(An illustration by children’s book author and illustrator, Ezra Jack Keats, author/illustrator of “A Snowy Day,” “A Whistle for Willie,” and 20 other books, translated into some 20 languages. Born Jacob Ezra Katz in Brooklyn, NY., Keats’ books introduced multiculturalism into American Children’s literature.)
I knew I was taking a risk,
When I gave notebooks marked’
“The Book Of Life,”
To each of our granddaughters,
Ages 14, 11 & 7,
At Rosh Hashanah dinner,
With a side of rainbow-colored challah.
“The Book of Life,” intimidated me
Since I became a Jew at age 30.
“The Book,” where it’s written
For eternity, who shall live, and who’ll die,
And how we’ll go, by and by.
“The Book of Life,” the book of death,
The very notion sucked my breath.
But, I was determined to minimize the fear,
And teach them, that to celebrate the New Year,
We had to approach things with eyes so clear,
Like theirs, that saw what others missed;
With ears sharply attuned to hear
What the Shofar was awakening us to do,
In worlds beyond our doors, and those quite near.
I asked each to think about things they liked best
About the year just passed. Answers came so fast—
Concerts, movies, & favorite foods;
Road trips, & Taylor Swift, and pets, so good.
Write these in your books, I said,
And, for a fleeting moment,
I could only see the tops of their heads.
So, I pushed my luck,
And, playing my usual role of Puck,
Asked them to think how they’d fix a world run amuck.
It was as if we’d stepped onto a soaring coaster ride;
Their ideas tumbled out—some by whisper, some by shout.
“No discrimination; treat everyone alike; Give Trans kids healthcare,”
Such, their visions of repair! “Write, write,” I pleaded. And they did.
Then the youngest one, clearly having fun, got quiet.
“I’d get rid of all the guns,” she said. “I’d get rid of all the guns.”
Stunned, we wrote it in our Books of Life, and learned
That all the Second-graders had a lock-down drill,
And, rather than unleashing screams so shrill,
They quietly filed into “the room behind the classroom.”
The teacher turned out the lights and they sat in silence,
On the floor, in a small room, as dark as night. Until it was “all clear.”
We took a breath, and dipped apples in honey for a “sweet New Year,”
And talked of how we’d feed the hungry, and stay awake
To everything that needs to be repaired, and not be scared.
We’d shower each other with love, and when we stepped outside,
Bathe in the speckled brightness of the stars above,
And be awake to the beauty all around,
Our own lights shining from hearts & souls we’d found.
We entered pages into our Books of Life,
Knowing that memories can fail, unlike ink, however light.
One moment, a gift; the next, perhaps, a fright–
So we laughed and hugged forever, into the night.
Again, I sounded the Shofar, from a homemade cardboard horn,
“Awake! Alive! Take Action!” I bleated like a ram at dawn,
Singing songs of hope, to guide us through each storm.
(A gift from Conservative commentator Robert McMillan to me, to commemorate our political commentary show “Taking Sides,” on Cablevision’s News 12 Long Island.)
I heard the news today that Bob McMillan died, and I was sad.
Sure, we’re all gonna go sometime, and Bob lived a long, well-loved life until he was 91 years old and passed peacefully in his sleep, the way all fine folks would be fortunate to say good night.
And, despite the fact that Bob McMillan worked for Richard Nixon and “Poppy” Bush, ran against NY’s Democratic Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan in 1988, and was a lifelong Republican, he and I liked and respected each other, although, politically, we were poles apart.
I first met McMillan in 1989, the year after his resounding loss to Moynihan for U.S. Senate, while I was working for then-NYS Governor Mario M. Cuomo. We were introduced to each other by Al Ittelson, the news guru who developed the “Eyewitness News” format for ABC-TV in NYC, and made Cablevision’s News 12 a communications and political force to be reckoned with on Long Island.
Ittleson, a brilliant, ebullient man, recruited McMillan and me to do a pro-bono political commentary segment called “Taking Sides,” which we taped once a week in News 12’s Woodbury, NY, studios, and saw it run endlessly on a loop throughout the day and night on Long Island’s only all-news, 24-hour station.
McMillan and I battled for 60 seconds at a clip over all issues, big and small, from foreign policy, to abortion, to the diminishing wealth of working families in the suburbs of New York. Seventeen years my senior, Bob was the same age as my boss Mario Cuomo, for whom he had much respect, despite being from different political parties. At times, I made my colleagues in the Cuomo Administration cringe more than McMillan did, when I attacked runaway corporate profits, and defended the right to strike for public employees.
Bob and I both chuckled over the instant notoriety that “Taking Sides,” gave us, from the constantly streaming show, to News 12’s marketing campaign which featured a photo of us, standing back to back, arms folded, as if we were about to start sparring. More than once, I’d be stopped in a Long Island grocery or department story and asked, “Aren’t you that crazy liberal guy that Bob McMillan beats up all the time?’
I’d smile, take a beat and say, “No, I’m the progressive pragmatist who always leaves McMillan speechless,” and I would confidently strut away.
Although we both relished engaging each other on issues, Bob McMillan and I became fast friends off camera, getting together for dinner with our partners, and both supporting the Long Island Housing Partnership, which he founded with Jim Morgo, a former Suffolk County Official.
On one trip to Panama, where McMillan served as the first President Bush’s special representative on the Panama Canal Commission, Bob brought back a gift for me: a beautifully hand-stitched work of art of two tropical birds, sitting back to back.
“That’s us,” he said, handing it to me with his mischievous smile and twinkle in his eyes. “I’m the one on the right.”
“You mean the one who’s always wrong,” I responded, grinning back at him.
That’s kind of the way it was with us.
It’s sad that those days of good conversation, honest competition of ideas, and camaraderie are gone, as is Bob McMillan, and the kindness that was always his very best side.
The “Song Movement” Endures Far Beyond Margaritaville.
(This is snapshot from a New York Times video about Victor Jara, which accompanied a 2018 story by the Times Clyde Haberman entitled “How a Folk Singer’s Murder Forced Chile to Confront Its Past.”. The link to the video can be found at the bottom of this article, or by going to the New York Times archives of Retro Report documentaries, or going directly to Retro Reports on YouTube.)
Imagine, for a moment, if the beloved American minstrel, Jimmy Buffett hadn’t lived to 76, dying peacefully, surrounded by family and friends.
Imagine if his music was more than feel-good “Margaritaville” stuff, but a movement for personal freedom and bodily autonomy, and an anthem of advocacy for human and civil rights, and equality for all marginalized people, especially low-wage workers.
Then, imagine if Buffett brought his music to political rallies throughout Florida, since he spent much time in Key West, and campaigned vigorously for the rights of the LGBTQ community, for equal access to medical care for the Trans community, and — seeking to correct all the evil he saw during his childhood in Mississippi — was passionate about the teaching of Anti-racism in America’s public schools.
Now, think about Buffett at about age 40, being seized in front of a stadium full of his fans, by a roving band of Nazis or Proud Boys or other criminals — like the ones who showed up wearing Swastikas in Orlando, Florida, this week. To shut Jimmy up, the thugs crushed his guitar playing fingers — one-by-one — with the butts of their guns, so he could never again strum his guitar, and sing of peace, or freedom, or love, or equality or justice ever again. When he continued to sing in defiance of the terrorists attacking him, they strafed his body with bullets, and threw his corpse in front of his horrified music fans.
If you can picture the torture and murder of such a nationally revered musician as Jimmy Buffett by the Fascist foot-soldiers of a violent, authoritarian force determined to crush democracy and free expression, then, perhaps, you can understand the monstrous and methodical murder of the great Chilean folk-singer and political activist, Victor Jara, that was not imagined, but actually did happen 50 years ago this month.
Jara — known as the ‘Bob Dylan’ of Chile — was tortured and killed four days after the political assassination of the democratically elected President of Chile, Salvador Allende, on September 11, 1973, whom Jara backed. Allende, the first Democratic Socialist elected President in Chile’s history, was murdered by the storm-troopers of General Augusto Pinochet, with the full backing and support of US President Richard Nixon, Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, and the CIA.
Victor Jara had been, according to Clyde Haberman of the New York Times, “ a popular Chilean folk singer who dwelt on themes like poverty and injustice. He was, in no particular order, a poet, a teacher, a theatre director, a Communist Party activist,” and a long-time supporter of Allende, which is what finally got Jara tortured and murdered.
The Times goes on to report that, “ during the US-backed Pinochet’s regime’s 17-years, some 2,300 people were known to have been killed or ‘disappeared;’ about 1,000 others were unaccounted for and presumed to have died, and at least 27,000 were tortured,” like Victor Jara was.
Jara was, afterall, a prime target of Pinochet’s gangs of extreme-right-wing killers, as the founder of the “song movement” — the melding of music and political and social activism to bring about sweeping change for working people in Chile. In her book, “Victor: An Unfinished Song,” the 96 year-oldJoan Jara, wrote of her husband’s pioneering work, and the theme of the Popular Unity’s (Allende’s) campaign:
“Venceremos, was based on an instrumental piece of Victor’s…It was incredible to hear all those people (as many as 800,000 demonstrating in the streets of Santiago) singing Venceremos.”
Translated into English, Venceremos means “We Shall Prevail,” and was being sung throughout Chile at the very moment American’s were singing “We Shall Overcome,” in the fight for Civil Rights, and to end the War in Vietnam.
Yet, few Americans of any prominence — fearful of being tagged “socialist” by the Nixon Administration — supported the legitimate election of Allende to lead Chile in 1970, and the growing “ song movement” of Victor Jara’s following Allende’s election. One notable exception was the US folk/protest singer Phil Ochs.
In The Life of Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune, author Michael Schumacher writes:
“To Phil, Allende was the most compelling political story since the Castro-led revolution in Cuba — not to mention the kind of peaceful revolution he had dreamed about for the United States.”
By the summer of 1971, at the beginning of Allende’s term in office, Ochs was convinced he had to go to Chile. Nothing would impact him as much as his meeting with Victor Jara in the streets of Santiago:
“Although none of the Americans on the trip had heard of him before, Victor Jara was one of the most beloved populist figures in Chile — a folk singer and political activist not unlike Pete Seeger in the US. Jara had been instrumental in Allende’s rise to power…His main political activity now consisted of his traveling around the country, singing and drumming up support for the Union Popular, which made him a folk hero among his country.” (From, The Life of Phil Ochs, p. 240).
Ironically, while Jara was frequently compared to Bob Dylan, it was Phil Ochs who, while far less famous, was much more like Jara in the United States as a political activist. Phil Ochs began his rise to modest fame around the same time Bob Dylan did, but was much more deeply enmeshed in the political activism of the early 60’s than Dylan was.
In 1963, Ochs traveled to Hazard, Kentucky, to perform for the families of striking coal miners; he made a pilgrimage to Mississippi in 1964 as part of the Caravan ofMusic to support the Freedom Fighters throughout the South. He preferred to refer to himself as a “topical songwriter and political activist,” or a “musical journalist” rather than a protest singer.
While Ochs was traveling and singing for Civil Rights that summer of 1964 in Mississippi, three young civil rights workers — Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner and James Chaney, were ambushed and murdered by the KKK, for working to register Black citizens to vote. Ochs, distraught over the murders, wrote one of his most controversial songs: “Here’s to the State of Mississippi,” which, along with Ochs, was banned in many Southern States.
Ochs performed with Victor Jara throughout Chile for weeks, and at a Chilean coal-mine where working conditions were far worse than at the Kentucky coal mines Ochs visited eight years earlier. Once again he performed “Here’s to the State of Mississippi,” and won over Chilean coal miners, skeptical of a gringo with long hair.
Jara interpreted every verse and chorus of Phil Ochs’ songs for the miners, and Ochs wrote in his diary that it “moved me deeply.”
When Allende and Jara were murdered by the US/Pinochet goons in September, 1973, Phil Ochs life was already falling apart from advancing mental illness, alcoholism and drug abuse. Yet despite his struggles, Ochs still understood the magnitude of what happened in Chile, where a democratically elected government had been overthrown by Fascist forces, with active assistance from the United States.
So it was Ochs alone, feeling a visceral connection to Victor Jara and the people of Chile, who, just two years before he committed suicide at the age of 36, organized a massive “Concert for Chile,” at Madison Square Garden, in 1974, to raise money for the families of the victims of the US/Pinochet Putsch in Chile.
Ochs worked relentlessly over many months organizing the Concert for Chile, and after meeting with Bob Dylan for five hours in Ochs’ own lower Manhattan apartment, he persuaded Dylan to agree to appear at the concert with Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie, guaranteeing a sold out Felt Forum. Jara’s own Song Movement had come to New York.
No, it wasn’t the easy-listening songs of Jimmy Buffett, who, at age 76 was overtaken by skin cancer, after living a long, luxurious, light-hearted life. Buffet’s music will live on forever, because it’s the kind of feel-good, non-controversial memory in which Americans love to nostalgically bathe.
Phil Ochs, who sought to awaken people to the horrors around us, is long dead, hanging himself in his sister’s apartment in Rockaway, Queens at 36 years old. Ochs was driven to distraction by his own demons, and by a superficial, all-consuming culture which tried to turn him into a nostalgic curiosity, when he wanted his music and his life to mean so much more, and to repair a broken world.
So while we are relentlessly reminded across all forms of media that it’s always “Margarita Time,” somewhere, I cannot help but think of Victor Jara, robbed of the gift of living to an advanced age, or dying in the gentle embrace of friends and family. And, each time I see Henry Kissinger’s death grin spread across his distorted, Dorian Gray-like face in the 100th year of his blood-soaked existence, I think of Victor Jara, dead at 40, whose killing Kissinger enabled.
Jara, still mourned by his 96-year old widow Joan, a daughter, and a democratic, Spanish-speaking nation of 20 million people, was tortured and killed 50 years ago this month, murdered and brutalized by the authoritarians of his time, who hated social justice, the rule of law, equality, difference, and freedom of expression.
In a much more meaningful and enduring way than Jimmy Buffet achieved legendary status is in the USA , Victor Jara remains — five full decades after his murder — a towering presence of history, creativity, hope, activism, individual liberties & democracy in Chile.
With democracy and human rights under siege in the United States and around the world, it’s urgent that we focus more on Victor Jara’s inspiring life, his music and his passion for justice, and how his transformational Song Movement, knitted those together into a seamless work of art for humanity.
(The video linked to this article is part of a documentary series presented by The New York Times. The video project was started with a grant from Christopher Buck. Retro Report, led by Kyra Darnton, is a nonprofit video news organization examining the history and context behind today’s news. To watch more, subscribe to the Retro Report newsletter, and follow Retro Report on YouTube.)
(Rudy Giuliani’s official criminal mugshot taken by the Fulton County Georgia’s Sheriff’s Office, on August 23, 2023.)
The Mugly Ugh shot of Rudy Giuliani taken by the Fulton County, Georgia, Sheriff’s Office this week, came some 24 years too late.
We would have loved to have this glaring, glowering, ghoulish photo of NYC’s own Prince of Darkness up on placards when thousands of us marched across the Brooklyn Bridge, in mid-April, 1999, to protest the police violence that killed a 22-year old unarmed Black man, Amadou Diallo, with 41-bullets.
I intentionally wanted to express my outrage in that protest march, led by Harry Belafonte, the Rev. Al Sharpton, former Mayor David Dinkins and others, to show that White middle-class New Yorkers were just as upset as communities of color by the rampant NYPD brutality during Giuliani’s mayoralty.
Just two years earlier—in the midst of Giuliani’s re-election campaign– Abner Louima, a Haitian/American immigrant, was brutalized and repeatedly raped with a wooden police batton by NYPD officers. As usual, Rudy defended the victimizers, not the victim, and tried to pin the blame on Louima and Brooklyn’s black community.
Fortunately, New York’s media, recognized the enormous diversity of the March to Protest Diallo’s death, immediately putting to rest Giuliani’s racist lies that it was something which only bothered the Black Community. The New York Times headline of April 16, 1999 read:
Diallo Rally Focuses on Call For Strong Oversight of Police
The opening words of Jodi Wilgoren’s story were: “A multiracial throng of thousands marched in memory of Amadou Diallo yesterday, shutting down half the Brooklyn Bridge and several streets in downtown Brooklyn and lower Manhattan during the afternoon rush as they chanted about justice and peace.”
Wilgoren went on to write:
“But the diverse crowd was filled with a broad range of critics of the status quo, and the message of the march became, at times, a massive thumbs-down to Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani.”
Giuliani deserved the “massive” thumbs down. During the entire eight-year tenure of his mayoralty, Rudy refused to meet with the City’s Black Community Leadership even once, in a clear snub to the organizations which worked closely with former NYC Mayor David Dinkins to “Increase the Peace,” among New York’s diverse racial and ethnic communities. Immediately upon his election as NYC Mayor in 2001, Michael Bloomberg made meeting regularly with Black and Latino community leaders among his top priorities.
As a member of Governor Mario M. Cuomo’s staff, I worked on the “Increase the Peace” initiative, along with members of then- Mayor Dinkins staff, and the great writer Elie Wiesel, a personal hero. In fact, our first meeting—with many Black and White community leaders coming together—was held in the book-lined Upper East Side apartment of Wiesel.
When Giuliani was elected Mayor in November, 1993, he immediately eliminated the “Increase the Peace” program, ended the meetings, and cut all funding and support for community-based “ambassadors.” He didn’t care about NYC’s communities of color; they didn’t vote for him.
So, I would have loved to have the creepy criminal mug-shot of Giuliani 24 years ago, when we were walking across the Brooklyn Bridge—“like Civil Rights advocates marched across the Selma Bridge,” Al Sharpton said—to show our fellow New Yorkers, the full face of abject arrogance and racism confronting all of us.
There is something so kharmically perfect in the fact that Rudy was finger-printed, weighed, arrested and photographed in a Fulton County, Georgia jail, answering to a racketeering charge brought against him by a tough, law & order Black, female law enforcement official.
I am continually amazed by how timid, reticent or terrified so many of my fellow liberals, progressives and Democrats are when it comes to strictly enforcing the law against Donald Trump.
The most recent example came just this week, when Trump made a blatant social media threat against potential witnesses or co-conspirators whose testimony under oath could send him to prison for a very long time: “If you go after me, I’m coming after you.” His threatwas smoking-gun evidence of witness intimidation, in direct opposition to what the arraignment judge in Federal Court in DC, at Trump’s latest arrest, explicitly warned him NOT to do. As a chronic criminal recidivist going back decades, he did it anyway.
When I received my JD from Hofstra University’s School of Law some 40 years ago, it was pounded home to me in every class in criminal law, evidence, criminal procedure and constitutional law, that if you broke the law, you needed to be prepared to pay the price. Direct violation of a judge’s order on witness tampering or intimidation was a sure ticket to getting your bail revoked, and being remanded to prison, ahead of your trial.
I witnessed first hand how that pillar of the law was enforced over and over again in many Mob trials of the 1980’s and 1990’s, concerning members of New York’s Five major crime families. I was particularly familiar with how it was used against the Gambino Crime Family, since my brother was associated with that crew and went to prison for income tax evasion. The law was the law. Break it, and you suffer the consequences. Threaten people involved with your case, and you run the risk of pre-trial detention, since you are a danger to the community. The Mob guys, including my brother, cursed the prosecutors, the judges and the FBI every time they got caught. Just like Trump.
That theoretical purity of consequences for one’s actions was one reason I loved studying the law. In a perfect legal system, neither income, nor level of education, nor family connections, nor race, ethnicity or gender would matter: the law was the law, and should be equally applied. Of course, I knew the real world practice of the law was rarely so pure and simple, but it was the goal of “equal justice before the law,” toward which we could aspire. The law was a beacon of hope for fairness.
It was a big reason I went to work right out of law school with former New York State Governor Mario M. Cuomo, a superb lawyer and public official of impeccable integrity, who revered the law, as much as he did his faith. “The law is the law,” was Cuomo’s mantra, and I took comfort in that clarity.
So, I was surprised when I posted a rather mild statement on social media that “ Trump needs to be locked up NOW and silenced until his trial. He is in violation of every single one of the arraignment judge’s warnings.” It seemed to me to be a straightforward consequence of the action of blatantly violating a judge’s order.
What stunned me was the array of excuses offered by people I respect, ranging from outright cynicism in our judicial system’s ability to “do the right thing,” to oh-so-clever political strategizing of how an arrest would “play into Trump’s hands, make him a martyr, or provoke his vile supporters to violence.” Lost in all of the handwringing was that straightforward Cuomo mantra: “The law is the law.”
If Trump were a young, black teenager from Oakland, who violated a judge’s warning to not threaten any potential witnesses against him, we all knew how fast his bail would be revoked and he’d be thrown into jail. No consideration would be given to political strategy, nor whether his supporters would act violently, or illegally, to protest his arrest.
Lost in all of this mishigas and mish-mash over politics and strategy and Trump’s perceived power over a cult of lawless lunatics, is the well-documented fact that Trump is a wus, when it comes to the enforcement of the law, or raw power, used against him. The Gambino gang, who dealt with Trump regularly in the New York construction trades industry, knew this very well.
In my book, Tightrope: Balancing a Life Between Mario Cuomo & My Brother,” (Heliotrope Books, NY, 2017) I detailed the Mob’s delight in running roughshod over a terrified Trump. Michael Cody, the son of New York Teamster boss and Gambino associate John Cody, told the Daily Beast, as recently as 2016 that:
“Trump was a guy who would talk tough, but as soon as you confronted him, he would cry like a little girl. He was all talk, no action.”
In fact, for John Cody—who was sent to jail for five years for racketeering, extortion and income tax evasion– and his organized crime cronies, Trump was nothing more than an easy mark, a puffed up patsy, and wannabe mobster—terrified of them, and guys like them, who saw jail time as a mere cost of doing business.
Still, I find it astounding that so many good people, who are law-and-order liberals, like me, forget these facts which have been well documented by a long list of credible journalists and prosecutors over the past 30 plus years: Trump is a coward. He talks tough, but always runs from a fight. The louder he whines, the larger another loss looms.
Defendant Trump is, and has always been, both enamored and terrified of real power (legal, political, financial, or physical) and freezes in the face of those unafraid to wield it against him—like Vladimir Putin, Nancy Pelosi, or John Cody. The very thought of prison, and the guys who don’t fear it, reduce Trump to the whining little child he’s always been, since the days he threw temper tantrums in his mother’s rose-colored Rolls Royce, when she chauffeured him to a chic private school.
See how well that image sits in the minds of the low-wage, big-bellied, bearded and tattooed Trump supporters from Idaho, or Alabama, and West Virginia when he tells them to go to jail for him–a coddled, rich brat who always hid behind his mother and his father, or his less-than-ethical lawyers, for protection. The wise guys from Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx saw right through his bluster and bravado, and laughed in his crapulent, privileged face.
I suspect that a tough, seasoned and fearless prosecutor like Jack Smith, who has put away war criminals, and a no-nonsense U.S. District Judge like Tanya Chutkan– who has handed down lengthy prison terms to January 6 terrorists —will not be easily fooled or intimidated by such a cowardly, corrupt con man.
Trump may yet learn that jail time, for himself, is just another cost of doing business his way, and that by his own twisted actions and words, he’s made prison inevitable.
