never gonna give you up

My wife and I had Phillies season tickets for 18 seasons and we were pretty avid baseball fans. Besides going to Phillies games, we would watch other, out-of-market games on TV and even visit other ballparks. We wouldn't necessarily go to other cities when the Phillies were the visiting team (as a matter of fact, we would prefer not to). We liked to compare Philadelphia's stadium to other city's stadiums. (All were much better than the giant toilet bowl that was Veterans Stadium, but after 2004, nothing compared to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. Fight me!) We also liked to to see how other teams handled the "fan experience," including available concessions, ease of parking and stadium entry and how fans were made to "feel at home" and be "part of the game." (With the exception of the Phillie Phanatic — the greatest mascot in the Major Leagues — the Phillies experience leaves a lot to be desired.)

We gave up our season tickets in 2014. Actually, we kind of gave up on baseball, as well. We stopped watching games and we stopped visiting other ball parks. But, just this year, while on the hunt for outdoor activities in the (fingers crossed) waning days of the worldwide pandemic, we began to go back to baseball. We've already been to a few games here in Philadelphia and yesterday we even ventured to Washington, DC to visit Nationals Park. We made plans with Mrs. P's Virginia-based cousins who, for reasons that are still unclear to me, are rabid Atlanta Braves fans. The Nationals were playing the Braves, so this would be a great opportunity for a particular family member who, at sixteen years old, would be attending his first Major League baseball game.

The Atlanta Braves began life in the latter part of the 19th century as the Boston Braves, adopting a Native American in a feathered headdress as their logo. They relocated to Milwaukee in 1953, still keeping the stereotypical Native American motif as part of their uniforms and team logo. The team moved to Atlanta in 1966, still clinging to, and even elaborating on, the cartoonish portrayal of Native Americans, including a depiction of a "laughing Indian" as the team logo. They added the presence of "Chief Noc-A-Homa" at Braves' home games, who would emerge from his left field teepee and dance when a home run was hit by a home team player. Russell Means, an actor and Native American activist and advocate, complained about "Chief Noc-A-Homa," citing the name as "derogatory" and his actions as "insulting" to Native Americans. Instead of sympathy and re-examination of the concept, the Braves PR department explained that the actor who portrayed the character at the ball park was, himself, Native American and therefore validated the whole scenario. It was essentially a kiss-off to Means and his accusations. In 1991, stadium organist Carolyn King began to play a stereotypical, yet familiar, "Indian" riff for most Braves' at-bats. When coupled with the distribution of oversized foam tomahawks, the infamous "tomahawk chop" was born. Once the Braves became a pennant contender, fans were relentless. They wielded their foam "weapons," or just their outstretched palm, in a mock "chopping" motion when the Braves scored a run or made a spectacular play. Soon, the action could be spotted in other stadiums when the Braves were the visiting team.

When protests were levied against the Cleveland Indians and the Washington Redskins regarding their team names and practices, their respective management examined their options. Sure, it took a while (In DC, it took a few years. In Cleveland, it took decades), but eventually, they did the right thing. In 2018, Cleveland removed all reference to "Chief Wahoo," the long-time mascot depicted as an exaggerated caricature of a Native American. At the end of the 2021 season, it was announced that the team would be renamed "The Guardians" to start the 2022 season, the new name being a reference to the iconic sculpted figures on the Hope Memorial Bridge in downtown Cleveland. The Redskins, cited by Native American groups to be just as offensive as the unspoken "N-word," ditched the racist moniker and went with the generic "Washington Football Team" for two seasons while a new name was selected. The 2022 season will see the team rechristened the "Commanders," while sporting a stylized, though rather nondescript, "W" on their uniforms.

But the Braves are standing firm. Sure, they slowly eliminated the "laughing Indian" from team uniforms, but they kept the bright red tomahawk, still displayed prominently across players' chests. The Braves' front office claims the team's relationship with the Native American community is "a proud expression of unification and family." Spokespeople from the Native American community beg to differ.  

In the 2019 post-season, the Braves were facing the St. Louis Cardinals in the Division Series. Cardinals pitcher Ryan Helsley, a vocal member of the Cherokee Nation, expressed his dismay about the controversial "tomahawk chop" and its accompanying chant by fans. The pitcher said he found the fans' chanting and arm-motions insulting and that the chop depicts natives "in this kind of caveman-type people way who aren't intellectual." Upon hearing this sentiment, the Braves discontinued the sale and distribution of the popular foam tomahawks. The stadium organist was instructed to immediately stop playing and inciting the "chop." Related graphics would no longer be displayed on the stadium scoreboard. The Braves then released a statement saying they would "continue to evaluate how we activate elements of our brand, as well as the overall in-game experience" and that they would continue a "dialogue with those in the Native American community after the postseason concludes." Various Native American groups continued to condemn the Braves' actions. Even in the aftermath of Cleveland and Washington changing their team names, the Braves announced on-going discussions regarding the "chop," but defiantly stated that the team name will remain unchanged.

At Saturday's Nationals-Braves match-up at Nationals Park, I saw a substantial representation of Braves fans, identified by the abundance of tomahawk-emblazoned jerseys and t-shirts scattered throughout the seating area. After a lackluster beginning, the Braves lit up in the top of the third inning when first-baseman Matt Olson took a 1-0 fastball over the fence, scoring two teammates who were already on base. This prompted the visiting Braves faithful to rise from their seats and enact the notorious "tomahawk chop" and its equally-notorious low, throaty chant. A solo home run in the very next at-bat by third-baseman Austin Riley kept 'em standing and kept 'em chanting. Mrs. Pincus's young cousin and his father were cheerfully waving their outstretched arms, joining in on the rebellious activity. Sideways looks and silent jeers be damned! These are our Atlanta Braves! Proud team! Proud rituals! Proudly confrontational! The Nationals fans (if there really are any), the casual baseball fans and those just looking for something to do on a Saturday afternoon sat quietly, sort of like the victim of a relentless bully.

I felt like I was being Rick-rolled.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

every cop is a criminal and all the sinners saints

I really try to steer away from politics and controversial issues, but I will make an exception. The current climate of racial tension has weighed heavily on me. I know, I know, I'm an old white guy. I'm very aware of the fact that I have enjoyed "white privilege" my entire life. There are people who I know that have been the victim of systemic racism their entire lives. I understand that as best as I can, but I am still in the process of getting the education I didn't know I needed.

My dad

This country seems to be getting a long-overdue education as well. White people, who have made the rules and policies for years and years, are slowly discovering that their rules and policies suck. Some progress has been made over the past week. Some. Statues of revered Civil War luminaries and known slave owners have been toppled and even dumped in lakes in cities across the country. In my own city of Philadelphia, the reviled statue of racist mayor Frank Rizzo was spirited away under cover of night after protesters defaced it and demanded its removal. (My father, who passed away in 1993, was a huge fan of Frank Rizzo. He shared Rizzo's narrow-minded view of minorities and relished his public display of bias. My father was smitten when he saw the blustery Rizzo on a TV news report, attending a formal function with a night stick jammed into his cummerbund like a sword. If my dad was still alive today, I would most likely, not be on speaking terms with him.) It was a long time coming. Too long, as matter of fact. And there's still a long way to go.

The story I will relate here has stayed with me for years, but only now, do I understand that, under different circumstances, it would have resulted in a much different outcome.

In the early 80s, I was a student at a Philadelphia art school. My parents made it very clear to me that If I chose to further my education, I was on my own. They were not going to supplement any sort of tuition in any sort of way. So, to earn money, I worked at my cousin's health food restaurant, the same one where I met the woman who is now my wife (the esteemed Mrs. Pincus). Three evenings a week, I dished out food from behind the cafeteria-style set-up and made friendly chit-chat with the customers. At the end of the night, I'd lock the front door and, along with a co-worker, break down the steam table and cold foods, storing stuff that could be put out the next day for lunch and discarding the unsalvageable. Tony, my co-worker, would retire to the second-floor kitchen to wash the pots and utensils, to the accompaniment of some of the greatest music I ever heard. (Tony introduced me to the awesome sounds of The Sugar Hill Gang and Grandmaster Flash.) I would stay in the first-floor dining room, where I would stack the chairs on the tables, fill up a wheeled bucket with hot water and some kind of industrial cleaning agent, and mop the floor as quickly as I could, doing the shittiest job possible. (Hey, I wanted to get home!)

Over the few years that I worked at the restaurant, I got to know several of the neighborhood regulars, including the policeman whose "beat" was the two blocks that included our address. Every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evening, the officer would pop in to the restaurant to say "Hello" or sometimes just give a friendly wave, as he made his way up Spring Garden Street. He'd patrol the north side, headed west, then, I suppose, he'd reverse at some point and return on the opposite side of the street. Sometimes, I'd only see him once a night. Sometimes, twice.

One Friday night, on a particularly humid summer evening, I was just finishing up the mopping. I opened the usually locked door to relieve the stuffiness as I completed the strenuous final task of my closing ritual. When I finished, I dragged the bucket towards the back door, carefully controlling the random splashes of dirty water. My destination was the parking lot behind the restaurant, where I would kick over the heavy bucket, spilling its contents along the cement gutter that ran around the perimeter of the lot. The bucket was awkward and required a few kicks until it landed on its side, releasing a flood of brown mop water. When it was completely empty, I grabbed the handle and guided it back through the back door and into the restaurant...

...where I was met by our police officer, with his gun drawn and his arms and legs locked in the "I mean business" Weaver shooting stance.

I froze. I'm surprised I didn't crap my pants. When the policeman recognized me, he relaxed his arms and slowly holstered his gun. He wiped his arm across his forehead and said, "I saw your front door wide open."

"I-I-I was dumping the mop bucket out back.," I somehow managed to stammer. 

I confirmed that everything was okay. He bid me a "good night." He descended the front steps and continued down the street. I watched from the door way for a while, as his figure disappeared and reappeared in the distance between street lights. And I caught my breath.

I'm sure, later that night, I told my parents or my girlfriend about the incident and we got a quick laugh. But, now that I reflect on it thirty-seven years later, I have come to the painful conclusion that — if I had been black — I would not be typing this story right now.

I'd be dead.

And that's wrong.

#blacklivesmatter

This link, highlighting black-owned business, was sent to me by a reader. Perhaps it will be a resource that you can use. I have not researched any of the businesses that are mentioned, I am merely posting this as a request. I do not endorse nor am I connected to any of these businesses. Thanks, JPiC

https://www.websiteplanet.com/blog/support-black-owned-businesses/

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nazi punks fuck off

I think we can all agree that Nazis were awful. Following Germany's defeat in World War II and the discovery of the full extent of the Holocaust, Nazi ideology became universally disgraced and is widely regarded as immoral and evil.

Except by assholes like Steve Johnson.

Asshole.

Steve lives at 1041 Lindell Drive in El Sobrante, California, sixteen miles north of Oakland (and fuck him if he doesn't like the fact that I published his address). Recently, Steve installed a 10 foot by 10 foot black cement swastika in his front yard, not far from a flagpole on which the ol' Stars and Stripes waves proudly in the breeze coming off the San Francisco Bay. Steve's neighbors aren't so proud. As a matter of fact, they are overcome by concern and ire. A very short time after the installation was completed, local news outlets descended upon Steve Johnson's home, in search of his reason for making such a bold statement. The media, I'm sure, didn't just happen to stumble upon Steve's home renovation project by accident. Lindell Drive is not a major thoroughfare. The entire street only stretches a quarter-mile and dead-ends at another home's driveway, just behind the Pinole Vista Shopping Center – where a Sizzler Steakhouse still operates.. Obviously, one of Steve's justifiably outraged neighbors called the Bay Area newspaper The Mercury News.

Asshole's handiwork.

Reporters from the newspaper, as well as representatives from local TV stations, questioned Steve about his motivation for putting a Nazi symbol on display in front of his house. He gave wishy-washy answers that smacked of insincere innocence. He feigned misunderstanding when he countered an NBC-affiliate reporter's question with "What is a swastika?" He contained with: "It doesn’t represent anything. [It] represents me not having to pull weeds over in that part of my yard; that’s what it represents to me. What does it represent to you?"

His neighbors are furious, including one woman who has lived on Lindell Drive – near Steve – for 27 years. The neighbor, who is Jewish and rightly horrified and offended by Steve's display, said, "I was very clear with him about my feelings. I don’t agree with it. I think it’s wrong. I don’t like it, but it is his yard." She also noted that he had never done anything like this in the past.

Aerial view of an asshole's house.

But, Steve keeps changing his story. He told another reporter that it was a symbol of peace and tranquility from ancient Tibet. When asked if he was, indeed, Tibetan, Steve replied rather cavalierly, "Maybe I am."

Then suddenly, Steve gained some sort of new found knowledge about the history and significance of the symbol. However, he took a decidedly dismissive tone, when he said, "The Nazi stuff happened 80 years ago. Get over it." When a reporter pointed out a swastika sticker affixed to his motorcycle, Steve abruptly ended the conversation and ordered the media off of his property.

This is 2019. In the United States. Land of the free and home of the brave. Where any red-blooded American can grow up to be an asshole.

www.joshpincusisrying.com

papa don't preach

Papa Johns pizza sucks. The cloyingly-sweet sauce is awful and the crust tastes like the cardboard box it's delivered in. I love crappy, commercially-produced pizza from chain restaurants, but Papa John's is one step below that stuff they made on day-old hamburger buns that I bought in my elementary school's cafeteria. I tried Papa Johns pizza once. Years ago. And I never went back.

But, Papa Johns is big business, with over 4700 locations world wide and lucrative sponsorship associations with ESPN, the Olympics, The NFL and The Football League in the United Kingdom. Not bad for a company that was started in a converted closet in founder John Schnatter's father's Indiana tavern... and continues, to this day, to make shitty pizza.

Mr Schnatter, who has become the "face" and commercial spokesperson for Papa Johns, (à la Dave Thomas of Wendy's fame), has also become a bit outspoken. He broke the cardinal rule of business by publicly weighing in on the controversial "kneeling during the National Anthem" debate that heated up the NFL and recent headlines. No matter how he feels about the topic, it is in his best interest to keep his mouth shut, or he runs the risk of alienating potential customers who may not share his views. Alienating customers equals poor business relationships and poor business relationships lead to no business relationships.

In July 2018, it was revealed that Schnatter used a racial slur during a business conference. On the same day, Schnatter admitted to using the word and immediately resigned from the Board of Directors of Papa Johns. Two days later, the company removed Schnatter's image from all Papa Johns marketing material. Steve Ritchie, the newly installed CEO, issued a memo stating "racism has no place at Papa Johns."  However, a week or so later, Schnatter filed a lawsuit against Papa John's Pizza to give him access to the company's books and records after they fired him. He described the company's procedures as an “unexplained and heavy-handed way” to cut ties between him and the company that he founded. The company countered by implementing precautions that would prevent Schnatter from buying back a majority stake of Papa Johns stock.

As expected, Papa Johns business suffered. Sales were down across the board as they struggled to introduce a "Schnatter-less" marketing strategy. To date, eleven Major League baseball teams have dumped Papa Johns as a sponsor, as well as the NBA's Utah Jazz and the NFL's Atlanta Falcons. The University of Louisville took Papa Johns name off of their football stadium. See how opening up your big, racist mouth is bad for business?

It seems that the company is taking this very, very seriously. Just this morning I was watching television before I left for work. We all know my love for old TV shows, so I was tuned to Antenna TV, one of several networks whose programming consists of vintage sitcoms going back to The Burns and Allen Show — which I happened to be watching as I enjoyed a cup of coffee. When the show paused for a "word from the sponsor," my 43" flat screen surprisingly lit up with the smiling visage of John Schnatter in his trademark red apron, running his knuckles through a big glob of pizza dough. He was surrounded by a group of smiling Papa Johns employees, all touting the ingredients of the pizza and delivering the company's tagline in unison: "Better Ingredients. Better Pizza. Papa Johns." Then the screen faded to black, quickly switching to an older man singing the praises of his new streamlined catheter. I immediately grabbed my phone and took to Twitter. I punched out a typical "Josh Pincus" assessment of what I just saw...

Pretty witty for twenty minutes after six in the morning. It appeared that I was not the only one awake and scanning Twitter. The folks at Papa Johns Support (@AskPapaJohns) saw my tweet and responded. Without a joke and without the slightest bit of levity. Their tweet was all business and  polite customer relations.

Wow. Papa Johns wants details and wants them now. I happily obliged.

Papa Johns was gracious.

Papa Johns is determined to get John Schnatter out of their lives for good. Apparently, there really is no place for racism at Papa Johns. 

I know from personal experience that "once a racist, always a racist." Even when an apology is offered, racists never change the way they truly feel.

Papa Johns' pizza still sucks, but at least their heart is in the right place.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I see your true colors shining through

My hometown has been in the news this week for reasons that do not make me proud. Two African-American gentlemen walked into a Philadelphia Starbucks and sat down to wait for a colleague. This apparently made the manager of the Starbucks uneasy. Having two African-American men waiting at a table was more than this particular Starbucks manager could take. He called the police. After a discussion that referenced Starbucks company policy and a disobeyed order to leave the premises, the two gentlemen were placed in police custody, handcuffed just as their friend was entering the Starbucks to make their appointment. A cellphone video, posted to YouTube, shows the friend questioning the nature of the arrest... and receiving no real answer. The men were questioned at police headquarters and eventually released at approximately 2 AM — nearly nine and a half hours after the police were called. In the days following, protesters patroled the area outside the Starbucks at 1801 Spruce Street. Kevin Johnson, CEO of Starbucks for under a year, came to Philadelphia to apologize to the gentlemen in person. Both Philadelphia Police Commissioner Richard Ross and Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney apologized to the two gentlemen for the way the incident was handled by the arresting officers. The whole incident was embarrassing and infuriating. I still find it puzzling that such blatant racism still exists in the United States in 2018.

Last October, my wife and I were on a cruise. During the course of our week at sea, we made friends with a variety of folks who were on the Norwegian Breakaway for the same reason we were. One afternoon, early in our trip, Mrs P and I were participating in a rousing game of Pictionary with some of our fellow cruisers. In between rounds, we made small talk with the other players, mostly discussing about the up-coming ports-of-call and where everybody hailed from. My wife struck up a conversation with a multi-generational family who, like us, called Philadelphia home. A friendly older woman revealed that they were  travelling with a church group from Southwest Philadelphia. As Mrs. P and this woman chit-chatted, a young girl sort of clung to the woman, silently taking in the conversation, trying to figure out who this lady was that was talking to — we later discovered — her grandmother. The little girl was about seven or eight and displayed an air of suspicion. She watched with wide eyes and exercised caution, staying behind the protection of her grandmother. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was quite animated and talkative and the conversation soon branched out past "where do you live?" and entered other areas of shared interest.

During the week, we saw this little family at the buffet, near the pool, walking the common areas, at activities, as well at the first of several late-night movies. As the time went on, the little girl became less and less timid. By Day Two, she actually introduced herself as "Anissa," careful to pronounce it "Ah-NEES-a," as though we would only get one chance and we better say it correctly every time we used it. Mrs Pincus, a natural Pied Piper of children, told Anissa that there was a famous child actress with that name who was very popular and she even pronounced it the same way. Anissa smiled and showed signs of warming up. She asked us if we have any children. I answered her by pulling up a picture of our thirty-year old son on my cellphone. Anissa asked us about pets and we told her that we do not have any currently, but we did have cats — on and off — for years. She asked more questions and we answered the ones that we could. We could see that Anissa was becoming more comfortable with these people who talked to her grandmother. By Day Three, Anissa was shrieking "SUSIE!" with delight when she spotted my wife scooping herself a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. Later the same day, we again heard the unmistakable cry of "SUSIE!" as we took our places for an afternoon session of trivia — our favorite shipboard pastime. Anissa even took a spot in a chair next to Mrs. P.

One late afternoon about midway through our trip, Mrs. P and I settled into a couple of overstuffed chairs in the ship's Atrium to watch a documentary about swing dancing on a two-story projection screen. Just before the film started, a young man we had not met before came over to us and asked how we know so much trivia. Evidently, he had witnessed the mind-numbing expertise we exhibit while answering the silly, general knowledge questions that were posed. Mrs. P and I laughed and explained that we watch a lot of television, watch a lot of movies and just have an uncanny knack for remembering useless tidbits of information. He laughed, thanked us for our candor and strolled off. As he did, he passed Anissa who appeared with her family and greeted us (actually just my wife) with a loud, excited "SUSIE!" She stood between us and asked — in all earnest and innocence — if that boy we were talking to was our son. She followed up by asking if we were with her church group.

I must interrupt this story for a brief explanation.

Anissa and her family were African-American. The young man who asked about our knowledge of trivia was African-American. My wife and I are Caucasian. 

Anissa, apparently, saw none of that. She merely saw us speaking with a young man older than she, but young enough to be the son we often mentioned in our conversations. Anissa didn't see skin color. At all. For the entire week. We were so taken by Anissa's "matter-of-fact" untainted outlook. It made me wonder if Anissa couldn't be the teacher from which we all can learn. All of us.

vote for me and I'll set you free

Please forgive the rambling nature of this post. I mean more rambling than usual. I wrote this mostly for my own relief, as a carthasis after what I can only describe as a harrowing night. — JPiC

I voted in ten presidential elections and only picked the winner twice. But, honestly, a change in president has only affected my life — my personal life — once. Sure, there have been taxes and inflation, but those things would have occurred no matter who became president. You see, in 1981 under the Carter administration, I was enrolled in a four-year art school on a full, government grant for my first year. Therefore, in the first election in which I was eligible to vote, I cast my ballot for Mr. Carter for purely selfish reasons. He got trounced by Ronald Reagan, who proceeded to take the funds set aside for my art career and use them to purchase a bomb to blow up the Commie that was hiding under America's bed. With no support or encouragement from my parents, at 20 years old, I wandered into a bank and arranged for a student loan to cover my tuition for the next school year. I repeated the procedure a few more times until I graduated. I incurred a debt that I paid off, in monthly installments, over the course of ten years. So, aside from writing a check every month for $81.00, someone new in The White House really hasn't caused any upheaval in my life.

I admit I was a bit wary when Bill Clinton was elected president in 1992. After all, he was a young, cool guy who wore Blues Brothers shades and played the saxophone on late-night television. He was undeniably different from the forty-one stuffy men that preceded him. Those guys — the Reagans and the Nixons and the Eisenhowers — were my Dad's candidates. They were stiff, rehearsed, humorless guys whose dour visages would look right at home in the center of a piece of currency. But, Bill Clinton had a mischievous smile and a ton of charisma. He was both relaxed and commanding and, with a booming economy, he made the country feel comfortable. However, it was after Clinton's second-term win — when he defeated Bob Dole — that, I believe, things started to go to shit. Bob Dole was the ultimate sore loser. It was uncomfortable to watch Dole's "He's not my president!" behavior. But, again, it really didn't affect my day-to-day life. I still went to work. I was more concerned with the well-being of my family and, as always, just figured politics and the country would take care of itself... as selfish as that may seem.

I watched eight years of a George W. Bush presidency that evoked the good ol' backward-thinking Republican ways of my narrow-minded father and my narrower-minded grandmother. I saw the beginnings of a military conflict that was right out of the pages of George Orwell's 1984 — a battle against an unclear adversary that still rages on to this day. But, again, since a military draft had not been reinstated (besides, there was a huge amount of young men anxious to serve) and, since I was too old and my son was too young for military service, this, too, did not really affect my life on a personal level.

When Barack Obama became president, I truly believed that we had finally broken though and shaken off the clutches of the "old guard." By "old guard," of course I mean the government run by my father's old-white-guy Republican party. I figured that since, finally!, the President of the United States was a guy my own age (President Obama is exactly one week, to the day, older than I am), I was now part of the majority in the country and the president, as it had always been, was a reflection of the majority.

On Tuesday night — Election Night — I watched, in disbelief, as the progressive, visionary America that I saw blossom over the past eight years crumbled under a venomous blanket of hate, bigotry, xenophobia and unfounded fear. There was regular evidence that racism and hatred was alive and well in our country, but I was shocked that it has been allowed to be brought to the forefront by a bullying, prejudiced, uninformed, misogynist con artist. Like the Piper Piper of Hamelin, he played the right notes and stirred up the vermin that was hidden under the rocks and in the dirt. They followed his lead and they heard what they wanted to hear, ignoring the parts they didn't understand or didn't want to examine more closely. Say what you will about Mr. Trump, but the guy knows marketing. He successfully peddled his brand — a smoke-and-mirrors brand of gold-covered shit — and the right people bought it and happily ate it up.

And now the piper will be the next president, undoing everything that was accomplished over the past decade. I am thoroughly disappointed in my country.

Once again, the outcome of a presidential election may not affect me personally, but it will affect a great many people in this country — people of color, Latinos, Muslims, members of the LGBTQ community, women, immigrants, the disabled. Over the past eight years, I have met and become close to people that fall into those categories and it makes me sad for them. So, I take it back. This presidential election has affected me. In my effort to become less selfish, the results of this election makes me feel sorrow, anguish and fear on behalf of some people that I love.

Plus, it makes me embarrassed in front of the rest of the world.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

any colour you like

Earlier this week, the United States Treasury Department announced plans to remove the portrait of Andrew Jackson, the seventh President of the United States, from the twenty-dollar bill and replace it with the image of Harriet Tubman, the courageous and defiant freedom fighter and fierce proponent of the Underground Railroad. Andrew Jackson, who has only graced the monetary note since 1928, was the owner of over 500 slaves. He fought and won the bloody Battle of New Orleans in which 285 British troops were killed and nearly 500 hundred were captured. Unfortunately, The Treaty of Ghent — that ended the War of 1812 — had been signed several weeks earlier. He started wars with many tribes of Native Americans and, as President, he signed the Indian Removal Act of 1830, forcing tens of thousands of Native Americans off of their land.

When the news of the redesigned twenty-dollar bill was made public, Twitter and other media outlets lit up like a bunch of racists igniting Southern-purchased fireworks on the Fourth of July. I could not believe the amount of blatant, unbridled bigotry I was seeing in my Twitter feed. There were feeble references to "tradition" and "respect" regarding Andrew Jackson coupled with flat out insults and historical unfamiliarity and misinformation in reference to Harriet Tubman. It made me think that all of the talk of "equality" and "opportunity" and "inclusion" and "freedoms" are just bullshit as far as a lot of people in this country are concerned. I see textbook examples of those types of people during highlights of every "Donald Trump for President" campaign rally. Those people, waving their flags and throwing punches at anyone who doesn't look like they do, are the voice of the racism and prejudice that exists in our great nation.

The thought of bigotry makes me nauseous. Partly because it's just wrong to arbitrarily discriminate against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. Partly because my father and grandmother regularly discriminated against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. It was something I grew up with, something I knew was wrong and something from which I promised to distance myself.

Colorful.

So, after a full day of monitoring my little corner of the internet spew its racist opinions about something as insignificant as whose picture is on money, as though a change will disrupt the delicate balance of..... whatever,* my work day ended. I boarded my train and came home. My wife met me at the train station. As I got into her car, she told me that she had sold a large Little Tykes climbing structure that my nieces had outgrown. Mrs. P had listed the piece on a local Facebook "yard sale" page and it sold almost immediately. The toy was in my in-laws' backyard and a couple were coming to pick it up shortly.  She needed some help maneuvering the awkward and bulky piece to a more convenient spot near the driveway. Once we got to the yard, we decided to take a shot at disassembling the structure and we were successful. When the buyers showed up — right on schedule — they were happy to fit each piece in the back of their SUV.

The toy had, in reality, belonged to a friend of my mother-in-law. A very nice woman that I know well. At least I thought I knew her well. After the transaction was completed and the happy buyers were on their way, my mother-in-law called her friend as were gathered around the kitchen table for a quick dinner. Although the phone was cradled and pressed close to my mother-in-law's ear, we easily heard both sides of the conversation. My mother-in-law explained that Mrs. P has sold the piece and the method through which the sale was made. We could hear squeals of approval and a few questions about the condition of the piece and the about the buyers  — including one question that made me bristle.

"Were they white?," she asked. We heard it clear as crystal.

I was dumbfounded. The purchase was made and the buyers were happy. I couldn't understand what their race could possibly have to do with.... with..... anything. The only color that mattered was that their money was green.

That's really the only concern that anyone should have with whose picture is on it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Hey! Remember when quarters began sporting different state imagery for over a decade? Didn't destroy us, did it?

why don't you hate who I hate

If you want to pick a sports figure as an inspiration and a role model, Serena Williams is a pretty good choice. On Saturday, Miss Williams won the French Open, the latest achievement in her illustrious, title-filled twenty-year career. Making her debut at the tender age of 14, Miss Williams fought hard to emerge as a true champion in the field of professional tennis, maintaining her ability and competitive edge into an age when most of her contemporaries have retired. So how did the judgmental world of social media congratulate Miss Williams on her latest victory? Well, some took to Twitter to call her "disgusting" and "manly." Others expressed more vicious sentiment, some with a decidedly racist tone. Miss Williams has been on the receiving end of sexist and racist slurs her entire career.

On the same Saturday, Mrs. Pincus and I attended a wedding. Aside from the bride and her parents, we didn't know any other guests. After a lovely and traditional ceremony in an historic rural church, we gathered at the outdoor pavilion of a nearby country club for the celebratory reception. Amid the open seating, Mrs. P and I chose an empty picnic table and chatted and watched as other guests filed in. A couple, slightly older than my wife and me, approached and asked to join us. We smiled, offering a gesture of welcome. As we enjoyed our dinner, we made informal small talk with the couple, touching on the usual subjects of jobs, relationship to the bride, the weather and travel. We mentioned that we had just returned from a cruise. We spoke briefly about our trip before they began tell us of a cross-country drive that they recently took. The gentleman spoke about some of the unusual things they encountered and happily reported (with a sardonic tone) about a hotel they visited that was — and I quote a man that we had only met twenty minutes prior — "filled with blacks." My wife and I were silently horrified.

My son is a disc jockey on a local Philadelphia radio station. In addition to other responsibilities, he hosts an all-request show every Saturday afternoon. In the current age of technology, requests are submitted via Twitter, Facebook and email, as well as the good ol' telephone. On this very same Saturday, he received a call by way of Katie, the young lady who sometimes answers the phone for him. A woman phoned to ask: "The guy that's on the radio right now... Is it E. Pincus?" Katie, the phone-answerer, replied, "Yes." The caller continued the line of questioning. "Is that his real name? Or is it a name he uses just for the radio?" Having no clue where this inquisition was headed, Katie answered, "That is his real name. Is there a song you'd like to hear?" She tried to get the caller back on track. But, the caller persisted, "Is he Jewish or does that question make me a bigot?" Katie immediately disconnected the call and shook her head in disbelief.

My friend Randi works for the local office of the Anti-Defamation League. She often organizes and facilitates in-person seminars about tolerance. Her presentations discuss bullying, antisemitism, racism and other topics to help educate the uneducated. She travels city-wide, to schools, to youth groups, to senior centers — anywhere that is willing to assemble an audience and willing to open their minds. Whenever I see Randi I tell her that, based on what I regularly witness, she will have job security for a long, long time.

I can't wait to tell her about Saturday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they’re selling postcards of the hanging

On this date, 94 years ago, The John Robinson Circus was setting up for a one-day stop in Duluth, Minnesota. Two teenagers, Irene Tusken and James Sullivan, attended the 8 o'clock performance. At 9:45, after an evening of entertainment, Sullivan and his date went home. Tusken briefly talked with her parents, then bid them "good night" and went off to bed. At midnight, Sullivan reported for his night-shift duty at the ore docks. Around 3 AM, more than five hours after the circus performance, Sullivan told his father, a dock supervisor, that he and Tusken had been accosted at gunpoint by several black circus workers. He went on to say that they raped Tusken while he was held at bay. Astonished and angered, Sullivan's father called the Duluth Police to report the incident.

At 4:30 AM, workers at the circus grounds had just finished packing up the rigging and equipment and loaded it all on a train. That train was stopped by police. One hundred and forty black laborers were awakened and lined up alongside the train tracks. When Sullivan and Tusken arrived, they hesitated and expressed difficulty in identifying the men who attacked them. They randomly chose six men who, in their assessment, fit the approximate description and body size. Police questioned other workers and, eventually arrested the six.

"Smile everyone. Everyone that can, that is"

The story of the rape swept through town. A crowd — swelling to nearly 10,000 — gathered at the police station. They threw bricks and screamed for justice. The city's public safety commissioner, acting as leader in the absence of the Chief of Police, ordered officers not to draw their guns. Without the benefit of proper crowd control, the police were helpless. The rabid throng broke into the police station and began to saw through the bars on the small cells inside. The terrified prisoners began praying. After gaining access, the mob pulled Isaac McGhie, Elmer Jackson and Elias Clayton out of their cells and out into the street. The men beat them. The women kicked and stomped them with high-heeled shoes. The crowd dragged the three men — each barely 20 years old — for several blocks and hanged them, one-by-one, from a lamp post at the corner of Second Avenue and First Street. Then the people jockeyed for prime position to pose with the dead men for a photograph. Elias Clayton was cut down, his half-naked body tossed on the sidewalk so he would fit in the photo. The smiles and laughter cast an eerie dichotomy with the lifeless and twisted figures at the photograph's center.

Subsequent questioning and further investigation suggests that no rape or attack had taken place. No one was ever charged with the murders of McGhie, Jackson and Clayton. Max Mason, a fourth black circus worker, served four years in prison for his involvement in a crime that never happened.

We should never forget incidents like this. We should talk about them and not sweep them under the rug, pretending they didn't happen. And we, as a society, should be ashamed of ourselves.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they're all precious in His sight

I suppose Liv has to be Facebook friends with Mary, her son-in-law's mother. I guess it's the polite thing to do in the Internet Age. So, Liv accepted the friend request and continued to go about her Facebook business — viewing family pictures, playing Candy Crush, you know — just like anyone.

One day, on a daily check-in on Facebook,  Liv received an invitation from Mary. It was for an event called "Son Rise Music Festival," a celebration in song featuring performances and bands with a decidedly (nay, overtly) Christian slant. Liv, who is Jewish, declined the invitation. Mary responded, curious as to why Liv would not be attending. This is the exchange that took place:

Mary: Why aren't you going to Son Rise?

Liv: It's my grandson's birthday the same weekend, besides — I'm not really interested in a Christian music festival.

Mary: What do you mean?

Liv: I'm not Christian, Mary. I'm Jewish!

Mary: You believe in God, right?

Liv: Yes.

Mary: Well, then you're Christian!

Liv: No, Mary, Jews believe in God, but we don't believe that Jesus was the Messiah and we don't believe that Jesus was the son of God.

Mary: You don't? I thought everyone believed that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Tra-di-tion! Tradition!

I'm Jewish. My wife is Jewish. For the most part, we observe Jewish tradition (Mrs. P more than me). We have a kosher kitchen. We search for chametz before Passover begins. We fast on Yom Kippur and we light real, wax candles on Chanukah, instead of the electrified version. So, after a lapse of many years, we once again participated in one of the most revered and time-honored of all Jewish traditions. On Christmas, we went to the movies and ate Chinese food.

Anticipating a large crowd, I visited the confusing Regal Cinemas website on Monday evening and purchased tickets for a 4:00 p.m. Christmas Day showing of Saving Mr. Banks at a nearby theater where the film was playing in one of the 22 auditoriums. I figured at 4, most gentiles would still be assembling new bicycles, figuring out which way to install batteries or mixing up their third batch of eggnog before the Christmas goose hits the tablecloth. (Having never celebrated Christmas, my only frame of reference is the Cratchit Family gathered eagerly around the Scrooge-provided meal in the final scene of A Christmas Carol.) I also figured that most Jews would venture out later in the evening, taking advantage of a day off from work. I printed out my "Print-At-Home" tickets, wondering what specific "convenience" was afforded me by the $2.50 convenience charge, and stuck them in a safe place until Christmas.

After a morning of Christmas episodes of vintage television (Mr. Ed, Hazel and The Patty Duke Show all shared similar "Down with Christmas Commercialism" plot lines.), Mrs. P and I headed out to the movies. As we drove the twenty-five minutes north on Route 611, I noticed that every strip center boasting a Chinese restaurant had a full parking lot. All other business were dark and locked up tight, but the familiar red and yellow sign in front of each Chinese restaurant burned brightly as a welcoming beacon. We passed six or seven such eating establishments and every one bore an overabundance of parked vehicles.

We pulled into the theater's parking lot and, it too, was jammed with cars. My wife located a space a good distance from the theater. We parked and hurried in. Luckily, we already had our admission tickets because the queue line snaked through the lobby and onto the cement walkway out front. At the risk of making a very, very racist statement, the overwhelming majority of patrons were Jews. Oh, it's okay — we can spot each other a mile away. We know our mannerisms, our traits, our demeanor, our speech patterns and our overall "look." Don't ask me to be specific, we just know. By the pained murmurs of "Oy vey! What a line!" and the over-dramatic exaggerated shrieks of recognition exchanged by women who just saw each other a day ago at the hairdresser, we knew we were among "my people." There were more Jews here than the last time I was at High Holiday services.

Our ticket was scanned by a disinterested young man who was wedged into a tight red Regal Cinemas vest. He directed us down the labyrinth-like corridor to Theater 13, where a line for seating was winding out of the darkness into the light of the hallway. We joined the line and shuffled slowly into the auditorium. My wife stopped to say "Hello" to a fellow she knew from synagogue (See?). Soon, we were able to view a selection of available seats. The place was packed and a low rumble of hushed conversation filled the dimly-lit room. I spotted two unoccupied seats in the middle of a row about halfway up. Excusing myself to the few seated patrons on the aisle end of the row, I led my wife to what would be our location for the next two hours.

The movie (once it started, as it was preceded by thirty minutes worth of trailers for a slew of films I have already decided I have no desire to see) was great. Well acted, well written and, save for a few anachronisms, very entertaining — but now I was hungry. 

We located our car (not before Mrs. P spotted and greeted another group of people she knew from synagogue) and headed back to Route 611. I found my cellphone and called a Chinese restaurant that's a few blocks from our house. Our plan was to place an order from the car and pick it up on the way home. I dialed the number. On the other end, I recognized the voice of the young lady at the restaurant that usually answers the phone, except this time she screamed "SZECHUANMANDARIN-CANYOUHOLDFORAMINUTE?" and I heard the receiver drop on something hard. She spewed  the salutation as one long, angry word. She sounded harried and frantic. Through the phone I could heard the clinking of plates and tinkling of silverware, but above it all, I could hear the agitated tones of the usually demure hostess. Although the words were indiscernible, they were obviously foreign and decidedly furious. I waited patiently. And I waited some more. I could still hear a great commotion through the phone, but no one was returning to accept my order. My wife called on her phone and I could hear the ring through my phone. Her call was answered by a man. She quickly passed the phone to me and I placed the order, only to be told that it would be ready in about fifty minutes, nearly five times the usual waiting period.

We arrived at the restaurant and I hopped out of the car. As I approached the entrance to the restaurant, it looked as though all of my fellow movie-goers had beat me here. I was told my order was not yet ready, so I waited some more. The place looked like a typical morning at the Wailing Wall. I expected a Torah to pass by carried by a t'fillin-swathed gentleman. Men and women I recognized from our predominantly Jewish neighborhood were pacing and talking and complaining.

"Oy! It's so busy!"

"This is crazy meshuganeh!"

"So many people here — kine hora!"

I spied the regular hostess scurrying between the kitchen and the reception area, her spindly arms over-laden with take-out orders. A young man, pad and pencil in hand, was scribbling the names of entrees being screamed at him by fur-wrapped, jewelry-encrusted, white-haired women in condescending mock-Asian accents. I stood by a coat rack, waiting for my order number to be announced. Finally, my vegetarian feast, labeled "Number 25," appeared. I paid and maneuvered my way through the crowd. I weaved around a few more arriving families — annoyed Dads, distressed Moms, unruly children and bewildered, slothy grandparents — and made it to my wife's waiting car.

I will make a note to remember these events next Christmas. And we will be breaking tradition.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

turning japanese

I was in the supermarket a few nights ago. I think I was picking up a quart of half & half ...or something like that. I made my selection and got into a checkout line. There were two women in front of me, finishing up their fairly large grocery order. One of the women was filling up bags with items while the other fumbled in her purse for cash or a credit card. I waited patiently.

A woman got in line behind me. She had several items in one of those plastic hand baskets. She began putting her items up on the conveyor belt. I held onto my single carton of half & half.

The two women ahead of me were taking an unnecessarily long amount of time. Another woman, pushing a shopping cart, got in line behind the woman with the hand basket. She was about my age (early 50s), wearing a blue winter coat with white faux fur trim around the hood. And she happened to be Asian. She asked the "hand basket woman" if she knew the location of an specific item in the store. The "hand basket woman" smiled and cheerfully directed her to the first aisle of the store and told her she'd find the item about halfway down on the left. The Asian woman thanked her, left her cart, and hurried up to the first aisle.

After a minute or two, another woman walked to the line, behind the temporarily abandoned cart. She was in her mid-30s, dressed in a dark red sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a knot at the top of her head. And, coincidentally, she was Asian.

The "hand basket woman" turned around and addressed the new addition to our check-out line.

"Did you find what you were looking for?," she asked.

The woman in the red sweater rightfully appeared confused. "Excuse me?," she questioned.

"The item I sent you for?," the "hand basket woman" continued, "Did you find it?"

The woman in the red sweater cocked her head to one side.

It suddenly occurred to the "hand basket woman" that she was talking to a different Asian woman. "Oh... never mind.," she said and turned back around to face front.

By this time, I was paying for my half & half and happy to be leaving the store.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

east meets west and it goes bang (東 が 西に)

It's no secret that I love old television, specifically programs from my youth. Thanks to networks like MeTV and Antenna TV*, I can relive the glory days of life with the Cleaver family and the daily grind of Officers Reed and Malloy. I love watching the simple premises upon which each episode is based. Situations that the scriptwriters felt they could stretch out to a full half-hour (with commercials), like Mary Stone having two dates to the big dance on The Donna Reed Show or Dennis breaking Mr. Wilson's window (again) with an errant football on Dennis the Menace. These are examples of typical intrigue on late-twentieth century television.

There is one particular plot device that has popped up on nearly every drama and situation comedy in the 50s, 60s and right into the 70s — Asians. There was something about the Far East that fascinated television writers enough that every show had at least one "Asian-centric" episode.

I was born in 1961. I grew up in a predominantly Caucasian (99.9%) neighborhood. I went to a predominantly Caucasian (98%), predominantly Jewish (85%) elementary school. There was one family from Korea on my block. You had to remove your shoes before you went into their house (which smelled like ginger). They had two boys — John (the older one) and Dong Wook (the younger one). John and Dong Wook (later known as "Donny", despite some of the narrow-minded, sons-of-bigots neighborhood kids insisting upon calling him "Dung Gu") were friendly and easy-going. They rode bikes. They played baseball. They wore the same clothes everybody else wore. They were just like us.

But on television, Asians were depicted as mystical, magical, eerie, ethereal and mysterious. On shows written by guys named "McGreevy," "Kalish," and "Tibbles," Asians were treated as a novelty. There was always one episode that showed the main characters crossing paths with a family of Asians with "ways different from our own." The characters were pretty cookie-cutter, too. There was the young, Americanized boy or girl who is befriended by the show's main character's child. They would introduce a parent who was trying to assimilate into American society while still maintaining ties to the Old World ways. And then we'd meet the stoic, wizened grandparent - quiet, stubborn and unwilling to adapt to this "frivolous American behavior." I remember My Three Sons, Donna Reed, Family Affair and That Girl all having their obligatory "Asian" episode. They would cast American-born Asian actors (regardless of their specific heritage) for any number of Japanese, Chinese or generic Asian roles. Character actors like Benson Fong, Beulah Quo, Frances Fong and Richard Loo, whose careers spanned several decades, were cast over and over, often appearing in guest roles on different shows at the same time. Even more familiar actors like James Hong and George Takei took the demeaning parts of houseboys or waiters early in their careers. But they were all subjected to the same quaint, subordinate depiction of Asians. Most often, they would deliver their lines in a self-mocking, exaggerated accent, substituting "L"s for "R"s in their dialog. Or, if they were playing an Asian-American character, their speech was peppered with "groovy" and "far out" and other cool, contemporary lingo. It was commonplace in the 60s, but now it's painful to watch.

Sometimes, if an actual Asian actor wasn't available, a heavily made-up American was cast instead. I saw Marlo Thomas in a kimono play a mail-order Asian bride in a particularly embarrassing episode of Bonanza. And who could forget David Carradine playing Chinese Kwai Chang Caine for three seasons of Kung Fu? 

In these ultra-aware, politically-correct times, Hollywood wouldn't dream of doing anything so offensive — so blatantly racist — towards any ethnic group. Except for Native Americans.

Isn't that right, Johnny Depp?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Although TV Land infrequently broadcasts The Andy Griffith Show, I cannot consider The Golden Girls and King of Queens part of classic television.

there's the wind up and there's the pitch

I spent a long weekend at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City with my family. This is not another account of my wife's affection for gambling. This is a story of racism, once again, rearing its ubiquitous head.

After breakfast, my son and I headed back to our hotel room while my wife spent some time in the casino. (I don't know... maybe she was checking out the carpeting or lighting fixtures for an upcoming home improvement project.) We stood at the bank of six elevators waiting for one to whisk us up to our room on the thirty-second floor. A chime split the air announcing the arrival of an elevator. My son and I filed in. We were followed by a man and woman in their thirties and another couple, I would venture to guess, pushing seventy. The doors shut.

The older man — a short, bent-over fellow — was giving the younger man the "once-over", until he finally cleared his throat and addressed him. "You look like C.C. Sabathia.", he croaked. His thin lips curled back, revealing an obviously false set of equine-like choppers. The object of this observation was a very tall (about six foot-five) black man sporting a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was preoccupied with his cellphone, unaware that the old man's comment was directed at him. So, the elderly gentleman repeated his assertion, this time a little louder — "You look like C.C. Sabathia".

C. C. Sabathia is a Cy Young Award winning, four-time All Star pitcher for the New York Yankees, whose seven-year, $161 million contract is the largest in Major League Baseball history. He is six feet-seven inches tall and weighs 250 pounds. The only thing that our fellow elevator passenger had in common with Mr. Sabathia was he was tall, he was black and he wore a Yankees hat. He was approximately half the girth of the Yankee hurler and didn't remotely resemble him.

The young man smiled uncomfortably and mumbled apologetically to the old man, "Heh, heh... I wish I had his money." Just then, the doors opened and the younger couple exited the car. The older man and his silent wife remained for one more floor, ultimately leaving the elevator occupied by just my son and me. Once we were alone, my son turned to me and, noting my short stature and pointing to my red hair and glasses, said, "Y'know, if that guy in the Yankees hat wasn't here, the old man would have told you that you look like Woody Allen."

Yankees pitcher C.C. Sabathia



Another story of racism can be found HERE on the josh pincus is crying blog.