This is in response to the recent Boston Globe article about RomneyCare: ‘RomneyCare’ — a revolution that basically worked. Who exactly did Brian Mooney talk to when he researched this article? RomneyCare is the worst thing to happen to Massachusetts since Blue Cross bought the state.
You want the inside word? Romneycare is great if you are Blue Cross. It is not so great if you happen to be unemployed or underemployed and especially if you are middle class. I am head of household for a family of four. My wife is not working. She has zero income. My only income is my unemployment. I apparently earn too much if you can believe that. At what point do I qualify for MassHealth or Obamacare? According to RomneyCare I am only allowed to use the insurance granted to me through unemployment, which is Blue Cross.
Mitt Romney saw a problem with so many Massachusetts residents unable to afford insurance. His solution was to force us to buy Blue Cross (or one of the other companies). If you cannot afford it, that is too bad. The state will give you a hefty surcharge in your tax refund if you do not pay for insurance. For the majority of us, it is buy insurance or pay rent and eat. What would Romney do about the homeless situation? Force the homeless to buy boxes?
Seriously, it is time to return to a single payer plan. Look at the profits that Blue Cross claimed for last year: $222 million (Blue Cross Earnings). And somehow Blue Cross is reported as a non-profit company. What a joke. Their CEOs make more in a year than I have made as a database programmer for ten years.
That is only one company. Add Harvard Vanguard, Tufts and all the other companies and you are looking at a surplus for universal healthcare. I say, enough with these middlemen. Give everyone Medicare. These insurance carriers are driving costs up with their forced administrative fees. I worked for Blue Cross and know how they operate. 97% of all claims are automatically rejected. Yes, they are reviewed and yes, the reviewers are trained to reject them arbitrarily for any reason they can find. This forces the service providers to hire administrative staff to fight with Blue Cross to get paid for services. It is enough already! Brian Mooney is clearly sucking the teat of the insurance industry. Honestly, who paid him to write this, Blue Cross, Mitt Romney or both?
I have been unemployed for 6 months and MassHealth has rejected me for a long list of reasons (I earn too much, I need more documentation, I have to use the unemployment first, etc.). Shame on Mitt Romney and shame on the conservatives who want to privatize everything. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that privatization drives up costs and drives out consumers. The state comes in to force the populace to consume a commodity that is less necessary than food, shelter, clothing and even education. The solution is simple. It will take a complete removal of insurance lobbies from the public sector. Yes, companies like Blue Cross and Tufts will be destroyed. But why are we allowing them to profit from the misery of others? Why should we allow government agencies to force citizens to buy a commodity that they do not need?
Why indeed.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Bad Teacher Sets a Bad Example
I recently witnessed a commercial for the movie the Bad Teacher. In that commercial Cameron Diaz instructs two students to hold the arms of another so she can nail him with a playground ball. As a parent of children who were bullied and as someone who was bullied viciously in school, I am appalled. How can the studio make light of such a horrible act?
In Bridgewater Massachusetts two boys were caught on video holding another boy while a fourth beat him. The savageness of dodge ball has been used on virtually every victim of bullying throughout America. These things are neither funny, nor clever plot devices. These are horrifying realities for many people. The film Bad Teacher spits in the eye of every bullied person.
I would like to think that a multi-billion dollar studio such as Sony would exercise better social responsibility. To glamorize this act enforces the mentality that fosters bullies and perpetuates the violence. Shame on Sony and star Cameron Diaz.
I witnessed one very offensive scene being advertised. I refuse to see this movie on the assumption that other scenes will also portray glamorized depictions of violence or glorify demeaning behavior and bullying. I am calling for everyone who has ever been bullied or has children who are bullied to boycott this film.
In Bridgewater Massachusetts two boys were caught on video holding another boy while a fourth beat him. The savageness of dodge ball has been used on virtually every victim of bullying throughout America. These things are neither funny, nor clever plot devices. These are horrifying realities for many people. The film Bad Teacher spits in the eye of every bullied person.
I would like to think that a multi-billion dollar studio such as Sony would exercise better social responsibility. To glamorize this act enforces the mentality that fosters bullies and perpetuates the violence. Shame on Sony and star Cameron Diaz.
I witnessed one very offensive scene being advertised. I refuse to see this movie on the assumption that other scenes will also portray glamorized depictions of violence or glorify demeaning behavior and bullying. I am calling for everyone who has ever been bullied or has children who are bullied to boycott this film.
Friday, June 10, 2011
My First Day of High School
I was never fond of school and despise compulsory activity. As an adult I often have difficulty reconciling the obligations to myself with the statutory servitude of the “free world.” I have had several career success and failures forcing the acceptance of my ideas and beliefs. I want to provide a good life for my family but cannot stomach the political playing field that must be navigated in order to get ahead or survive. When reflecting on my experiences in public school I often yearn to go back in time. If only I could infuse the young Sean with my current fortitude to compel others to take me seriously.
I have always enjoyed learning. Reading, writing and drawing are my favorite pastimes. It was the institution of school that I despised. The inspirational teachers were few and far between. To reach them I had to endure the insufferable hacks who had no business instructing children in their myopic lies about history. Worse than that was the British colonialist approach of shouting ever louder when a student did not understand the logic of a lesson. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to my first day of high school. As a Navy brat, I developed a talent for making friends. I love exploring new places and meeting different people. When I reached my 18th birthday, this would translate into wanderlust. While others focused on their careers and educations, my sights were set on the horizon. My mind begged to know what I was missing out on. Thus, my first day of high school would be an adventure that I embraced with wide-eyed innocence.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums replaced most buildings. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and Joe Friday haircut belied his humanity. Most of the other students were either from the other middle schools or Hanson. I took my seat and thought I heard someone say “dirtball.” I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. We were given our schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, and Queer” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with laughing faces. Granted, my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves, curls, and cowlicks. Did this warrant all of the names and accusations of less than adequate hygiene? The air was thick with menace. Every taunt ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Insults hissed just behind my ears. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some faculty members even chuckled. No one would come to my aid.
Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I only faced forward and walked. Regardless of the surface calm, inside me brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and crew cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts had dissolved. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my bushy mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Oxygen could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing?” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass?” I asked. My voice, cracked just above a whisper. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This was the first of many times that I would be banished from class after being assaulted, but the only time the nurse’s office was my destination. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered her office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled webs of curls were, it was not hacked up until that moment. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. Yet, I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it.
A couple of months later I would stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping off large hunks of my hair. After my first day of high school kids called my house and threatened me daily. People were yelling horrible things from cars everywhere I went. I grew to favor the solitude of the woods. Whitman/Hanson was Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. The last straw came during a gym class where I was cornered by several jocks. They threatened me. If I did not get a haircut by the next day they would cut it all off with their buck knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it.” The words barely choked from my throat. From there forward my hair was a horrific mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it. Whereas I could not possibly battle the Neanderthals and preppies without being beaten severely, I knew the faculty could not touch me. A power struggle ensued between the school authorities and myself. Until I officially quit and took the GED test, all of my efforts went into shattering the façade that the principal and her lackeys exhibited.
My high school experiences resonate deeply within me. Usually my family, work, and school consume my time. I also enjoy the company of friends, get tattoos, and carry on with multiple projects to feed my creative spirit. Every once in a while I will see someone being bullied in the news or closer to home. The recent video depicting three jocks beating up a middle school kid in Bridgewater has fueled my hostility towards aggressors. Although I have many interesting experiences to write about, this topic has gripped my imagination. The catalyst of my high school rebellion was that wad of gum: the spitball heard round the world. My reaction was to lash out and undermine the authorities that fostered the brutal cross that I was forced to bear. I blamed the jocks for their barbarous conduct, but hated the school authorities. In many ways this still feeds my idealism. I hold myself to be a humanist. I have been called a socialist, Marxist, commie, and even a traitor because I care about the plight of people. I blame the myopic views of Tea Partiers and Conservatives, but hate the corrupt politicians and the corporate autocrats who own them.
I wish I could look back at my high school years with a clear mind or a mature perspective. I do not have it in me to do so. I see my experience as a shared nightmare. I want others to read this and feel my pain and anger–to know what I know. Many schools still shelter bullies and punish the victims. The aforementioned Bridgewater student had been bullied for over a year before the video was unleashed on YouTube. His mother had hired a lawyer to draft a letter to the school when the principal ignored her pleas. Now that school claims a “Zero Tolerance” policy regarding bullying. It is clear that this is a lie.
My belief is that I am being challenged to find an effective way to combat bullying. Tougher laws only encourage schools to hide evidence of their complicity. The real weapon is education. Our children must all be taught the importance of acceptance, compassion, and diversity. When I look at the woods I see different types of trees with a plethora of colors and shapes. Even within a specific genus there is exclusivity. Every tree and every leaf has its own unique character. Yet, when I view them as a whole I am confronted with a beauty whose magnitude is beyond words. This is how society should be. Individuality should be encouraged because we all contribute to an eternal humanity.
I have always enjoyed learning. Reading, writing and drawing are my favorite pastimes. It was the institution of school that I despised. The inspirational teachers were few and far between. To reach them I had to endure the insufferable hacks who had no business instructing children in their myopic lies about history. Worse than that was the British colonialist approach of shouting ever louder when a student did not understand the logic of a lesson. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to my first day of high school. As a Navy brat, I developed a talent for making friends. I love exploring new places and meeting different people. When I reached my 18th birthday, this would translate into wanderlust. While others focused on their careers and educations, my sights were set on the horizon. My mind begged to know what I was missing out on. Thus, my first day of high school would be an adventure that I embraced with wide-eyed innocence.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums replaced most buildings. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and Joe Friday haircut belied his humanity. Most of the other students were either from the other middle schools or Hanson. I took my seat and thought I heard someone say “dirtball.” I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. We were given our schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, and Queer” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with laughing faces. Granted, my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves, curls, and cowlicks. Did this warrant all of the names and accusations of less than adequate hygiene? The air was thick with menace. Every taunt ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Insults hissed just behind my ears. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some faculty members even chuckled. No one would come to my aid.
Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I only faced forward and walked. Regardless of the surface calm, inside me brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and crew cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts had dissolved. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my bushy mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Oxygen could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing?” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass?” I asked. My voice, cracked just above a whisper. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This was the first of many times that I would be banished from class after being assaulted, but the only time the nurse’s office was my destination. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered her office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled webs of curls were, it was not hacked up until that moment. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. Yet, I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it.
A couple of months later I would stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping off large hunks of my hair. After my first day of high school kids called my house and threatened me daily. People were yelling horrible things from cars everywhere I went. I grew to favor the solitude of the woods. Whitman/Hanson was Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. The last straw came during a gym class where I was cornered by several jocks. They threatened me. If I did not get a haircut by the next day they would cut it all off with their buck knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it.” The words barely choked from my throat. From there forward my hair was a horrific mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it. Whereas I could not possibly battle the Neanderthals and preppies without being beaten severely, I knew the faculty could not touch me. A power struggle ensued between the school authorities and myself. Until I officially quit and took the GED test, all of my efforts went into shattering the façade that the principal and her lackeys exhibited.
My high school experiences resonate deeply within me. Usually my family, work, and school consume my time. I also enjoy the company of friends, get tattoos, and carry on with multiple projects to feed my creative spirit. Every once in a while I will see someone being bullied in the news or closer to home. The recent video depicting three jocks beating up a middle school kid in Bridgewater has fueled my hostility towards aggressors. Although I have many interesting experiences to write about, this topic has gripped my imagination. The catalyst of my high school rebellion was that wad of gum: the spitball heard round the world. My reaction was to lash out and undermine the authorities that fostered the brutal cross that I was forced to bear. I blamed the jocks for their barbarous conduct, but hated the school authorities. In many ways this still feeds my idealism. I hold myself to be a humanist. I have been called a socialist, Marxist, commie, and even a traitor because I care about the plight of people. I blame the myopic views of Tea Partiers and Conservatives, but hate the corrupt politicians and the corporate autocrats who own them.
I wish I could look back at my high school years with a clear mind or a mature perspective. I do not have it in me to do so. I see my experience as a shared nightmare. I want others to read this and feel my pain and anger–to know what I know. Many schools still shelter bullies and punish the victims. The aforementioned Bridgewater student had been bullied for over a year before the video was unleashed on YouTube. His mother had hired a lawyer to draft a letter to the school when the principal ignored her pleas. Now that school claims a “Zero Tolerance” policy regarding bullying. It is clear that this is a lie.
My belief is that I am being challenged to find an effective way to combat bullying. Tougher laws only encourage schools to hide evidence of their complicity. The real weapon is education. Our children must all be taught the importance of acceptance, compassion, and diversity. When I look at the woods I see different types of trees with a plethora of colors and shapes. Even within a specific genus there is exclusivity. Every tree and every leaf has its own unique character. Yet, when I view them as a whole I am confronted with a beauty whose magnitude is beyond words. This is how society should be. Individuality should be encouraged because we all contribute to an eternal humanity.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
This Is A National Debate?
As Americans, should we not care more for the citizens of this great nation than the profit margins of corporations?
Think about it, why shouldn’t we extend Medicare to everyone? It works in Canada and several other EU states. Why should we spoon-feed our money to corporations like Blue Cross Blue Shield?
Why is their profit margin more important than the well being of every American!
The argument is that we cannot afford to do this. I say that we should end the occupation of lands in the Middle East and abroad. This alone would provide more than enough to fund Universal Health Care. I do not understand what the debate is. Either we get universal health care in the form of Medicare for everyone or we should revolt. Fuck Blue Cross and all of their evil piglets who suckle from their teat. You know who you are John Kerry!
--
Sean P. Pratt
339-788-2080
16 Kingswood Dr. E4
Abington MA 02351
Think about it, why shouldn’t we extend Medicare to everyone? It works in Canada and several other EU states. Why should we spoon-feed our money to corporations like Blue Cross Blue Shield?
Why is their profit margin more important than the well being of every American!
The argument is that we cannot afford to do this. I say that we should end the occupation of lands in the Middle East and abroad. This alone would provide more than enough to fund Universal Health Care. I do not understand what the debate is. Either we get universal health care in the form of Medicare for everyone or we should revolt. Fuck Blue Cross and all of their evil piglets who suckle from their teat. You know who you are John Kerry!
--
Sean P. Pratt
339-788-2080
16 Kingswood Dr. E4
Abington MA 02351
Monday, May 30, 2011
My First Day of High School
I was never particularly fond of school. Then again, I did not like doing anything that I was required to do. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy learning. Reading and writing were one of my favorite pastimes. It was the institution of school that I despised. The cool teachers were few and far between. To reach the inspirational ones required me to endure the insufferable hacks who had no business instructing children in their myopic lies about history. Worse than that was the British colonialist approach of shouting ever louder when a student did not understand the logic of a lesson. Yet, I was looking forward to my first day of high school.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums exceedingly replaced every building. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Bill Quirk and Brian Reese were sitting in the front. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and haircut, circa 1963, belied his humanity. The other students were all from Hanson. I took my set and chatted with Bill and Brian. I thought I heard someone say “dirtball” but I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. Both of my friends were tough, so the three of us could easily clear out this dinky room. We were given our class schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, Queer”, and even the odd “Captain Caveman” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with smiling faces. Not congenial grins on any level. They were laughing at me. By now my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves and curly locks. When it was wet, my mane reached halfway down my back. But I am cursed with the kind of curls women spends thousands per year to achieve. In those days of Ronald Reagan’s Machiavellian war machine I was a throwback. In middle school I was called Captain Cavemen after a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character. This was not mean spirited at all. I was in on the joke. Kids would say it teasingly the way one teases a close friend. I refused to brush my hair and how could I anyway? The curls snagged every hairbrush and comb. Imagine trying to use a rake to straighten a briar patch attached to your skull. Now there was menace in the name and every label that ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Catcalls shot across the room and hissed just behind my head. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some even chuckled. No one came to my aid. Some students sat silently. Their eyes were wide. They fidgeted and watched the clock. Their faces seemed to beg for the time to speed up and sound the next bell.
When I am nervous I smile. This is uncontrollable. Although it serves to diffuse hostilities now, this was not always the case. Many school administrators were hell bent on wiping the smirk off of my face, not realizing that I was scared shitless as they threatened, hollered and leered at me. I am also quick-witted and lack the internal governor that stops one from making social faux pas. This is not always a good combination to have. In elementary school my mouth wrote more checks than my ass could cash. This was not the case at Whitman/Hanson. I was devastatingly outnumbered. The more kids joined in the ascending chorus of abuses; the less my acerbic wit reared its ugly head. Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I walked facing forward. On the surface I calmly ignored them. Inside brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and marine style crew-cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts were not being chanted. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my thick mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Air could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing,” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass,” I asked. My voice, barely above a whisper, cracked slightly. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck, in front of me.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This would be the first of many times that I will be banished from class after being assaulted. Although, this would be the only time I would be sent to the nurse. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered the nurse’s office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled web of curls were, it was not hacked up. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it. I did however, stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping large hunks of my hair. I was still a freshman. People were calling my house and threatening me. Others were jeering from cars as I walked down the street. The school had become Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. One day I went to gym class and was cornered by several jocks. Everyone carried buck knives in those days. They threatened that if I did not get a haircut by tomorrow they would cut it all off with their knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it,” I choked out. From there forward my hair was a horrible mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums exceedingly replaced every building. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Bill Quirk and Brian Reese were sitting in the front. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and haircut, circa 1963, belied his humanity. The other students were all from Hanson. I took my set and chatted with Bill and Brian. I thought I heard someone say “dirtball” but I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. Both of my friends were tough, so the three of us could easily clear out this dinky room. We were given our class schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, Queer”, and even the odd “Captain Caveman” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with smiling faces. Not congenial grins on any level. They were laughing at me. By now my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves and curly locks. When it was wet, my mane reached halfway down my back. But I am cursed with the kind of curls women spends thousands per year to achieve. In those days of Ronald Reagan’s Machiavellian war machine I was a throwback. In middle school I was called Captain Cavemen after a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character. This was not mean spirited at all. I was in on the joke. Kids would say it teasingly the way one teases a close friend. I refused to brush my hair and how could I anyway? The curls snagged every hairbrush and comb. Imagine trying to use a rake to straighten a briar patch attached to your skull. Now there was menace in the name and every label that ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Catcalls shot across the room and hissed just behind my head. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some even chuckled. No one came to my aid. Some students sat silently. Their eyes were wide. They fidgeted and watched the clock. Their faces seemed to beg for the time to speed up and sound the next bell.
When I am nervous I smile. This is uncontrollable. Although it serves to diffuse hostilities now, this was not always the case. Many school administrators were hell bent on wiping the smirk off of my face, not realizing that I was scared shitless as they threatened, hollered and leered at me. I am also quick-witted and lack the internal governor that stops one from making social faux pas. This is not always a good combination to have. In elementary school my mouth wrote more checks than my ass could cash. This was not the case at Whitman/Hanson. I was devastatingly outnumbered. The more kids joined in the ascending chorus of abuses; the less my acerbic wit reared its ugly head. Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I walked facing forward. On the surface I calmly ignored them. Inside brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and marine style crew-cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts were not being chanted. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my thick mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Air could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing,” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass,” I asked. My voice, barely above a whisper, cracked slightly. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck, in front of me.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This would be the first of many times that I will be banished from class after being assaulted. Although, this would be the only time I would be sent to the nurse. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered the nurse’s office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled web of curls were, it was not hacked up. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it. I did however, stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping large hunks of my hair. I was still a freshman. People were calling my house and threatening me. Others were jeering from cars as I walked down the street. The school had become Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. One day I went to gym class and was cornered by several jocks. Everyone carried buck knives in those days. They threatened that if I did not get a haircut by tomorrow they would cut it all off with their knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it,” I choked out. From there forward my hair was a horrible mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Time Has Come
The plight of bullied victims is only part of the issue. Equally cruel and devastating to the individual is the fact that school administrators across the board sweep complaints under the rug. Every school has children who are bullied. Every school has parents of these victims reporting the incidents to school administrators. Every school has the same officials claim to investigate the incidents, yet instantly take the word of the offenders OVER the word of the victims.
Why do we see this time after time? One reason is that the offenders are usually elites such as the jocks and the upper-middle class students. The victims are usually misfits, non-athletic, goth, individualistic, burnout, self-conscious, or anti-authoritarian. Faculty members who are prone to ignore cries for help may even favor the fact that elitist bullies may be pushing “undesirables” out of the school.
I have to home school my daughter. Students and teachers bullied her so viciously that she refused to attend. Our demands for investigations fizzled into nothing. The vice-principal declared to do an investigation. His results were to ask the offenders if they bullied my daughter and then take their denial at face value. The school followed up by taking a CHINS out on my daughter rather than address the issue. I have spoken to other students at that school who are being bullied. One child had issues with the same teacher as my daughter: a teacher who the vice-principal defended when we complained.
An ex-boyfriend’s family members were bullying my other daughter at the high school. Without our consent or knowledge she was pulled into a room with the offenders and forced to sign a contract that protected THEM from HER. I called the school and they claimed that my daughter was bullying her tormentors. We involved the police and insisted that the male bully not be in any of my daughter’s classes. The school did not comply with our pleas. She begged me to let her drop out. I found her a night school to attend. Today we registered her for classes in a trade school.
In Rockland, the elementary school had an abusive teacher who reduced some students to tears. He called an over-weight girl fat to her face in front of other students. I complained and was given a run around by the exiting superintendent and then his replacement. The new superintendent was quoted in a local paper as stating that Rockland has a zero tolerance policy on bullying. I beg to differ.
For years I have dealt with school officials who refuse to help students who are being bullied. My own children are fiercely independent. They are goth so they dye their hair different colors and dress in remarkable outfits. They listen to Rob Zombie, Korn, and Black Veil Brides. My older children have piercings and tattoos. The apple does not fall far from the tree. I dye my hair blue and gage my ears often. Yet, these are not reasons for school officials to immediately target my children as they have. I encourage them to express their individuality fearlessly. If they were girlie-girls, I would support that as well. Who ever they are as a person is their gift to the world. Shame on the people who insist on destroying the self-esteem of any child. Is conformity more important than the rights of an individual? Of course it is not.
Although my children no longer attend public school, my blood is boiling at the way faculties are reacting to this issue. The Bridgewater student who was beaten by three jocks while another student filmed it was being bullied for over a year. The school officials did nothing until his mother got a lawyer and the video leaked onto the Internet. THIS IS THE CRUX OF THE ISSUE!
The local papers continue to call the perpetrators on video “allegedly responsible for the bullying.” There is visual evidence of a student being beaten by three jocks. Where does the term allegedly enter in to this? Shame on the news media outlets for proposing any sympathy towards the bullies. They are nothing more than thugs. They did it. We saw it. In a court of law, the evidence would speak for itself. The time has come for parents to act.
Scholastic athletic programs are important for schools. They teach principles like teamwork, goal setting, and exercise. They also instill a pack mentality. Jocks are programmed to attack things that are different (uniforms). They are instructed to strike weaknesses (and weaklings) and to do so as a team. Ganging up on weaker kids is not a new phenomenon. It is a consequence of their training. Add to that the lionization of these elite students. They are favored while their victims are often scorned.
We must band together and demand that bullying is not only addressed, but that the schools will be safe environments for ALL children. We must instill tolerance classes. By teaching students about our similarities as people we can counter-balance the indoctrination of scholastic athletics. Adults at the schools must ensure zero tolerance of bullying. Perhaps more parents can volunteer to patrol the hallways. Alternately, schools could hire more faculty members and train them properly to help children in crisis. We should involve parents of students not on an athletic team to police the instruction by coaches. A system of checks and balances must be infused into the curriculum that allows inclusion of non-elite students and parents. Many of us are disenfranchised because the elites maintain the corrupt practices.
Finally, we must heed the lessons of Columbine and Marshfield. Victims of bullying develop many psychological issues that range from low self-esteem to violent outbursts. These can develop quickly or gradually over time. The effects are lasting and the consequences include eating disorders, drug abuse and even suicide. We can agree that the stakes are high. People’s lives and well being are at stake. Should we continue to turn a blind eye? Should we allow school officials to avoid doing their jobs and fostering criminal behavior while simultaneously punishing the victims? Should we continue to lionize athletes and forgive their violent tendencies?
The answer is no. The time to act is now.
Why do we see this time after time? One reason is that the offenders are usually elites such as the jocks and the upper-middle class students. The victims are usually misfits, non-athletic, goth, individualistic, burnout, self-conscious, or anti-authoritarian. Faculty members who are prone to ignore cries for help may even favor the fact that elitist bullies may be pushing “undesirables” out of the school.
I have to home school my daughter. Students and teachers bullied her so viciously that she refused to attend. Our demands for investigations fizzled into nothing. The vice-principal declared to do an investigation. His results were to ask the offenders if they bullied my daughter and then take their denial at face value. The school followed up by taking a CHINS out on my daughter rather than address the issue. I have spoken to other students at that school who are being bullied. One child had issues with the same teacher as my daughter: a teacher who the vice-principal defended when we complained.
An ex-boyfriend’s family members were bullying my other daughter at the high school. Without our consent or knowledge she was pulled into a room with the offenders and forced to sign a contract that protected THEM from HER. I called the school and they claimed that my daughter was bullying her tormentors. We involved the police and insisted that the male bully not be in any of my daughter’s classes. The school did not comply with our pleas. She begged me to let her drop out. I found her a night school to attend. Today we registered her for classes in a trade school.
In Rockland, the elementary school had an abusive teacher who reduced some students to tears. He called an over-weight girl fat to her face in front of other students. I complained and was given a run around by the exiting superintendent and then his replacement. The new superintendent was quoted in a local paper as stating that Rockland has a zero tolerance policy on bullying. I beg to differ.
For years I have dealt with school officials who refuse to help students who are being bullied. My own children are fiercely independent. They are goth so they dye their hair different colors and dress in remarkable outfits. They listen to Rob Zombie, Korn, and Black Veil Brides. My older children have piercings and tattoos. The apple does not fall far from the tree. I dye my hair blue and gage my ears often. Yet, these are not reasons for school officials to immediately target my children as they have. I encourage them to express their individuality fearlessly. If they were girlie-girls, I would support that as well. Who ever they are as a person is their gift to the world. Shame on the people who insist on destroying the self-esteem of any child. Is conformity more important than the rights of an individual? Of course it is not.
Although my children no longer attend public school, my blood is boiling at the way faculties are reacting to this issue. The Bridgewater student who was beaten by three jocks while another student filmed it was being bullied for over a year. The school officials did nothing until his mother got a lawyer and the video leaked onto the Internet. THIS IS THE CRUX OF THE ISSUE!
The local papers continue to call the perpetrators on video “allegedly responsible for the bullying.” There is visual evidence of a student being beaten by three jocks. Where does the term allegedly enter in to this? Shame on the news media outlets for proposing any sympathy towards the bullies. They are nothing more than thugs. They did it. We saw it. In a court of law, the evidence would speak for itself. The time has come for parents to act.
Scholastic athletic programs are important for schools. They teach principles like teamwork, goal setting, and exercise. They also instill a pack mentality. Jocks are programmed to attack things that are different (uniforms). They are instructed to strike weaknesses (and weaklings) and to do so as a team. Ganging up on weaker kids is not a new phenomenon. It is a consequence of their training. Add to that the lionization of these elite students. They are favored while their victims are often scorned.
We must band together and demand that bullying is not only addressed, but that the schools will be safe environments for ALL children. We must instill tolerance classes. By teaching students about our similarities as people we can counter-balance the indoctrination of scholastic athletics. Adults at the schools must ensure zero tolerance of bullying. Perhaps more parents can volunteer to patrol the hallways. Alternately, schools could hire more faculty members and train them properly to help children in crisis. We should involve parents of students not on an athletic team to police the instruction by coaches. A system of checks and balances must be infused into the curriculum that allows inclusion of non-elite students and parents. Many of us are disenfranchised because the elites maintain the corrupt practices.
Finally, we must heed the lessons of Columbine and Marshfield. Victims of bullying develop many psychological issues that range from low self-esteem to violent outbursts. These can develop quickly or gradually over time. The effects are lasting and the consequences include eating disorders, drug abuse and even suicide. We can agree that the stakes are high. People’s lives and well being are at stake. Should we continue to turn a blind eye? Should we allow school officials to avoid doing their jobs and fostering criminal behavior while simultaneously punishing the victims? Should we continue to lionize athletes and forgive their violent tendencies?
The answer is no. The time to act is now.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
I Am Not An Atheist
Christopher Hitchens is my new hero. I don't prescribe to all of his conclusions, but his arguments against the brutal hypocrisy of all religions and the many adherents are right on the money. Personally, I believe in God. I do confess that there is no tangible proof of God's existence however. I will say this emphatically; I denounce the alleged divinity of any terrestrial being, Christ and Mohammed included. Please let me know when you can prove any of the fairy tales put forth by the Bible, the Koran or the Torah. I would love to see evidence of a virgin birth. I would love to see the original zombies Lazarus and Christ on display. There is no evidence and we will never see proof of God. They call it faith because it is not truth. You are not allowed to question faith. You must be respectful (translated as shut up) and believe no matter how incredulous the claim.
Truth can always be questioned. In fact, our minds are designed for such considerations. “Designed?” you ask? Am I implying creationist principles? Maybe I am, if creationist believe that we are created and not evolved then they must be ready to accept the ancient alien theories, which are more plausible than an unknowable entity creating us from dirt (or a rib from a dirt being), placing us in a garden and setting in motion the situation that leads to our fall from grace. Think about it, if you believe in the Garden of Eden, then you must realize that God set us up…or is God imperfect? Creationists go on and on about how magnificent all of God’s creation is and that natural selection does not explain the intricacies of human beings, the universe, and everything else. Yet, the Bible clearly shows God fucking up, especially throughout the Old Testament. So he had to kill everyone with a flood (except Noah and his family), destroy whole cities and eventually send his son in to fix things. And the only way to do that was through his violent crucifixion? I call bullshit on that one friend. Either God is unknowable and infallible or God is a dopey, moody, son of a bitch.
The Bible is not the word of God. Men wrote the Bible: lots of them over a very long period of time. In fact, Christianity is very much like high school. There are several cliques and most of these groups hate the other groups and talk about them behind their backs. They use words like Heretic, False Prophet, True Believer, and Saved–etc. to either elevate or destroy the reputations of the other sects. Each group wants adherents to believe that they have the true word of God, or that the other cliques are simply wrong. This was more ferocious before Cesar Constantine claimed conversion in AD 312. There were several sects of Christians that included Gnostics who all fought over the many volumes of books and letters that existed about Christ’s ministry. Rome was in a terrible state at that time. It was being ripped apart by the violence between these groups. The two extremes were the Gnostics who believed that true salvation must come from within and that one must live a life of piousness and the Paulians (who became the Catholics) who preached not only the misinterpretations of Christ’s teachings, but the need for a structured hierarchical church with political aspirations.
Personally, I don’t believe Constantine had a vision of the cross. I don’t think he believed in Christianity at all. But like any modern politician will tell you, saying that you are saved buys you the votes (confidences) of the people. So it would be no big stretch for him to claim conversion and attempt to bring Rome’s volatile groups together to restore order.
The first Council of Nacia was established by Constantine to determine what dogmas the new church would follow. History shows what side of the Christian extremes had bigger representation for that meeting…the Paulians of course. So they determined what books would be part of the Bible and set forth to destroy everything else that contradicted what the Bible (the new message as directed by these men) puts forth. Historically, not everyone could read and write as well as we can. In fact, many of those who could–would have had the equivalent of a 6th grade education or less. There is evidence that some professional scribes could barely copy their own name, let alone write anything of merit. There was also had no printing press for centuries to come. Consequently, copies of the Bible were hand written. This took many hands to do. If a mistake existed or an editor added an inaccuracy, those errors were copied over by the following editors. There were many translation errors already (or did you not read the Book of Genesis?). Further, there were men throughout history who added or removed portions according to their own interpretations. If you actually read the Bible, it has many differing voices (writers all have specific voices) within each book. This is because men chose to add, remove or rewrite their beliefs and ideas into it. These in turn were copied over ad nauseam. What you have in the Bible is a book engineered by Romans for domination and modified over hundreds of years by countless writers. Christianity historically was fascist in nature and the same brutal streak exists today. Know the history of the Bible before assuming it is the divine word of God. The historical record differs greatly from the claims of the adherents.
Knowing that until the Industrial Revolution, the general population could barely read or write is a huge part of the Christian story. Congregations gathered to listen to men interpret the Bible for them, a practice continued to this day. What we have is a book modified by countless people over several centuries (and even to this day), which was distributed and then further interpreted by individuals to less educated people. To further this tradition in modern times is a disservice to the faith. Should charismatic people (usually with equally large egos and lusts) be allowed to alter the original intent of the scriptures? What exactly is the original intent of the scriptures for that matter? The true meaning is lost with time. The ministry of Jesus, the message of Mohammed, the laws of Moses is all nothing more than myth disguised as scripture and passing for history. What we are left with is a very large portion of the world is shrouded in ignorance, directed towards hatred in a mask of faith.
Truth can always be questioned. In fact, our minds are designed for such considerations. “Designed?” you ask? Am I implying creationist principles? Maybe I am, if creationist believe that we are created and not evolved then they must be ready to accept the ancient alien theories, which are more plausible than an unknowable entity creating us from dirt (or a rib from a dirt being), placing us in a garden and setting in motion the situation that leads to our fall from grace. Think about it, if you believe in the Garden of Eden, then you must realize that God set us up…or is God imperfect? Creationists go on and on about how magnificent all of God’s creation is and that natural selection does not explain the intricacies of human beings, the universe, and everything else. Yet, the Bible clearly shows God fucking up, especially throughout the Old Testament. So he had to kill everyone with a flood (except Noah and his family), destroy whole cities and eventually send his son in to fix things. And the only way to do that was through his violent crucifixion? I call bullshit on that one friend. Either God is unknowable and infallible or God is a dopey, moody, son of a bitch.
The Bible is not the word of God. Men wrote the Bible: lots of them over a very long period of time. In fact, Christianity is very much like high school. There are several cliques and most of these groups hate the other groups and talk about them behind their backs. They use words like Heretic, False Prophet, True Believer, and Saved–etc. to either elevate or destroy the reputations of the other sects. Each group wants adherents to believe that they have the true word of God, or that the other cliques are simply wrong. This was more ferocious before Cesar Constantine claimed conversion in AD 312. There were several sects of Christians that included Gnostics who all fought over the many volumes of books and letters that existed about Christ’s ministry. Rome was in a terrible state at that time. It was being ripped apart by the violence between these groups. The two extremes were the Gnostics who believed that true salvation must come from within and that one must live a life of piousness and the Paulians (who became the Catholics) who preached not only the misinterpretations of Christ’s teachings, but the need for a structured hierarchical church with political aspirations.
Personally, I don’t believe Constantine had a vision of the cross. I don’t think he believed in Christianity at all. But like any modern politician will tell you, saying that you are saved buys you the votes (confidences) of the people. So it would be no big stretch for him to claim conversion and attempt to bring Rome’s volatile groups together to restore order.
The first Council of Nacia was established by Constantine to determine what dogmas the new church would follow. History shows what side of the Christian extremes had bigger representation for that meeting…the Paulians of course. So they determined what books would be part of the Bible and set forth to destroy everything else that contradicted what the Bible (the new message as directed by these men) puts forth. Historically, not everyone could read and write as well as we can. In fact, many of those who could–would have had the equivalent of a 6th grade education or less. There is evidence that some professional scribes could barely copy their own name, let alone write anything of merit. There was also had no printing press for centuries to come. Consequently, copies of the Bible were hand written. This took many hands to do. If a mistake existed or an editor added an inaccuracy, those errors were copied over by the following editors. There were many translation errors already (or did you not read the Book of Genesis?). Further, there were men throughout history who added or removed portions according to their own interpretations. If you actually read the Bible, it has many differing voices (writers all have specific voices) within each book. This is because men chose to add, remove or rewrite their beliefs and ideas into it. These in turn were copied over ad nauseam. What you have in the Bible is a book engineered by Romans for domination and modified over hundreds of years by countless writers. Christianity historically was fascist in nature and the same brutal streak exists today. Know the history of the Bible before assuming it is the divine word of God. The historical record differs greatly from the claims of the adherents.
Knowing that until the Industrial Revolution, the general population could barely read or write is a huge part of the Christian story. Congregations gathered to listen to men interpret the Bible for them, a practice continued to this day. What we have is a book modified by countless people over several centuries (and even to this day), which was distributed and then further interpreted by individuals to less educated people. To further this tradition in modern times is a disservice to the faith. Should charismatic people (usually with equally large egos and lusts) be allowed to alter the original intent of the scriptures? What exactly is the original intent of the scriptures for that matter? The true meaning is lost with time. The ministry of Jesus, the message of Mohammed, the laws of Moses is all nothing more than myth disguised as scripture and passing for history. What we are left with is a very large portion of the world is shrouded in ignorance, directed towards hatred in a mask of faith.
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