ONE
For years America has been divided into different countries, separated by a myriad of differences between people of different races, heritages, customs, and more recently, by different political choices. There are red states, blue states, and purple states. The red states embrace political conservatism, mostly as spewed out by the current iteration of the Republican Party, whose versions of conservatism vary considerably even among the soldiers who march under that banner. No different for the blue states, either. Progressives are farther to the left than moderates, smugly subscribing to positions without concern for party. While a moderate might choose to send money to its ally Israel, a progressive would demand a ceasefire an apolitical stance. And purple? When you mix red and blue you get purple. Purple states have nearly equal support of both Republicans and Democrats.
In the past such differences have been overshadowed by the commonality that we all share—the American experience, nearly 250 years under one banner, one flag, one set of rules and one set of values. We call such things the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and for those 250 years we have subscribed to what was written in them.
Until now. Extreme Republican politician Marjorie Taylor Greene had this to say in September, “We need a national divorce. We need to separate by red states and blue states and shrink the federal government. Everyone I talk to says this. From the sick and disgusting woke culture issues shoved down our throats to the Democrat’s traitorous America Last policies, we are done.” I’m not writing about her lunacy and hopeless stupidity, but she does give voice to a thought shared by other Republicans, that the differences between the red and blue are insurmountable.
The Atlantic had this to say: “But all of the emotions that are attached to a desire for secession—seething resentment, existential fear, an unforgiving spirit, contempt and hatred for those who disagree with you—are stoked by the kind of rhetoric employed by Greene and those who see the world as she does. Such language will further destroy America’s political culture and could easily lead to extensive political violence.”
These people are crazy. I’m seventy-seven now, and although I’ve had political differences with others throughout my life (Vietnam) I’m witnessing something I not only disagree with, but I don’t understand. Republicans believe what they choose to believe, not what is true. And therein lies the heart of the darkness that surrounds us today.
They’re wrong. I’m right. Everyone, as Jeff Tiedrich says, is entitled to my opinion.
TWO
If it were only political differences that separate us I could live with that. But the differences go way beyond Congress. Some believe the 2nd Amendment gives unlimited license to firearms. Others believe that the words “A well-regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free State”,…are important. I do. Gun lovers don’t. Big difference.
THREE
Today I discovered a third difference, perhaps more cataclysmic than politics or firearms. Typically, parents don’t care for the music that their children like. When Jason first played rap music I didn’t like it. It was without merit or value. Besides, it wasn’t music. Still, we kept our separate ways. I know that kids like rap; adults don’t. The difference between them isn’t unlike any other difference between children and parents.
But today a line was crossed. NPR, a touchstone of sanity and reason, published a list of The 50 Best Albums of 2023. I wandered down the list, looking for a familiar face, a singer, a group, a genre that might awaken me from my constant need to play music from my youth. I came across this:
Let’s just take one isolated lyric, taken from the writer’s quote of Sexyy Red,
“Even if her lyrics come off as out-of-pocket for unprimed ears — who would ever think we'd hear a whole football team scream "My coochie pink, my booty hole brown"? — it never feels out-of-character for the truly unbothered Big Sexyy.”
“My coochie pink, my booty hole brown.”
It isn’t that the music or the image of Sexxy Red jars, or the offensive lyrics stun the listener into disbelief, it’s that NPR believes that this album—I admit, I haven’t listened to it— is one of the best of the year. Marjorie’s lunacy doesn’t hurt, nor does the long simmering disagreements about firearms, nor even the differences found within musical interests. What’s killing me is that even traditional, staid, neutral, apolitical NPR has chosen to wear a black hat.