The Lynching of George Floyd

I never thought things could get so bad that a white police officer's knee could lean on a black man's neck for eight minutes while the handcuffed man lay motionless.

That is what happened on the evening of Monday, May 25, at about eight o'clock in Minneapolis.
"No weapons were recovered from the scene, police said," writes Libor Jany, who has worked for the last seven years as a crime reporter for the Star Tribune. 

George Floyd was yanked from his car, put on the ground, and rendered unable to breathe by officer Derek Chauvin of the Minneapolis police department. Chauvin's knee remained on Floyd's neck while Floyd said, "I can't breathe. Please, Man." Bystanders begged the officer to stop, pointing out that Floyd's nose was bleeding, that Floyd wasn't moving, that Floyd was human. Floyd asked for his mother.

 George Floyd's hands were behind his back in handcuffs before the police officers put him on the ground. 

Somebody who "looked like" or "might have been" George Floyd paid with a fake twenty dollar bill, says one account, or a forged check, says another,  in a convenience store. George Floyd was forty-six, says one newspaper or forty-seven, says another.

Four officers were fired, including Derek Chauvin and Tou Thao, who remained standing and made no attempt to stop Chauvin or to check Floyd's pulse.

Another black man, Eric Garner, died on a sidewalk in Staten Island in July, 2014. It took until 2019 for Daniel Pantaleo, the officer who held him in a chokehold as Garner said, "I can't breathe," to be fired and lose his pension benefits. Pantaleo sued the police department, demanding to be reinstated. Eric Garner didn't have a gun and didn't threaten anyone. The poet Ross Gay memorialized Garner:

A Small Needful Fact

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.

In May, 2018, the poet Sharon Olds memorialized Trayvon Martin, the unarmed African-American high school junior who was shot in Florida by George Zimmerman, who was acquitted.

For You

In the morning, when I’m pouring the hot milk
into the coffee, I put the side of my
face near the convex pitcher to watch
the last, round drop from the spout,
and it feels like being cheek to cheek
with a baby. Sometimes the orb pops back up,
a ball of cream balanced on a whale’s
watery exhale. Then I gather my tools,
the cherry sounding-board tray that will rest on my
lap, the phone, the bird book to look up
the purple martin. I repeat them as I seek them,
so as not to forget—tray, cell phone,
purple martin; tray, phone,
martin, Trayvon Martin, song was
invented for you, art was made
for you, painting, writing, was yours,
our youngest, our most precious, to remind us
to shield you—all was yours, all that is
left on earth, with your body, was for you.

"Science Plays the Subservient Pimp": On Trump and his Beleaguered Medical Advisors

 In 1938, the world is exploding: Hitler elects himself Oberkommando (High Commander) of the German armed forces, Trotsky and Mussolini are skulking about, Kristallnacht and the Anschluss are happening. In England, E.M. Forster reflects on the widening dangers in language remarkably fitted to the roles into which Drs. Deborah Birx and Anthony Fauci are forced by the Trump administration:  

Tolerance, good temper and sympathy are no longer enough in a world which is rent by religious and racial persecution, in a world where ignorance rules, and Science, who ought to have ruled, plays the subservient pimp.

Ahmaud Arbery gets shot for jogging while black. Meanwhile, POTUS works hard to prevent citizens of Muslim countries from traveling to the U.S. In our medical meltdown, he  wonders whether disinfectant, which "knocks it out in a minute!" would "do something" by injection or ingestion. Randy Rainbow sings: "Just a spoonful of Chlorox makes the temperature go down," and deep in the bottomless dark, we're whistling along with him.

Like so many writers, Forster was trying to find truth in an age that, like ours, seemed devoted to the reverse. 

At least Fauci and Birx are now wearing face masks. Standing behind Trump, they are portraits of common sense and symbols of the ways in which Science has been muzzled, leashed, forced to heal--indeed like a subservient dog, if not a pimp. The two have drawn the line at pimping for POTUS: they just won't say it's okay to open the country, and I'm wondering how long he'll let them stick around. His version of the story will be that they're disgruntled employees, their message "not acceptable."

In Forster's essay, "What I Believe," the portrait of Science as the submissive procurer, tiptoeing around the despot, seems visionary. Forster wasn't just writing about the despots of his day--he was looking to a future  he knew would be marred by a similar set of events. And in that seminal essay, he offers the sad perception that,

Tolerance, good temper and sympathy--they are what matter really, and if the human race is not to collapse they must come to the front before long. But for the moment they are not enough, their action is no stronger than a flower, battered beneath a military jackboot.

It's an odd metaphor: tolerance, good temper, and sympathy as soldiers rushing to the front to defend truth. These traits are so often defined as non-combative, but Forster's right to activate them, and equally right to see that the ruthless jackboot of a demagogue--it's almost as if Forster had looked into a crystal ball and seen the current American president--is almost certain to crush the good.

Now is the time for all good people to come to the aid of their world. I'll take Forster's prescription at the end of the essay too--he rejects religious faith for Montaigne and Erasmus. Fight the good fight, whether books or religion give you strength. Support Fauci (thank you, Brad Pitt!) and Birx (who epitomizes style, substance, and fantastic scarves). I love you both so very much.

Gorgeous Garbanzos

Yes, beans again, but these beans are so pretty. I'd always enjoyed chick pea salads with any old thing we had around--chopped cucumber, cherry tomatoes, scallions, oranges, but I settled on this version since one of my kids didn't want raw onion in the salad. You will need:

Olive or canola oil--any oil you like. Not butter, though.
Red onions
Scallions
Cherry tomatoes 
Oranges
Limes (Lemons will do)
Balsamic vinegar

Heat oil in a pan, add chopped red onion and scallions:

While these colorful aromatics are sizzling, juice an orange or two, and add the liquid to the pan. Same with the lime or two:

Swimming in orangey-limey juice

Rise and drain the cherry tomatoes and add them:

After that, drain and rise the garbanzos and put them in a large bowl. Add salt, pepper, garlic powder. Pour in the tomato-scallions-red onion mix. Slice and add chunks of oranges, zap in some Balsamic vinegar, taste. You might want a bit more salt. Enjoy!

Worthy of Some Women's Magazine!

The Cancer-Patient's Guide to Finding Out You Don't Have Covid-19 in Ten Steps, Most of Which are Difficult

The catch is inevitable--this method is the last you'd like to try. But it's effective!
First, have some condition like cancer requiring you to get a CT scan every few months. 
Second, go sip that cocktail of radioactive somethingorother, chalk and water, the stuff that lights up your insides so the CT scan perceives lurking carcinogens, in case they're there. 
Third, reflect on the fact that you've lifted your face shield and mask to drink that stuff, but have done so in an empty waiting room--how it ever emptied out, you'll never know, but wish that someone were Watching Over You in a good way (but if they are, they never talk to you--which is unpleasant). 
Fourth, lie on the scanner --the technician asks you to close your eyes, but you think she says hold your breath, and do so. You can still see. No harm done?
Fifth, see your oncologist, who's sitting less than six feet away, but your mask and shield are back on and you somehow think "she doesn't count," and lean further forward to see your scan.
Sixth, perk up when she says, "your lungs are clear!" And that's the first thing she says, after giving you the thumbs up sign.
Seventh, listen with alarm and interest to the story she tells: some physicians--but not in this hospital!--ordered scans and found, while looking for cancer cells, the characteristic signs of COVID in the lungs. Yes, in asymptomatic persons, persons manifesting no coughs, no fevers, nothing. But your lungs are just fine. 
Eighth, reflect: unless you've contracted the illness while sipping your CT cocktail and the bug just hasn't shown up yet.
Ninth, head home happy you're COVID free and also, for the moment, cancer free.
Tenth, Schedule a Zoom virtual cocktail hour with your pals. As you lift a goblet of red wine to your lips, consider how much better it tastes than those two liters of Chalk De Luxe you drank for the CT scan.

Olive-Lemon Meatloaf

This is easy, fun and delicious. Assemble the following:

About half a kilo of ground pork (or a little over a pound. Or more)
One large egg
A bunch of scallions
Garlic cloves (lots--to taste)
Purple onions (or red)
Olive oil
About 300 grams of Feta cheese (Around 5 ounces)
Grated Parmesan (about the same amount)
Container of cherry tomatoes
One large lemon, washed
Medium-sized jar or can of black olives--and and same of artichokes
Garlic powder, cayenne pepper, the salt of your choice

This is not one of those recipes requiring precision. A little more of this, a little less of that--you're fine. I make this in a big round casserole, but you can use a loaf pan.

Pre-heat the oven to about 190º. Mix the meat and the beaten egg together; add pepper, salt, the feta cheese broken up. Use a fork to break it into bits and mix in the meat. 

Set aside. Heat a little olive oil in a frying pan. Chop and put into the pan the scallions, the garlic, and the red onions. While they're cooking (and you're occasionally stirring) grate the rind of the washed lemon onto a plate or cutting board and add to the onion-garlic mix. Keep stirring. Squeeze the lemon and add the juice to the pan. Keep stirring. Drain, rinse the olives and add. Pour the contents of the pan into the meat mix into the casserole. Sprinkle grated Parmesan over the top. Add the tomatoes. Bake for about an hour; you can kick the heat up at the end if you like the Parmesan crispy ant the tomatoes imploded. Just check to make sure nothing burns; depending on how much meat you use, the meatloaf may be done sooner or later.

Just before the Parmesan and the tomatoes