because they had proven themselves capable of carrying the responsibility. They worked. Paid the bills. Protected the household. They had earned the authority through sacrifice.
Looking back now, I realize that little imaginary country taught me more about America than many adults ever understand.
A nation is only as healthy as the homes inside it.
Not the slogans.
Not the campaigns.
Not the outrage.
What matters most is how people choose to live within their own space and how willing they are to allow others to live within theirs.
The loudest voices in America keep demanding control over everyone else’s space. Maybe freedom was never supposed to work that way.
Your life is not destroyed because your neighbor is gay while you are not. Or because they worship differently. Or because they speak another language. Or because their skin is darker than yours. Their space belongs to them. Yours belongs to you.
The loudest voices in America keep demanding control over everyone else’s space. Maybe freedom was never supposed to work that way.
Somewhere along the way, many people forgot that freedom was never supposed to mean controlling everyone else’s existence. It was supposed to mean protecting the right of people to peacefully exist beside one another.
That is what I still believe.
Not because someone told me to believe it.
But because after a lifetime of watching people, I have found fear usually creates far more damage than difference ever does.
A new bill in Louisiana aims to address homelessness through enforcement and court-directed programs. Supporters call it a pathway to services. Critics warn it could blur the line between help and coercion. This piece breaks down what the law actually says—and why it raises deeper questions about how we treat the most vulnerable among us.
There is a bill moving through Louisiana right now that deserves more than a passing glance. It deserves attention—clear-eyed, fact-based, and unflinching.
Because beneath the political talking points, something real is happening.
What the Bill Actually Does
Louisiana lawmakers have advanced a measure—commonly referenced as Louisiana House Bill 211 (2026)—that targets public camping and similar activities often associated with homelessness.
In plain terms:
Sleeping or camping in certain public spaces could become a criminal offense
Violations can lead to fines or jail time
Courts may direct individuals into structured programs or services as part of sentencing or diversion
Supporters argue this is about restoring order and connecting people with help. That is the stated intent.
And that part is factual.
Where the Concern Begins
Where this bill becomes controversial is not in what it says outright—but in how it operates in practice.
Critics—advocates, legal observers, and community groups—raise concerns that:
The “choice” between jail and programs may not feel like a choice at all
Court-directed participation in treatment or services could function as coercion under threat of punishment
Individuals may face financial obligations tied to those programs, depending on how they are administered
Those concerns are not invented—but they are also not fully settled facts across all interpretations of the bill.
They are warnings about what this kind of policy can become.
And history tells us those warnings are not without precedent.
The Line We Should Be Watching
There is a difference between:
Offering help and
Mandating compliance under penalty of jail
That line matters.
Because once a person’s existence—where they sleep, where they sit, where they try to survive—becomes criminalized, the system is no longer just offering assistance.
It is enforcing behavior.
What This Is—and What It Is Not
Let’s be precise, because precision matters:
It is true this bill criminalizes certain public behaviors tied to homelessness
It is true it allows courts to impose penalties, including jail
It is true it routes individuals into structured programs
It is not clearly established, based on current verified reporting, that:
People will universally be billed in a way that leads directly to punitive labor arrangements
Or that “forced unpaid labor” exists as a clearly defined, direct provision of the bill itself
Those claims are circulating—but they are interpretations and projections, not confirmed statutory facts.
And if we care about truth, we separate what is known from what is feared.
The Moral Question Still Stands
Even stripped down to verified facts, the question does not go away.
It becomes sharper.
What does it say about us if the primary tool we use to address homelessness is the criminal code?
What does it mean when the path to “help” runs through a courtroom?
And what happens when the least among us are told:
Comply—or face punishment.
A Final Word
You don’t have to exaggerate this bill to be troubled by it.
You don’t have to stretch facts to ask hard questions.
Because even at its most neutral reading, this legislation represents a shift— from compassion offered freely to compliance enforced by law.
The Most Supportive Husband Ever… Or So He Thought
A man rushed his very pregnant wife to the hospital as her labor pains began.
After examining her, the doctor looked up with a serious expression. “This is going to be a difficult delivery,” he said. “But… there is an experimental choice.”
The couple leaned in.
“There’s a machine,” the doctor explained, “that can transfer a part of the mother’s pain to the father. It would significantly reduce what she feels during labor.”
Without hesitation, the husband said, “Hook me up.”
The doctor raised a cautious finger.
“There’s one small issue… a flaw in the mechanism. The pain transferred to you is amplified—up to ten times stronger than what she experiences. If it becomes too much, you must tell me at once.”
The husband nodded confidently. “I can handle it.”
The machine was connected.
The doctor started at 10%.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Honestly?” the husband said. “I don’t feel a thing.”
Curious, the doctor increased it to 30%… then 50%… then 80%.
Still nothing.
The doctor was amazed. He pushed it all the way to 100%. Due to the flaw, this meant the husband was now receiving ten times the full intensity of labor pain.
He stood there calmly.
No grimace. No flinch. Not even a bead of sweat.
Meanwhile, his wife delivered the baby with remarkable ease.
The doctor, stunned, turned to the husband. ““I have never seen anything like this in my entire career.”
Proud, the couple gathered their newborn and headed home, marveling at what had just happened.
But when they arrived…
There, on the front doorstep…
Lay the mailman.
Dead.
I am only retelling this story. I am not responsible for the contents. Just for the ending. Which I had nothing to do with.
Today I wanted to leave something less hard hitting. Just a word or two to get the mental juices flowing like this first piece. Asking you what are the differences between the dogs and cats? I am hoping for some humor, serious, or even oddball statements to be posted. Next, is a piece I a pulling from my memoir and sharing with you. Just a piece of what I have been working on. It details One Decision That Completely Changed The Course Of My Life.
The Difference Between Dogs And Cats
What you leave today becomes someone’s answer tomorrow. Cancel reply
What is one small decision you made that completely changed the course of your life?
One small decision that completely changed the course of my life began with a simple answer:
“Sure… that sounds like fun.”
In 1982, a new friend asked if I wanted to ride along with him to Oklahoma City—about 200 miles away. His boss’s son needed a ride home after church the next day. He preferred not to make the drive alone. It sounded like nothing more than an overnight trip. A little road time. A small adventure.
Nothing important.
Just a ride.
But life has a habit of hiding its biggest turning points inside the smallest moments.
That night—October 23, 1982—something quietly shifted in my world. During that overnight stay, Steve and I discovered something in each other neither of us had planned for or expected. In the span of a single evening, two truths suddenly came into focus.
First, I had met the person I would spend the rest of my life with—Steve, my husband today.
Second, I understood something about myself that had never fully made sense before. I realized I was part of the LGBTQ community, something that had been quietly waiting for its moment of clarity.
Had I declined that invitation, or simply stayed home, my life would almost certainly have followed a very different road.
Instead, that one small “yes” set everything else in motion.
And it all became unmistakably clear with one simple kiss. In that moment, a clarity I had never known suddenly appeared. Life began making sense in ways it never had before. The confusion, the questions, the quiet sense that something was missing—all of it suddenly fell into place.
I had finally found what my heart had been searching for.
All because of a simple invitation.
All because I said yes.
And sometimes, when I think back on it, I realize something else.
The most important journey of my life began with a 200-mile ride I almost didn’t take.
A journey is beginning, not yet fully mapped. We wanted to share where our thoughts are headed next.
Some plans start as ideas, not itineraries. This is one of those moments.
Steven And Benjamin
I wanted to share a brief but meaningful update with those of you who read, follow, and support this site. Over the years, this space has become more than a place to publish stories—it has become a point of connection. Because of that, it feels right to let you know something. We are quietly and thoughtfully planning it for the months ahead.
My husband and I have started planning. We are in the early stages of what we hope will be a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Europe. At this stage, everything is tentative and flexible, but the intention is sincere. Our route would take us from Phoenix to Salt Lake City. We would then travel to New York. Next, we would cross the Atlantic to Amsterdam, and continue on to Berlin. From there, we hope to spend time traveling through Germany. We also plan to visit neighboring countries. Prague is one place high on our list.
The time-frame we are considering is September, though no dates are locked in yet. This trip is not about just checking destinations off a list. It’s more about slowing down. We want to see places with intention and appreciate the history, culture, and everyday life of the regions we visit. Germany, in particular, feels like a place where time deserves to be taken. This is true whether in cities, small towns, or the countryside in between.
This isn’t an announcement—just a looking ahead. A few early plans, and an open door for conversation.
The journey brings one of the most meaningful hopes. It is the possibility of meeting people I’ve come to know through writing over the years. Words have a way of building bridges, and in some cases, those connections feel more like extended family than acquaintances. If you are in or near Berlin, Prague, or Amsterdam, I would genuinely welcome your thoughts. I would also appreciate your insights if you know those places well.
If you have advice on places that shouldn’t be missed, I would be grateful to hear them. Share routes worth taking or quieter corners that offer something special. Practical tips for traveling through these areas are also welcome. And if our paths happen to cross along the way, that would be a gift in itself.
More details will come as plans take shape. For now, this is simply a look ahead. We invite you to share your thoughts, insights, and recommendations in the comments below.
In the heart of a frosty December, Santa Claus sat in his workshop. His eyes scanning the pages of his magical list. It was a heavy year; kindness seemed scarce, and the world became fractured in ways he hadn’t seen before. One town in particular tugged at his heartstrings—Silver Pines, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. Its beauty hid a darker reality. The LGBTQ+ community, especially gay individuals, faced judgment and outright abuse. Yet, in the face of such adversity, they showed remarkable courage. Letters from people in Silver Pines painted a picture of sorrow, isolation, and a longing yet to be seen.
Santa set down the list with a deep sigh. “No mistakes,” he whispered, stroking his snowy beard. It was a mantra he had held onto since the dawn of time. Every soul was crafted perfectly. Its existence was a thread in the fabric of humanity. His mission was to remind others of this truth.
The night of Christmas Eve was crisp, the air biting but alive with the hum of anticipation. Santa’s sleigh cut through the sky, its bells jingling softly. His bag was lighter than usual. It was not because he carried fewer gifts. His offerings weren’t wrapped in paper this year.
He landed in Silver Pines just past midnight, his boots crunching on the snow-covered streets. Despite the hour, the town was still. He began his journey with his signature magic. He quietly stepped into homes where letters had been written. He spread warmth and comfort to those who needed it most.
At the tiny home, Santa left a handwritten note. Liam and Paul were a gay couple who had faced the brunt of the town’s scorn. It read:
“You are seen. You are loved. You are perfect as you are.”
In another house, a young teen named Oliver found a shimmering snow globe under his tree. He had been wrestling with the fear of coming out. When he shook it, it revealed a rainbow that shimmered against the glass, and inside, a message:
“Your truth is your strength. The world needs your light.”
Throughout the night, Santa wove love into every corner of Silver Pines. He touched the hearts of allies, planting seeds of courage to stand against hatred. He left dreams of acceptance in the minds of those who harbored prejudice. His gifts weren’t toys or trinkets. They were powerful reminders of humanity’s shared essence. Each one carried the potential to transform hearts and minds.
By dawn, the town began to stir. Liam and Paul awoke to find the note, their hearts swelling with hope they hadn’t felt in years. Oliver clutched his snow globe, feeling a new resolve to embrace who he was. The day unfolded slowly. The spirit of Santa’s gifts began to ripple. This ripple ignited a wave of change. This wave would soon engulf the entire town.
People who had once turned away from their neighbors now questioned their biases. Conversations began, tentative at first but growing bolder with time. Acts of kindness, like inviting a marginalized individual to a community event, replaced judgment, and barriers began to crumble.
Santa watched from a distance, his eyes twinkling. The journey wasn’t over—true change would take time—but the seeds had been planted. As he climbed back into his sleigh, he whispered into the cold morning air:
“There are no mistakes in my Father’s design. Love is the gift I give, but it is also the gift you must carry ahead.”
And with that, Santa soared into the sky, his mission not finished but well underway.
In a quiet forest stood a skinny cedar tree, so different from all the others. The tall, majestic cedars around him stretched their lush branches high. In contrast, the little tree looked scrawny. It had sparse needles and a slightly crooked trunk.
People often came to the forest to select the perfect Christmas tree, always passing him by.
The other trees whispered and rustled in the wind, teasing him.
“Look at you, Herbie,”
They said, giving him the nickname that stuck.
“No one’s ever going to want you.”
Herbie tried to stand tall, but he knew they were right. Year after year, Herbie remained as the big, beautiful trees were chosen and taken away. The forest changed around him. He stayed in his lonely spot. He dreamed of what it would feel like to be wanted.
Then, one crisp winter morning, the tree cutters came again, their saws buzzing. Herbie didn’t expect to get noticed, but this time, something different happened. As they cleared their path, one of the workers stopped, scratched his head, and said,
“Well, let’s take this little one, too. Someone might like it.”
Herbie felt the sharp blade cut through his trunk. Before he could fully understand what was happening, he was bundled with the others and taken to the city.
A sea of magnificent Christmas trees surrounded Herbie at the tree lot. Their branches glistened with dew, and they stood tall and proud. Compared to them, Herbie felt even smaller, and his crooked trunk made him look even more awkward.
Shoppers strolled by, admiring the grand trees and taking them home individually. Herbie overheard a nearby pine whisper,
“Face it, Herbie, you’re not cut out for this. No one’s going to pick you.”
The lot grew emptier daily, and Herbie’s hope dwindled. By Christmas Eve, he was the only tree left, standing under the dim glow of a street lamp. The wind whistled through his sparse branches, and Herbie prepared for the inevitable—being tossed away, unloved.
But just as Herbie’s spirits hit their lowest, a tiny voice broke through the cold night air.
“Mama, look! That one’s perfect!”
Herbie lifted his branches slightly in surprise. A little boy with messy hair and bright, eager eyes was pointing at him.
“Are you sure, Tommy?”
His mother asked, crouching beside him,
“This tree is so small. And, well, it’s not exactly full.”
––––
“Exactly!”
Tommy said with a grin.
“It’s different, just like me. We’ll make it the best Christmas tree ever!”
Herbie’s heart soared as Tommy and his mother carefully carried him home. Tommy got to work in their cozy living room, stringing popcorn and cranberries across Herbie’s branches. His mother tucked shiny ornaments into every gap, and finally, they placed a glowing star on top.
Herbie couldn’t believe it. For the first time, he felt truly beautiful. He wasn’t just a funny-looking tree anymore—a Christmas tree.
On Christmas morning, Herbie watched with joy as Tommy tore through his presents, his laughter filling the room. The warmth of the fire danced on Herbie’s branches, and he realized he had never felt so happy.
When the holiday ended, Herbie feared getting thrown out like many trees before him. But instead, Tommy’s family carried him to their backyard.
Tommy said, patting his trunk as they planted him firmly in the soil.
“You’re part of our family now, Herbie,”
Year after year, as Herbie grew taller and fuller, Tommy would decorate him anew, even in the coldest winters.
Herbie learned that it wasn’t about how perfect he looked or how he compared to the other trees. The love and care he received—and gave—made him truly special.
And so, Herbie stood proudly, knowing he would always be part of something wonderful: a family.
The town coroner was also the same man who delivered most of the people’s babies in town. He was nearly 97 years old and still doing business. His name was Dr. Doodley. Dr. Doodley began working as a doctor when he graduated from Medical School at age thirty in 1957. He made his home in Meadowview. He had a significant other. He was a gentleman Dr. Doodley had met in college. Together, they raised Dr Doodley’s two nephews. They were the sons of Dr. Doodley’s brother, who got killed in an auto accident along with his wife. The community never questioned the couple’s union. They never questioned the children raised by the two men. Everyone welcomed the couple as they joined in events.
Dr. Doodley was the only doctor in the county. He was on call twenty-four hours a day. He would be available seven days a week. With such a schedule, it was common for the family only to see the older family member on the go. He was known for delivering nearly every child in the county for over 70 years. In as much, he declared dead nearly everyone who passed away in the county. This spanned the past 71 years. He had brought into the world and seen many of the same people leave it. He was known to many as an indirect member of their family for his declarations.
On a foggy Tuesday morning, Dr. Doodley received a call for his services. It was from a lady twelve miles from town. At the home, there was also a man. His wife was gravely ill too. It wasn’t until Dr. Doodley arrived that he discovered two other expecting mothers were present. There was also an older man who appeared about to die.
Dr. Doodley was 97 years old and thought to himself, ––
“I hope I am up to this chore. If all these people require my services, I will have my hands complete.”
A young lady at the home received Dr. Doodley, took his hat, and directed him to the kitchen. She had prepared several pans of hot water, clean towels, and sticks there. Dr. Doodley always required those three things to be available. He liked to have hot water for cleaning. Towels for drying and sticks for placing in people’s mouths to bite down on and grit through pain.
The doctor was known to use the sticks himself on occasion to avoid using curse words when he was stressed.
Mildred was a big lady. She was also Dr. Doodley’s first patient and was expecting twins. Her water had broken, and she was about to deliver. The conditions at the home were not ideal for privacy; there was only one room, and everyone was in it.
Mildred yelled ––
It is happening. They’re coming!
Dr. Doodley crunched his 97-year-old body down while Mildred sisters held her hands, trying to do breathing exercises.
Dr Doodley said to Mildred ––
Honey, you have to push, push like there is no tomorrow.
Mildred yelled ––
I’m trying. They’re fighting.
Dr. Doodley trying to soothe Mildred replied ––
They’re not fighting. They’re just taking their time.
Dr. Doodley smiled and, with a cough, shouted.
Looky here, they are here. Mildred! You did it! You got three! Boy, Girl, Boy!
Mildred, exhausted and sweating, shocked stewed back
What’s that, doc? Did you say Three? I was expecting two. Where is the third one from?
Dr. Doodley smiled and laughed,
Mildred, the third one is from you. You had a little hider in you—what a surprise!
The doctor went to announce the new arrivals to the rest of the family. Upon hearing that Mildred had triplets, two of the older family members dropped dead.
The triplets were the first ever born into the family since the 1800s. It was a blessing of riches for the family to get them. An old Irish family tale had always suggested such. The doctor tried to revive the two family members, but their aged bodies were nonrevivable. So he put on his Coroner hat, declared them dead, and called for the funeral home.
Dr. Doodley turned to the family. He told them their two older family members, Elmer and Magnolia, had passed away. He offered his condolences. As he explained the situation, Mildred’s sister, Ethel, entered labor.
Ethel was bigger than Mildred and only slightly smaller than Minnie, her twin sister, who was also expecting. Neither sister knew what they were expecting. They wanted to keep it a surprise for their families. It was also a surprise for the doctor.
Dr. Doodley barely had time to catch his breath before Ethel’s cries filled the room. With a weary but determined look, he wiped his brow and prepared for the next round. He had seen many things in his 97 years. Yet, he had a feeling that today would be one for the books.
Ethel’s contractions came fast and fierce. Dr. Doodley quickly realized that this delivery would be anything but ordinary. He moved swiftly, calling for more towels and hot water, his voice steady despite the chaos around him.
Ethel, gripping her sister Mildred’s hand, screamed out as the first baby appeared.
“Push, Ethel, just a little more,”
Dr. Doodley encouraged. To his astonishment, another head was crowned instantly after the first.
“Twins!”
He announced, but as he cradled the two newborns, he felt another tiny foot.
“Wait—triplets!”
The room buzzed with excitement and disbelief. But Ethel’s labor still needed to be done. With one final push, a fourth baby emerged, making history in the small town of Meadowview.
“Quadruplets!”
Dr. Doodley gasped, his voice cracking with the thrill of the moment. The room erupted in cheers, even as Minnie, the third sister, began to feel the unmistakable pangs of labor herself.
Dr. Doodley was now running on pure adrenaline. He had delivered quadruplets in his nearly seven decades of practice, but never had he faced such a succession. As Minnie’s labor intensified, he steeled himself for what was to come.
Minnie, the largest of the three sisters, began laboring with a determination that matched her size. The room grew quiet, anticipation thick in the air. The first baby arrived, the second, then the third, and when a fourth followed, the room collectively held its breath.
But Minnie wasn’t done. To the astonishment of all, a fifth baby emerged, followed by a sixth. Dr. Doodley, his hands trembling, delivered each child with care, his heart pounding with the sheer impossibility of it all.
“Six babies!”
He declared, his voice a mix of awe and exhaustion. Minnie lay back, breathless but smiling, as the room buzzed with the excitement of the extraordinary event.
Then in the back of the room a cousin named Sissy screamed ––
Doc I think I need you!
As the doctor walked back to her, he could see she had given partial birth to a child, and he said ––
Oh dear, lets get this corrected, and cleaned up. Lay back and hold your aunts hand while we help you!
And that is when the last baby of the night entered the world.
By the end of that foggy Tuesday, Meadowview had welcomed fourteen new babies. It made history in the sleepy little town.
Dr. Doodley, despite his age, had once again proven why he was the most revered doctor in the county. As he looked at the fourteen newborns swaddled and cooing, he couldn’t help but smile. It was a significant day in the history of Meadowview. An elderly man, nearly a century-old, delivered a miracle. No one would ever forget this event.
There comes a time in every nation’s history when silence becomes more dangerous than speaking. We are living in such a time now. Books are being banned, lessons erased, and truths rewritten to serve new agendas. What once stood as collective memory is being scrubbed clean, leaving behind a shell of what was. But history, real history, lives in the people who lived it — and that means you.
If the history of your people, your town, your family, or your country is under attack, write it down. Don’t wait for permission. Don’t assume someone else will record it for you. Every letter and every diary is a piece of the truth. Every recollection of how life was is also a piece of the truth. This includes the food you ate and the songs that played on your street. This truth is something that no one can erase.
Print it. Bind it. Keep it in a box, a drawer, or a chest. Place it anywhere it can be found by those who come after you. Share copies among your family members. Hide one in a place that time itself will forget. Digital memories are fleeting; servers fail, passwords vanish, and what is “deleted” online is often gone forever. But paper endures.
We have the power, still, to protect the soul of a free people — not through politics, but through preservation. Keep the banned books. Read them. Understand why they were silenced. They are often the keys to liberty’s locked door. The stories, poems, and records we save are not only for nostalgia’s sake. They defend against those who claim freedom was always fragile. They made it seem that way to future generations.
When freedom falters, truth is what leads us back. Write your book. Tell your story. Save it as if your grandchildren’s liberty depends on it — because one day, it just will.
The Howard family always seemed so functional to their neighbors in Bessieville. Their home glowed warmly in the evenings. The paint was always fresh, the hedges trimmed. To the outside world, the Howard’s — Frank, Lois, and their three boys — were the picture of American perfection.
Frank Howard worked as a supervisor at the local airplane plant. Lois split her time between home and the grocery store checkout. Their sons, Mark, Tim, and John, were the type of kids people admired. Others often said, “Now there’s a good family.”
So when Lois stumbled across the box in John’s room, she felt her stomach drop. Inside were pamphlets, flyers, and web printouts — literature no parent ever expects to find.
Frank walked in just as she was holding one, her hand trembling. “Ann,” he said, “what’s going on?”
“I—I hope this is for a school paper,” she stammered. “I don’t know why he’d have this stuff. There’s so much of it!”
Frank thumbed through the stack. “Holy hell. Does he even know what this thing does to people? We raised him better than this.”
Moments later, Mark dropped by to visit. Seeing his parents in his brother’s room, he asked, “What’s up? You two look like you just found a body.”
Ann handed him a pamphlet. Mark’s eyes widened. “Where’s he get this? Do you think he’s…?”
Both parents answered in unison: “No! God no!”
Before they speculate further, Frank’s phone buzzed. It was their middle son, Tim. “Hey Pop, I’ve been calling the house — Ma not answering again? Everything okay?”
Frank hesitated. “We just have… a situation. Did you ever notice your brother getting into anything strange lately?”
Tim laughed. “What’d he do, join a cult?”
Ann shouted from across the room: “Yes! That’s exactly what it looks like!”
Within the hour, Tim was racing home. A few fraternity brothers were in tow. He called them his “Frat-Team.”
When they arrived, Frank showed them the contents of the box. One of the frat boys, a computer science major, said, “Let’s check his laptop.” Within minutes, they uncovered a disturbing digital trail. When they turned the screen toward Frank, he muttered, “I need a drink.”
By now, the grandparents had arrived. The house was full. They decided to wait for John’s return, convinced they “save” him from whatever this was.
At 8:30 sharp, the back door creaked open. “Hey,” John said, stepping inside. “What’s with all the cars? Mom selling Tupperware again?”
“Sit in the yellow chair,” Frank said. His voice left no room for argument. “And don’t say a word.”
John sat, confused. “Son,” Lois began, “are you… flirting around with extremists?”
John blinked. “What? Ma, I don’t think so.”
Frank held up one of the pamphlets. “Then what’s this?”
Suddenly, John’s tone hardened. His face twisted with anger. “You people are blind! You sit here preaching love and tolerance while the country rots from the inside out. You call it compassion — I call it weakness!”
The room fell silent.
Grandpa Howard stood, slapped his knee, and gasped. “My God — he’s a conservative!”
Grandma wailed, “Frank! Ann! You’ve got yourselves a Republican!”
Mark leaned back in his wheelchair, groaning. “It’s worse. He’s been indoctrinated. He’s deep into it — the algorithms, the podcasts, the memes…”
Ann sobbed. “How did this happen? We raised him right. We had PBS, not Fox!”
Frank gritted his teeth. “We can fix this. There’s a camp that reverses it. Teaches kids empathy again.”
The frat boys nodded. “Or we can bring him to a few Pride Parades,” one said. “Exposure therapy.”
That’s when John exploded. He cursed his family. He hurled coasters across the room. He shouted about “real patriots” and “fighting the deep state.”
No one noticed the faint red light blinking on one frat boy’s phone. They’d been recording the whole scene.
Moments later, two uniformed officers stepped inside — Toby and Rex. Toby, a family friend, looked bewildered. “Good Lord, what’s going on here? Is he possessed?”
Rex shook his head solemnly. “No. I’ve seen it before. Same thing happened to my parents. They started watching those ‘news’ streams online. By Thanksgiving, they were threatening to burn our pronoun mugs.”
Ann gasped. “Oh sweet Jesus.”
Frank turned toward his son, voice trembling between rage and heartbreak. “John, listen to me. We can still get you back. But we have to act now. Before it’s too late.”
John sneered. “Too late for what? To stop me from voting?”
And with that, he stormed out the door, leaving the room in stunned silence.
Grandpa finally muttered, “Well, guess the boy’s all grown up now.”
The family sat frozen — the hum of the refrigerator filling the void where laughter used to live.
In the background the local television news reported bloody attacks on black students leaving a GED Class that evening. The suspects identified as young white males. Who used Molotov cocktails yelling white power and God chooses a white America as they escaped on bicycles.
Outside, the streetlight flickered over the Howards’ perfect little home. It was still warm and still well-kept. Now, forever, it is just a little bit haunted.
Antifa, short for “anti-fascist,” is a decentralized, far-left political movement that opposes fascism, racism, and other forms of far-right extremism.
It is not a single, unified organization with a national leader or headquarters. Rather, it is a loose network of autonomous local groups and individuals. They share a common ideology.
History
European origins: Modern anti-fascist movements have historical roots in early 20th-century Europe. Groups like Germany’s Antifaschistische Aktion fought against rising fascism and Nazism in the 1920s and 1930s.
American development: In the United States, groups like the Anti-Racist Action (ARA) influenced the modern movement in the 1980s. They confronted Neo-Nazi skinheads at punk rock concerts.
Resurgence: Antifa gained significant public attention and saw a revival in activity after the 2016 U.S. presidential election. This was especially true during clashes with far-right groups. These occurred at events like the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, Virginia.
Beliefs and ideology
Anti-authoritarianism: Adherents subscribe to a range of left-wing views. These include anarchism, socialism, and communism. They hold anti-authoritarian and anti-capitalist positions.
Direct action: The movement prioritizes direct action over electoral politics. They believe it is necessary to disrupt what they see as hateful and oppressive activities. These disruptions are crucial before such activities can grow.
Confrontation: Supporters believe that hate speech is not free speech and advocate for the active suppression of fascist organizing efforts.
Tactics
Antifa tactics range from nonviolent to militant and vary widely among autonomous groups.
Nonviolent techniques: These include community organizing, publicizing the activities of far-right groups (“doxing”), and distributing flyers.
Militant techniques: Some adherents use confrontational tactics, including physical violence and property damage, which critics condemn as counterproductive and dangerous.
“Black bloc”: During protests, some activists engage in “black bloc” tactics. They dress in all black with their faces covered. This is done to keep anonymity and solidarity.
Controversy and criticism
Terrorist label: For several years, President Donald Trump has said he would label Antifa as a terrorist organization. As recently as September 2025, he reiterated this stance. Still, legal and civil rights experts have stated such a designation would be unconstitutional. They argue it is challenging to apply to a decentralized movement rather than a structured group. Former FBI Director Christopher Wray has also described it as an ideology rather than an organization.
Use of violence: Antifa’s use of violence has been condemned by both Republican and Democratic politicians. Some critics draw false equivalencies between Antifa violence and far-right extremist violence.
Misinformation: The movement has often been the topic of persistent disinformation campaigns. Right-wing groups and social media accounts promote false rumors and hoaxes about its activities.
Right now in U.S. politics, “Antifa” is not a formal organization. Instead, it is a loosely applied label meaning “anti-fascist.” It refers to people who oppose far-right extremism. In recent years, some political figures have used the term as a catch-all. Donald Trump is included among those who use it this way. They apply it to anyone who protests or opposes their policies. That means the word is often used more as a political weapon than a precise description.
If someone opposes the GOP or criticizes Trump’s policies, that alone does not make them “Antifa.” Certain media outlets or political figures call them that. It’s a rhetorical strategy to stigmatize opposition. This labeling is not a reflection of an actual membership or affiliation. Historically, in the U.S., dissent against a party or president has always existed without being automatically labeled as extremist.
So, in short: at the “current rate” of framing, you are called Antifa if you oppose Trump. Nonetheless, that’s a label applied by others. It is not an actual classification or legal designation. It’s essential to recognize the difference between rhetoric and reality.
We all know words can inspire, connect, and excite—but they can also alienate, offend, or sound tired. Daria Knupp, Sr. Content Marketing Manager at Personify, recently published a thoughtful article. It lists 10 words and phrases we should stop using in the events industry. We should consider avoiding them everywhere. Her list stopped me in my tracks—and it will surprise you, too.
We use these terms often at conferences, in meetings, and in our everyday work to convey intelligence, wit, and creativity. Nevertheless, some have roots in stereotypes, outdated social theories, or even deeply offensive historical contexts. Here are highlights from Knupp’s list. I also include my own reflections on why they matter. Additionally, I explore how we can do better.
Phrases Worth Rethinking
“Guru” Originally, the title of the highest spiritual leaders in Hinduism and Buddhism. Using it casually—“event planning guru”—can trivialize a sacred role. Try “expert” or “specialist” instead.
“Pow Wow” is not just a “quick meeting.” It’s a sacred Native American gathering of community and celebration. Try “meeting” or “collaboration.”
“Tribe” is often used to describe a network or support, but it is tied to outdated and harmful stereotypes. Swap in “team,” “group,” or “cohort.”
“Nitty Gritty” Commonly meant “the essentials,” but it was rooted in references to the slave trade. Use “details” or “essentials” instead.
“Hold Down the Fort” Seems harmless, but it was initially tied to colonial conflicts with Native Americans. Consider “supervise” or “manage.”
“Tipping Point” was popularized by Malcolm Gladwell, but historically referred to racial “thresholds” in neighborhoods. Try “pivotal moment” or “milestone.”
“Rule of Thumb” Linked—to wife-beating folklore. Safer to say “general guideline” or “industry standard.”
“Crazy” or “Insane” Using mental illness terms casually undermines efforts to destigmatize. Replace with “absurd,” “outrageous,” or “ridiculous.”
Buzzwords like “Synergy,” “Leverage,” and “Bandwidth” Overuse makes you sound like a cliché. Switch it up with plainer language.
Hyperboles. Nothing wrong with exaggeration—but when overdone, it can make you less credible. Mix in metaphors or puns for variety.
Personal Reflection: A Lifelong Connection
I’ve had very close Native American friends who have been like family to me for nearly fifty years. Through countless conversations, shared meals, and life’s ups and downs, similar concerns about language never arose. We always spoke openly and comfortably with one another, and I thought we understood each other fully.
Now, reading about the origins of these words and their potential to harm, I have to ask myself—was I wrong? Did I unintentionally cause pain, even to the people I love and respect? This personal reflection can make the audience feel empathetic and introspective. Did my long-held assumptions give me a sense of being “above” the issue when in reality I wasn’t?
This is why articles like Daria Knupp’s matter. They challenge us to reevaluate. They help us check our blind spots. They make us confront how easy it is to inherit language without questioning it. This can make the audience feel motivated and empowered. I hope that in sharing this, readers will pause. I hope they think: if language is so powerful, what can we do to use it better?
Why This Matters
As Knupp points out, we interact with thousands of attendees, exhibitors, colleagues, and friends. Every word choice carries weight. Being mindful of language isn’t about being “too sensitive”; it’s about making sure everyone feels respected and included. And honestly? It makes us sound more intelligent and up-to-date.
For me, this list was surprising because so many of these phrases have been normalized. Seeing their origins laid out in one place makes me rethink my own habits. It also makes me curious—what other everyday expressions are we using without realizing their history?
The Takeaway
Language evolves, and so can we. By phasing out these outdated or offensive terms, we show ourselves as thoughtful professionals and better human beings. Words shape experiences. They can also change them—for the better.
NOTE: We live in a time when there’s a relentless push to roll back equality. Efforts aim to undo hard-won progress toward balancing the scales between the haves and the have-nots. Reports like this stand as a vital reminder. There will always be voices, somewhere, willing to rise for decency, fairness, and moral courage.
By the time autumn winds rolled across Haven’s Reach, something in the air had shifted. The Council’s decrees were no longer whispered with unease. They were shouted from wooden platforms. The decrees were painted on walls and nailed to doors. “Obedience is Freedom,” one sign read. “Order Before All,” declared another. The rules had once been tolerated as minor irritations. Now, they pressed down like a boot on the neck of the people.
It began with curfews. Families were ordered indoors at dusk, lanterns extinguished by the ninth bell. Then came the bans. First, there was one on foreign books. Next, gatherings of more than five were forbidden. Finally, music played in public squares was banned. One by one, pieces of life that had once defined Haven’s Reach fell away. The Council insisted it was “for safety.” But everyone knew better—fear was safer for rulers than for the ruled.
Harper saw it most clearly when her younger brother, Eli, vanished. One evening, he was at the bakery kneading dough by her side. The next morning, his cot was empty. Blankets were folded neatly as though no one had ever lived there. Whispers reached her ears: Eli had spoken too freely about the Council in the market, and someone had reported him. Now he was “detained for questioning.” No one who had been questioned ever came home the same.
Harper’s grief sharpened into something more complex. She began wandering beyond her bakery’s door after curfew, listening at corners, watching shadows. That’s how she stumbled across The Quiet Ones. It was a ragtag circle of neighbors, merchants, and teachers. They took it upon themselves to preserve what the Council feared most: memory. They hid forbidden books in flour sacks. They scribbled children’s rhymes on the backs of ledgers. They whispered songs under their breath in defiance.
When Harper revealed her brother’s name, the Quiet Ones did not look away. An older man with ink-stained hands touched her shoulder and said,
“You’re one of us now, whether you meant to be or not. The fight isn’t about one boy. It’s about all of us.”
The fracture had come—not just between ruler and ruled, but within the people themselves. Some chose silence and survival. Others, like Harper, chose risk and resistance. Haven’s Reach was no longer simply an island under rule. It was a tinderbox, waiting for a single spark to ignite.
After the whispers of resistance spread through hidden gatherings, Brant Harrow and his Council acted swiftly.
One by one, the most outspoken citizens began to disappear. A fisherman dared to complain about rationing. A mother had asked too many questions at the weekly assembly. A teacher was rumored to keep forbidden books. They were gone.
No public trials. No explanations. Only empty chairs at family tables and unlit lanterns where homes once glowed in the night. The Council claimed these people had “chosen exile.” But no one had ever seen the boats return. Children asked where their neighbors had gone, and parents whispered a single warning:
Don’t ask too loudly.
For those who remained, the silence was deafening.
Even the ocean seemed to hush its waves against the shore, as if the island itself held its breath. Fear kept voices low. In the dark corners of Haven’s Reach, a few brave souls began to wonder. If the voices of truth were vanishing, who would speak for them when the Council came knocking next?
Ethan was only a few miles from home when it happened. A sudden dizziness swept over him, the road blurred, and he pulled his car to the side. When the fog lifted, he realized he couldn’t remember who he was, or where he had been going. All he had was a backpack, a half-filled journal, and the overwhelming instinct that he needed to find shelter.
He wandered until he reached Brookfield Lane, where an old house loomed against the evening sky. As a child, Ethan had feared this place. It was where shadows seemed darker, where kids whispered about ghosts and curses. Though he didn’t remember that fear, his body did—a chill ran through him as he stepped onto the porch. Still, with nowhere else to go, he knocked.
An elderly woman opened the door. “Come in, child,” she said softly, as though she had been expecting him. Ethan stayed, helping with small chores, sharing meals, and slowly growing comfortable in the quiet warmth of the house. In the evenings, they talked. She asked about his life. Even though he couldn’t remember, fragments began returning. He recalled his laughter with friends, the smell of campus coffee shops, and the long nights of studying. Then, something deeper surfaced. It was the secret he had held since high school. He thought he’d never say it aloud. He told her he was gay. Instead of fear or judgment, she smiled. “Love,” she said, “is never something to be ashamed of. It’s what keeps this house alive.”
When his memory finally returned, it shocked everyone. Ethan’s parents had always thought of Brookfield Lane as cursed, a place to avoid. They couldn’t understand how the son they worried about had found comfort, truth, and acceptance there. For Ethan, though, the house became more than a place of fear. It became the place where he embraced who he was. He learned that what we fear most sometimes holds the power to set us free.
When a massacre occurs, we rush to ask why. We sift through social media posts, interviews, and histories, desperate for something that explains the unexplainable. But what’s telling is not just the reasons we find—it’s the reasons we don’t look for.
The overwhelming majority of mass shooters in the United States are heterosexual men. That’s not speculation; it’s data. Yet how often do you see headlines dissecting a killer’s heterosexuality as the cause of their violence? How often do pundits rush online? They demand to see if the shooter once posted about a girlfriend or wore a wedding ring. They use that as “proof” that straight men are dangerous by design. The answer is simple: never.
And yet, when a shooter identifies as LGBTQ+, or is even rumored to, it suddenly becomes fair game for speculation. Sexuality or gender identity—factors with no proven connection to violence—are treated as the smoking gun. It’s as if identity itself becomes a scapegoat, a convenient villain for people already inclined to mistrust it.
This double standard reveals a lot about our cultural biases. Straight people are allowed complexity. They can be troubled, mentally ill, politically radicalized, or angry at the world. They can also be a hundred other things. But LGBTQ+ people are flattened into caricatures, their entire identities blamed for tragedies they commit. Violence is driven by opportunity, ideology, and access to weapons. It is also driven by often untreated pain—not by who someone loves or how they define themselves.
Maybe the question isn’t why people commit atrocities. Instead, we should ask why we frame some people’s motives through the lens of prejudice. Meanwhile, we let others keep their humanity. Until we answer that honestly, we’ll keep mistaking bigotry for truth—and keep missing the real reasons behind the violence.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Will Americans loose more Civil Rights With Republicans In control? Mike Lee, Trump, and others are pushing the Project 2025 Playbook. It sure looks like the Constitution’s articles are under threat and today’s GOP will lead to its undoing.
THE RESPONSE
You’ve raised a critical concern. The answer is: yes. Under a Republican administration, there is influence exerted through tools like Project 2025. Many observers, civil‑rights organizations, and news outlets warn of significant threats to civil liberties and democratic norms.
What Is Project 2025?
Project 2025 is a policy blueprint authored by The Heritage Foundation. Contributions from former Trump staffers are included. It advocates for a sweeping restructuring of the executive branch. The plan expands presidential control over key agencies like the DOJ, FBI, DHS, and Department of Education. It seeks to install ideologically vetted loyalists, dismantle agency independence, and extend power across the executive branch.(1)
Critics label it an authoritarian and Christian-nationalist roadmap. It threatens civil rights protections. It also endangers democratic checks and balances and the rule of law.(2)
Key Threats to Civil Rights
Dismantling DEIA and Affirmative Action Safeguards
Executive Orders signed in January 2025 have abolished government DEI (Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, Accessibility) initiatives, rescinded affirmative action mandates (e.g., EO 11246), and set in motion mass firings of employees affiliated with DEIA roles.(3)
Eroding Oversight of Discrimination
Project 2025 proposes ending the collection of race and gender data by the EEOC. This decision would cripple the government’s ability to detect and tackle employment discrimination. (4)
Weakening Voting Rights and Census Equity
The plan promotes a citizenship question on the census, which will suppress representation and resources for immigrant and minority communities. It also proposes limiting the DOJs role in election protection. Additionally, it suggests reforms to the FEC that would shift power to politically appointed commissioners.(4a)
Suppressing LGBTQ+, Black, Immigrant, and Other Communities’ Protections
Policies aim to curtail reproductive freedoms, strip LGBTQ rights, and dismantle educational protections—particularly in schools and public institutions. (5)
Consolidating Executive Power and Undermining the Courts
Project 2025 advocates for weakening independent oversight, firing Inspectors General, and enforcing loyalty tests—subverting professional integrity and rule of law.(6)
Shifting Federal Civil Rights Enforcement
Politicizing Justice Leadership
Appointments like that of Pam Bondi raise concerns about fairness in civil and voting rights enforcement. Their lack of independence from political influence is particularly worrisome.(7)
Broader Repercussions Reported by News Sources
Project 2025 has already sparked real-world impacts, like:
Mississippi implementing stricter abortion bans, voting restrictions, education rollbacks, and book censorship—reflecting Project 2025’s influence.(8)
Cancellation of Latino cultural festivals due to intensified ICE enforcement, demonstrating an atmosphere of fear in immigrant communities.(9)
A marked rollback on civil rights enforcement and protections in education and beyond. (9a)
In Summary
There is clear, mounting evidence.Republicans are in positions of control. They are involved in Project 2025. This involvement poses an existential threat to several pillars of civil rights. Republicans are in positions of control. Project 2025 is a concern. There is a threat to several pillars of civil rights. This threat includes dismantling DEI programs. It involves undermining federal oversight. Additionally, it consolidates executive power and targets marginalized communities across voting, education, employment, and beyond.
What You Can Do
Support and amplify the work of:
Civil rights organizations: ACLU, NAACP LDF, Urban League—many are actively litigating (e.g., National Urban League v. Trump contesting anti-DEIA executive orders) (10).
Voting and immigrant rights groups tracking suppression and census issues.
Local advocacy and grassroots movements fostering solidarity and resistance.
When I first wrote this piece during election season, I thought it spoke to a particular moment. But the truth has a way of staying relevant. Looking around today, it feels just as necessary—maybe even more so.
1–2 minutes
THE TRUTH IS THE HARDEST THING TO LOOK AT AND ACCEPT
There was a time in American politics. Back then, slinging mud was considered the lowest, most dishonorable act a candidate would commit. Those who spread lies were branded untrustworthy. Decent people would never cast a vote for them. Back then, communities had a different rhythm. You knew your neighbors. You checked on the widow down the street. You went out of your way to support local businesses because of family ties. Courtesy was second nature. You didn’t blare your horn because someone hesitated at a stop sign. You didn’t sneer at people who looked different from you. When you traveled to another town for a ballgame, you were respectful. You treated their facilities with the same respect you expected for your own.
Politics, too, carried that sense of respect. When someone won an election—whether at the local, state, or national level—it wasn’t the end of the world. It simply meant they had earned the right to represent their community for a set term. Neighbors didn’t conspire to punish one another for “voting the wrong way.” They did not claim elections were fraudulent just because their candidate lost. They accepted the truth, even when it was difficult, because truth was what held the fabric of the community together.
What’s striking is that no one sought to destroy the lives of those who disagreed with them. Debate can be sharp, but it stopped short of hatred. People understood that democracy required trust. It required trust in the process. It required trust in one another. It also required trust that truth—no matter how uncomfortable—would endure. That same truth remains today. Still, it asks something of us. It requires the courage to look it in the eye. We must accept it and live by it.
When the law decides you no longer exist, freedom isn’t about where you live.
It’s about how far you’re willing to lose yourself to survive.
2–3 minutes
Getting Marked – Freedom at a cost
What if you belonged to a group that the government suddenly decided was a problem?
Not because of anything you did. Not because of a crime. Not even because of your beliefs. You were placed quietly and without your knowledge. The current leaders decided that the category was “unjust.”
Illegal.
It didn’t matter that you’d lived here your whole life. That your parents and grandparents had, too. It didn’t matter your race, your sex, your creed, your record. None of that mattered anymore. The only thing that mattered was that you had been identified.
The rules you thought protected you suddenly didn’t apply.
Your home wasn’t yours. Your job will vanish with a keystroke. The bank will empty your account without notice. You weren’t even a “person” anymore, not in the legal sense described by the Constitution you once believed in.
It happened so fast you couldn’t trace the moment when it began. At first, it was a news story about “reforms.” Then, “temporary measures.” Then, new identification cards, “to streamline services.” People told themselves it was nothing — until the cards became color-coded. Until the colors meant everything.
Now the world feels smaller every day. Friends stop calling, not because they don’t care, but because they’re afraid to be seen caring. Even strangers look at you differently, as if they’re silently choosing whether to turn away or turn you in.
You start making plans. Options. But they’re illusions. Leave the country? Borders are closed to you. Fight back? With what? Every avenue seems to end at the same locked door.
Then one night, in the quiet of your apartment, you find a letter slipped under your door. No name. No return location. Just a single sentence:
“There’s a way out, but you can’t take anything with you.”
Your heart pounds. Hope flares in your chest — real, breathing hope for the first time in months. You imagine stepping across a border, leaving all this behind, starting over somewhere no one knows your name.
But then the weight comes crashing back. You can’t take anything with you. Not your family, if they’re marked. Not your home. Not even the history that made you who you are.
The choice is yours. Stay and lose everything slowly, or leave and lose it all at once.
It’s hope. And it’s despair.
And tonight, both feel exactly the same.
Will you let this country get to this point? Is the United States already there? Is it too late to turn around?
What you leave today becomes someone’s answer tomorrow.