Nagasaki

Nagasaki

11:02 local time, 9 August 1945.

Fat Man detonated his obliteration.

There are a few horrors that strike me about the bombing of Nagasaki. One is that it is the second of two bombings. The US did not experience any buyer’s remorse in using its new toys the first time. There was no regret for what they did to Hiroshima. 3 days passed. 3 days to grow a conscience. None surfaced, so 3 days later they dropped an even stronger bomb; a bomb whose fiery destruction was somewhat confined by the Urakami Valley. Thankfully so, because flatter geography would’ve allowed a greater firestorm. 

Another horror is that Nagasaki wasn’t the last of the planned bombings. More cities were on the list. Production was being rushed to assemble more Fat Mans and Little Boys to be used. They intended to keep dropping bombs “as made ready.” Thanks be again that they were prevented from doing so.

The other horror is the indiscriminate annihilation that’s inherent in the use of nuclear weapons. For a supposed nation of virtues, how Christian it is indeed to drop bombs that wipe out whole cities. Destroy Christian churches, Buddhist shrines, hospitals, and homes. Massacre adults and children, civilians and soldiers. Care not if the dead are friend or foe. Eight, or as many as 13, Allied POWs were among the bombing fatalities, and Japanese soldiers account for less than a half percent of the Nagasaki death totals.

 As of last year, there were 136,682 Hibakusha, survivors, of both bombings still alive. That number drops by approximately 9,200 annually. That means well over 100,000 “bomb affected people” still walk this earth for whom the atrocities are burned into their bodies and memories. Atrocities that there remains no official remorse for, no atonement. Rather we live in a world where politics makes the consideration of apologies messy, leaving historians and other conscientious civilians to assess the weight of malfeasance. 

We live in an Atomic Age, in a time measured by how nuclear realities and the products of progress inch us closer to global catastrophe. The Doomsday Clock started keeping that time for us in 1947. It was first set at 7 minutes to midnight. Today we see ourselves at a frightening 100 seconds to midnight.  

The covid pandemic rages. The earth floods and burns at alarming rates. We’re not really doing anything to slow the pace of climate change. 9 nations still possess nuclear weapons with little hope at present of greater disarmament. Foreign policy is still dominated by war mongering, covert and outright meddling, as well as vain posturing. 

Do you hear a ticking of a clock, feel a quickening of your heartrate? You should. 

How about this question? Does your soul quiver with horror when you think of what happened to Nagasaki on that dreaded day? I know mine does.

May the dead rest in peace.

May we collectively endeavor to create a real peace in this world while we still have a chance.

The LGBTQ Community, the United Methodist Church, and Me

I once was a proud member of the United Methodist Church. For an adolescent, I was viewed as wise beyond my years by some relatives and acquaintances, someone with an old soul. This view of my personhood has persisted in some people’s assessment to this day. The passion and thirst for knowledge in me was cultivated the most in me during my adolescence by my pastors at Salem United Methodist Church in the quaint rural town of Pigeon in Michigan’s Thumb. First by Steven, who saw to my inclusion of the administrative board of the church as a youth, oversaw my baptism and confirmation, and wove me firmly into the culture of the church. Then by Cal, who was present for my later teen years, taking me under his wing as a protégé. He taught me the tools that would’ve led to a fruitful path of ministerial leadership and expanded my presence in the framework of our church.

Taking my zeal for the Christian and Methodist faith to the next level, meant enrolling into Greenville College, a Free Methodist school in southern Illinois. I praised the almighty when I received my acceptance into such a fine school where I could either pursue a career path into Contemporary Christian Music or other Christian based endeavors including ministry. It was during my first of the two years that I spent at Greenville College that my Christian faith began to unravel. First my old soul started to view the Christian subculture for what it was during my full submersion in it, then my reintroduction to secular music via some truly hip and intelligent new friends opened my mind, and the tools that Cal taught me along with new tools I was picking up thanks to the faith and learning course and enlightened me to truer analytical thinking.

One of the issues that my mind began to reconcile was LGBTQ rights. During my teen years, I held a firm Christian belief that homosexuality was wrong, firmly reinforced by holy scripture. Considering Mosaic Law, it is no wonder that a zealous Christian would cling to such a belief, also Romans 1:26-27. In 1996, the UMC considered leniency on the LGBTQ community. I remember Cal, who was generally very warm and open while behind the pulpit, had become a modern Jonathan Edwards with brimstone in his voice and hellfire in his gestures while delivering a sermon one Sunday against such leniency. The UMC upheld its discrimination against LGBTQ+ people at that time. Then I was challenged about the true meaning of the Romans passage while at Greenville College. I would further consider that if Christianity got that wrong and what else it could be wrong about, especially after learning that the First Council of Nicaea was conducted under the supervision of the still pagan Constantine.

I chuckled when commercials started airing on television during my twenties for the UMC with the slogan “Open Hearts, Minds.” My heart and mind opened thanks to leaving the Christian and thus Methodist faith behind. I softened a little during my early thirties to Christianity and during a period in which I tried to find morsels of beauty from all religious traditions. Indeed, I did find morsels, but in my religious relativism I was also suspending some belief and reality anew. It was heartening to learn in recent months that some UMC churches were taking a stand against Trump’s abominable immigration policies by both voicing opposition in Sunday sermons and by providing sanctuary to individuals targeted by ICE.

Then at the end of February 2019, the UMC formally rejected a proposal to embrace same-sex weddings and gay clergy in a 449-374 vote. Instead they upheld the “Traditional Plan” in a firm and greater enforced LGBTQ ban within the church. While there is a small optimism in the minority 374 votes and the potential upheaval of an irreconcilable schism in the denomination stemming from this, it is deeply disappointing to see a such a rejection against love and humanity maintained. Though I’m not surprised. The church has defrocked pastors in recent years for officiating same sex weddings. Until bigotry is more profoundly weeded out of the broader Christian church, I’ll remain unshocked by news events such as this most recent one from the United Methodist Church.

In the meantime, my love goes out to my LGBTQ+ friends and family. You will continue to see me in your corner at every step. I am with you always.

Trump, the NFL, and Puerto Rico

As hurricane season has progressed this year, we've seen more extreme weather events, as named storms have followed the ones that preceded them on their heels in swift succession. Those that listen to science are not shocked by these effects of climate change. Those that don't listen fail to grasp the severity of each storm as they ferociously lashed island after island and screamed up the American Southeast. Among those that don't listen are evangelicals and careless politicians, including president pretender Trump.

Trump not only fails to listen to science. He fails to listen to the cries for help by those effected. Rather than hear the boundless suffering, he bloviates on Twitter about the "sons of bitches" in the NFL protesting police brutality and ingrained white supremacy. When he finally reacts, it's full of conceit and void of compassion. This failure leads to new hashtags, such as #TrumpsKatrina. 

As this administration makes lackluster efforts on hurricane relief, Trump attacks San Juan Mayor Carmen Yulín Cruz via Twitter from his golf resort in Bedminster, New Jersey, with "The Mayor of San Juan, who was very complimentary only a few days ago, has now been told by the Democrats that you must be nasty to Trump" and "... Such poor leadership ability by the Mayor of San Juan, and others in Puerto Rico, who are not able to get their workers to help. They want everything to be done for them when it should be a community effort."

It is intriguing to see Trump use the word "nasty" against a woman again. It should not be lost on anyone how hypocritical it is that Melania Tump has chosen to focus on cyber bullying as First Lady when her husband is the bully in chief.

Meanwhile, Mayor Cruz is not only coordinating rescue and aid in Puerto Rico, she is in the flooded streets working herself. She has every right to be "mad as hell." Trump's exaggerated ego is costing lives. Puerto Rican lives. American lives. 

Mayor Cruz exudes leadership.

Trump is a philistine.

I'll leave you for now with this newly inked triolet...

Orange Spangled Banner

We are all dying

To the tune of caustic spangled tweets.

Leovigildo’s lungs ceased while oxygen waiting.

We are all dying

As another racist badge causes more crying.

Las vidas blancas ricas importan are the beats

To which we are all dying,

The tune of caustic spangled tweets.

Picture via Twitter

Moja prababcia. Moje dziedzictwo. - My great-grandmother. My heritage.

Heritage isn’t just a stoic thing or aspect of life. It lives, breathes, and reaches throughout the centuries. In a sense, I'm like most Americans with more than one nationality in my family tree. Yet my confirmed lineage paints me as predominately Polish, Scottish and Irish. These lands are culture rich and have histories that are often misunderstood, at least on the western side of the great Atlantic pond. My insatiable thirst for knowledge and the ancient call in my blood led me to focus my college studies on European history, map my heritage in my poetry, trace back my family tree, and embody traditions...cooking, holidays, and language. 

My Great-Grandma Nauka is my most tangible connection to the old world. She is the only immigrant ancestor to American shores that I've been graced to dwell in the realm of the living with, even though it was only for a few years. I am blessed to hold her in treasured memory.

Below is a snapshot of her, a brief biography.

Mary Krawczyk migrated to the United States around 1913. Not long after her arrival she met and married another Polish immigrant, Louis Nauka (or was his name Lundgre or Ludwig?). They started their family in Detroit then moved north to the rural Thumb of Michigan. Shortly after the family’s move, Louis was found dead one morning. His death turned out to be as enigmatic as his own identity. Mary was left to raise their five sons on her own, which in turn forced John, the eldest, to assume adult responsibilities. The youngest sons, including my grandfather named after Louis, grew up not knowing their father. Mary never relinquished her native Polish as she added some English to spoken communication. She was a strong farmer and loving though stern grandmother to the children her sons produced. Mary took pride in being blessed to know her first two great-grandchildren before passing away. The firstborn is me, and I feel the pulse of the heritage that she’s bestowed within me.

From left to right: Great Uncle John Nauka, Great Grandma Mary Nauka, Great Aunt Eleanor Nauka, Great Uncle Eugene Nauka, Grandpa Louis Nauka, and Grandma Ivy Nauka.