Allyn's Alley is moving!

I am going to give Substack a try. To be honest, I hope that there, I can make a bit of money by eventually monetizing the blog! 

After today, follow me at http://tinaseward.substack.com.

I hope to see you there!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

" . . . and they call it La Brutta Notte."

I work as a legal proofreader. My Facebook friends know that when I proof, I will often put up as my status, "Time to make the donuts!" a reference to an old Dunkin' Donuts commercial where the poor baker is running himself ragged "making the donuts." 

Yesterday, I did not make donuts.

Instead, I made a metaphorical pizza.

Yesterday I spent approximately nine hours (not consecutive, thank God!) working on a transcript that had an English-Italian translator. The deponent spoke Italian so a translator came in to help with the testimony. The recording I listened to was seven hours long. 

I'd already done a spell check and other things I could do without listening to the recording of the deposition, and I'd decided to set aside all of Tuesday to listen to the recording of the transcript and make the necessary changes. The transcript was due today, and despite everything, I got it in.

In Lady and the Tramp, during their famous spaghetti dinner scene, the happy couple is serenaded by someone singing, "they call it La Bella Notte." 

There was nothing "bella" about this transcript. I looked up "bad" in Italian and found the word "brutta," and "brutta" was exactly how it went. (Note:  This is not meant to be a dig at the people I work for. Since it's the legal profession, fast turnaround times are the norm. I've been proofing for about nine years and I'm used to getting stuff due in 24-48 hours. I'm privileged to be able to work from home and have flexible hours. Plus, the money I earn goes toward paying off debt, which I also appreciate.)

To begin with, I spent the first hour trying to get my printer to print. I eventually got most of the problem solved . . . except for, my printer now will not print a PDF file at all. 

When I finally dove into the transcript, it became an example as to why a 15-minute quarter in a football game does not last 15 minutes. I had to stop, make corrections, listen, stop, etc. and the mental effort required to do so took an especial toll on me. 

Adding to the frustration was receiving a letter concerning paperwork I thought I had turned in, but which apparently was not received by the party that needed it. The paperwork is on a PDF file, which, as I mentioned before, I can't print out because the printer has decided not to cooperate.  Me glaring at it and informing it that I have ways of making it work . . . well, is not working. 

There were parentheticals (notations made in the transcript such as (Exhibit 1 Marked For Identification) I needed to take out, and parentheticals I ended up leaving in because I didn't know if I needed to take them out. 

And all the while, the voice of the deponent pounding away at me in Italian and the poor translator trying to give an accurate translation. Fortunately, when a deposition involves two languages, the court reporter/transcriber/proofreader only has to worry about getting down the English. (The last time I proofed a deposition that had two languages, the other language was Urdu, which is a national language of Pakistan. My hat is off to anyone that can read/write/translate English and languages such as Urdu, Farsi, Dari, Vietnamese, etc.)  

I'd been awake since before 5 a.m., and at one point, needed to go lie down for about an hour because I was just plain exhausted. 

I finally finished the "brutta notte" around 10 p.m. or so, told my BFF I was going to bed, and went, fully expecting to have either dreams or nightmares starring Marlon Brando and/or Al Pacino, all set to the theme music of The Godfather. 

Well, neither Brando, Pacino, nor The Godfather soundtrack made it into my dreams, and thankfully, I didn't awaken covered in blood and in bed with the head of a decapitated horse. 

The final exclamation point came this morning, when I went to a doctor's appointment . . . and was told it was next week.

So, not only was it a "brutta notte", the "brutta" bled over into the next day! 

I was able to redeem some of the "brutta" by stopping at Walmart and picking up some needed groceries, and took a nap after lunch.

There are two more transcripts to do before I can relax and enjoy a long weekend. Fortunately, neither of them look like they will have an Italian translator. 

In the meantime, if you hear vague mutterings that resemble Italian from the direction of Atlanta, order me up either some spaghetti and meatballs or a pizza and have it sent to me. I'll eat it while watching The Godfather. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Chapman, Combs, and a car

On Sunday night, Grammy Award host Trevor Noah began a segment about country singer Luke Combs and the first song he learned to play on the guitar. Combs described it as “my favorite song before I knew it was my favorite song.” 

When the segment was over, the broadcast cut to a pair of hands — a pair of Black hands — playing an iconic opening riff. 

Luke Combs is White. It was not him playing the guitar. 

As the lights went up and the camera pulled back, the crowd roared. 

The iconic riff belonged to the 1988 song, “Fast Car.”

The Black hands belonged to singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman, who made her splash into the music world in the mid-‘80’s. “Fast Car” got to number six on the Billboard Hot 100. It also won her three Grammy nominations: Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance. She won in the latter category. 

Last year, Luke Combs fulfilled a dream and recorded “Fast Car” as a single. He sang it straight, not changing a word, even down to singing, “work as a checkout girl”. His version hit number one on the Country Airplay chart, making Chapman the first Black woman to have a number one country song with a solo composition. “Fast Car” also won Song of the Year, making her the first Black songwriter to ever win that award. 

When Tracy Chapman stepped on stage at Sunday’s Grammys and began to strum the opening riff of “Fast Car”, it marked the first time in nine years that she’d performed live. I don’t know if it was common knowledge that Chapman would be there along with Combs; I have not followed the Grammys for many years and I barely knew the names of some artists who were nominated. 

But that crowd roar, and then Tracy’s distinctive voice singing, “You got a fast car,” detonated a musical bomb in the audience of the Crypto.com arena. Her smile lit up her face as she realized the audience knew who it was playing the song. 

Luke Combs stood next to her. They traded verses back and forth, coming together on the chorus, “I remember we were driving / Driving in your car . . .” 

Throughout the song, when he wasn’t singing, Luke Combs was looking at Tracy, drawing attention to her. He had not brought an instrument. It was Tracy Chapman, with her guitar, and a couple of violins and a drum in the background. 

And in the audience, people standing up, clapping along, singing along (CBS showed a two-second shot of Taylor Swift singing and dancing). 

The energy must have been electric. 

When the song ended, Luke gestured towards Tracy and bowed. 

She bowed back. 

And the audience cheered. 

They cheered for an honest song that told the story of someone who wanted to “get out of here”, hoped for something better, and yet, in the end, ordered her significant other to “take your fast car and keep on driving.” 

In a polished world of autotune, glitz, red carpet glamour, and scripted performances, Tracy Chapman appeared in a simple, button-down shirt and blue jeans, with only the silver in her hair hinting at her age (she will be 60 next month). 

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and moved her fingers through the chords, performing like the artist she is. 

In the end, it all came back to the music. It all came back to a song that made a young woman famous, and a song that, 36 years later, still had the raw power to bring an audience - an audience with members who probably are jaded at times with the industry -  to its feet to pay tribute. 

“Fast Car” shows the power of a song to bring two unlikely people  - a Black female pop artist and a White male country artist - together. 

It showed the respect and humility of a White artist honoring a Black artist who impacted his career in ways he could probably not have predicted. 

The group Gallery, back in 1972, released the song “I Believe In Music”, which contained the line, “Music is the universal language.”

Sunday night, February 4, 2024, those who saw the Grammys saw an example of that universal language bringing people together, if only for those few moments. 

Thank you, Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

‘Cause she’s happy . . .

Until Saturday, I had never been to a funeral that played Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” and Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” on a continuous loop before the services began. 

The odds of my attending such a funeral again are rather low.

But in between lies a funeral where Pharrell Williams and Bobby McFerrin set the tone - or at least set the tone as much as they possibly could. 

Saturday, I attended the funeral of a dear 41-year-old woman named Valencia. Valencia was the daughter of a woman who often sings on our church’s praise team. 

Valencia’s middle name was Coniah, which means, “Strength of the Lord”. She and her family needed every ounce of that strength. 

Valencia was born with Down’s Syndrome. And no matter how much you hear about the “blessing” Down’s Syndrome children are to their families, they are also a challenge, as all people are who deal with a disability, whether physical, developmental, or otherwise. Valencia was fortunate to have a caregiver - a woman who bonded with her over many years while Valencia’s mother worked. 

Before that caregiver, however, she and her family had moved to Georgia from Oregon . . . and then they had to send Valencia to Milwaukee for her to get the help and education she needed. Georgia, at the time Valencia’s family moved there, could not meet Valencia’s needs. And although some things have changed for the better in Georgia in the care and education of the disabled, Georgia ranks near the bottom of the 50 states when it comes to services to the disabled. (A person can make more money walking a dog in Georgia than they can caregiving someone with a disability. That is criminal. Our minister has developed a heart for the disabled and those who care for them, and during Valencia’s eulogy, called on us to vote for people who would work for their interests. Didn’t Jesus talk about “the least of these”, and how whatever we do for “the least of these”, you do for Him?) 

Since the song “Happy” was written for the movie “Despicable Me 2”, and since Gru’s minions do have streaks of mischief, “Happy” was probably more appropriate for Valencia’s funeral than one might realize. One of Valencia’s sisters commented that Valencia was a “sneaky ninja” when it came to getting out of the house. She could figure out any lock put on a door. Eventually, her family installed alarms on the doors so they’d know if she was getting out. 

She’d also watch to see where stuff was hidden. I have a feeling that no hiding place was safe from her.

Back in 2004, Valencia was baptized, and her obituary testified to her love for God.  

Towards the end of her life, Valencia’s vision deteriorated. But if you said to her, “Hey, V,” she’d turn her face towards the sound of the person’s voice. 

When she was at church, not only did she have her mother and sister near her, she had a group of people surrounding her, making sure she was loved. 

After the funeral, Valencia received one more honor: a funeral repass (also known as a reception) that featured many of Valencia’s favorite foods, including chicken tenders and potato chips. I don’t know if Valencia liked chocolate or not, but there were several chocolate desserts available (and I had too many :) )

It’s become common to refer to funerals as “celebrations of life”; I think because “funerals” have a negative connotation. I do think of people weeping and wearing black mourning when I think of “funeral”.  

But this truly was a celebration of a person’s life; a person who lived, who was happy, who was sometimes a “sneaky ninja”, and who, in the end, loved and loved back. 

When people loved you, and you loved back, you deserve to be celebrated by two songs singing about being happy.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

So why was MLK in Memphis in the first place?

It rained in Memphis on Thursday, February 1, 1968.

I grew up in the South, so when I hear that “it rained in February,” I picture a sky the color of gray putty and the rain just falling. Not being whipped around by the wind, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning, and then the thunder, the sound of which can range from a low rumble to a loud bang, and if the thunder happened immediately after the lightning, you knew that the worst part of the storm was right over your head. 

But in Memphis, Tennessee, as in all cities, the trash had to be collected.  So two employees of Memphis’ Public Works Department,  Echol Cole and Robert Walker, hopped onto the back of their truck and began their day’s duties. 

The Public Works Department gave them no gloves, no uniforms, and no place to shower. The smell of rotting food, the slimy grease from restaurants and homes, and perhaps the decomposing corpora delecti of mice, rats, and other vermin clung to their clothes, their skin, and their hair. 

By 4:20 p.m. on that Thursday, the rain had reached torrential status, with flooded streets and overflowing sewers. But Echol Cole and Robert Walker could not get off the truck to seek shelter.  Historian/writer Taylor Branch, in his book At Canaan’s Edge, explained that after complaints about “unsightly picnics” by the Black sanitation workers, the city barred shelter stops in residential neighborhoods. 

The only place Echol Cole and Robert Walker could go to protect themselves from the rain was into the back of the truck. So, into the back of the truck they went.

Cole and Walker may or may not have known that that specific truck was in bad condition. At least one fired sanitation worker, T.O. Jones, filed a complaint about the truck, asking it not be used. Instead, Memphis’ Department of Public Works - run by future Memphis mayor Henry Loeb - installed a new motor. To get the truck to work, workers had to jump start it and then let it run all day long. 

What happened next isn’t certain. It’s possible that a shovel crossed over some electrical wires, causing the trash compactor to malfunction. What we do know is that the trash compactor started and pulled both Cole and Walker into it, head first. 

Within moments, both men were crushed to death.

Echol Cole was 36.  Robert Walker was 30.  Both men were married. It’s not clear if Cole had any children, but Robert Walker left behind five of them, and his wife was pregnant with number six. 

Their deaths made front-page news in next day’s Memphis Commercial Appeal, but not as a banner headline. The story, with the headline “Garbage Truck Kills 2 Crewmen” was crowded onto a front page dominated by news of the Vietnam War and, down at the bottom right-hand corner, the announcement of the birth of Lisa Marie Presley, Elvis Presley’s only child.  

Cole had no life insurance. Neither did Walker. They couldn’t afford it. In fact, a sanitation worker’s pay was low enough to qualify them for food stamps. And since the City of Memphis classified them as hourly employees, their families received no workers’ compensation. 

Henry Loeb, now the mayor of Memphis, approved a payment of $500 to each man’s family. 

The cost to bury a body was $900.

Black residents in Memphis donated $100,000 to Cole’s and Walker’s widows. The United Auto Workers donated $25,000.

Ten days after Cole’s and Walker’s deaths, their union, Local 1733 of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees, met. Over 400 workers complained that the City of Memphis refused to provide decent wages and decent working conditions. The union wanted immediate action. The city said, “No.” (I wonder if they actually said something along the lines of General Anthony McAuliffe’s famous response to the German demand for surrender in December 1944: “Nuts.”)

On February 12, 1968, the sanitation workers of Memphis drew their line in the sand. 

Of 1100 sanitation workers, 930 didn’t come to work.  That included 214 of 230 sewer drainage workers. Of 108 garbage trucks, only 38 continued to move. 

Ten days later, the Memphis City Council - after a sit-in of sanitation workers and other supporters - voted to recognize the union and to recommend a wage increase. Mayor Henry Loeb, however, rejected that vote. Only he, he said, had the authority to recognize the union, and he was not going to do it.

On February 24th - after enduring mace and tear gas attacks by the police on nonviolent demonstrators marching to City Hall, 150 local ministers formed Community on the Move for Equality (COME). A longtime ally of Martin Luther King, James Lawson, led COME.  They determined to use nonviolence - as others had used in previous demonstrations - to fill Memphis jails and bring attention to the conditions of sanitation workers. 

Reverend James Lawson addressed the strikers with these words:  “For at the heart of racism is the idea that a man is not a man, that a person is not a person. You are human beings. You are men. You deserve dignity.” 

Not long afterwards, men in the demonstrations began wearing placards with the famous slogan, “I AM A MAN”.

During these difficult days, Reverend Malcolm Blackburn composed and recited a prayer he called the “Sanitation Workers’ prayer: 

Our Henry, who art in City Hall,

Hard-headed by thy name. 

Thy kingdom C.O.M.E

Our will be done

In Memphis, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our Dues Checkoff, 

And forgive us our boycott, 

As we forgive those who spray mace against us.

And lead us not into shame,

But deliver us from Loeb. 

For ours is justice, jobs, and dignity,

Forever and ever.

Amen.

FREEDOM!

Martin Luther King arrived in Memphis on March 18th, encouraging the strikers with the words, “You are demonstrating that we can stick together . . . that we are all tied in a single garment of destiny, and that if one Black person suffers, if one Black person is down, we are all down.” 

King planned to return to Memphis on March 22 to lead a citywide protest. But that very day, a snowstorm hit Memphis (hiding the trash piles?). The protest was rescheduled for March 28. 

On March 28, after marching for several blocks and singing “We Shall Overcome,” Black men, carrying iron pipes, bricks and signs, began smashing windows and looting in the stores. Police pounced with nightsticks, mace, tear gas and gunfire. At least 60 people, most of them Black, were injured, and 280 people were arrested. When James Lawson ordered the demonstrators to return to Clayborn Temple, the church that was their meeting place, police followed them, then released tear gas and began clubbing people. 

During the chaos, police officer Leslie Dean Jones shot and killed a 16-year-old demonstrator, Larry Payne. Witnesses at the time said that Payne had his hands raised as the officer fired a shotgun into his stomach. (During a later federal investigation, Jones stated he saw a knife in Payne’s hand and shot him in self-defense. In 2011, the Department of Justice concluded that there was no evidence to prove “beyond a reasonable doubt that the subject willfully used excessive force when he fired his weapon at the victim.” Payne’s case was closed on July 5, 2011.)

After Payne’s funeral on April 2 (held as an open casket funeral in Clayborn Temple despite police pressure for a closed casket funeral held at the family home), sanitation workers marched peacefully downtown.

The next evening, Martin Luther King returned to Memphis. The speech he gave at the Mason Temple, we now know as the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech.

Who knew what was running through Dr. King’s mind? Did he somehow know that the end was near? That he would not see his wife or four children again? Did he confide his concerns and fears to anyone? Or did he keep his thoughts between himself and God? 

On April 4th, Dr. King, the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, and others on King’s staff left room 306 of the Lorraine Motel. (Abernathy would later tell the House Select Committee on Assassinations that he and King stayed in Room 306 so often that it was known as the “King-Abernathy Suite”.) They were heading for dinner at the home of local minister Billy Kyles. 

They would never make that dinner date.

At 6:01 p.m. Central Time, from a rooming house across the street, a man raised a rifle, checked carefully through his scope, then used his index finger to apply the proper amount of pressure needed to send a bullet straight into King’s body.

King had just told musician Ben Branch, scheduled to perform later that evening, “Ben, make sure you play, ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’ in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty.”

Then the bullet hit King’s right cheek, broke his jaw and several vertebrae, and severed his jugular vein before lodging in his shoulder. 

He would die an hour later.

*****

Today, January 15, 2024, is Martin Luther King Day. I’m guessing that the two speeches that will be highlighted will be the iconic “I Have a Dream” speech and the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech. 

The media will talk about how for many, this is a day of service. What better way to honor a man of service than to do an act of service in his memory?

His children, Bernice, Dexter, and Martin III (his fourth, Yolanda, died in 2007) will remember him, and will also remember how their mother, Coretta Scott King, worked with him. 

I hope today, we’ll also remember why Dr. King went to Memphis that one last time.

He went there to reinforce the idea that yes, you do hard work, you do dirty work that few people would want to do . . . and you deserve to be treated like the men you are, with dignity and respect.

Robert Walker and Echol Cole deserved basic dignity and basic respect. 

They got neither. 

They were men. 

MLK wanted others to know that they, too, were men.  That they, too, were worth of basic dignity and respect. 

We all are.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Can someone gift me a HAZMAT outfit for 2024?

 I am not looking forward to 2024. 

It’s an election year, and we all know what has happened in the last few election years. Especially 2016 and 2020. 

On January 6th, it will be three years since a group of rioters stormed the Capitol building in Washington, DC and left in their wake broken glass and other property damage (including poop on the walls). They terrorized and traumatized the 535 members of Congress who were carrying out their duty to certify the Electoral College results. 

And to this day, there are those - including Donald Trump himself - who believe the election was stolen. 

This year, there is going to be so much mudslinging that I think I need a HAZMAT outfit to protect myself from the elements. 

The Presidential election is going to be bad enough. The vast majority of the GOP and the political media are predicting that Trump will be the Republican nominee for the Presidency. 

I suspect that, unless something very unexpected happens, Joe Biden will be the Democratic nominee. So we will have a rematch of 2020. (Bring your gloves, shake hands, and come out swinging!) 

There just seems to be this malaise hanging over the US that nothing seems to dissipate. Statistics show that inflation is down and unemployment rate is low . . . and that does not seem to matter. The media are holding their breath waiting for the stock market to crash and for another Great Depression/Recession, etc. 

I live in the Atlanta area, one of the places where Donald Trump will be tried for election interference.

And two states, Colorado and Maine, are keeping Trump off the ballot due to the third clause of the 14th Amendment of the US Constitution, which reads:  

“No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.”

I’m not a lawyer, so I can’t say whether this clause applies to Donald Trump. I am a legal proofreader, and between that, court reporting school, and maybe Law and Order, I might be able to score decently on the LSAT! To me, whether this clause applies to Trump should be decided by the Supreme Court, and I hope they would use the rule of law to decide rather than their feelings about Donald Trump. 

There are people I don’t talk politics with because it just is not a safe subject. And that saddens me. 

At the moment, we also have two major wars going on; one between Israel and Hamas and one between Russia and Ukraine. February 24 will mark two years of violence and bloodshed between Russian and Ukraine. 

On the home front, I find myself continually trying to balance work and running a house, trying - and too often failing - to write, and I badly need to take care of my health. Tomorrow I have my annual physical, and I may or may not need to assume the position in order to have a Pap done. I need to tackle my weight. I do have a Planet Fitness gym membership and will use it this year. 

The one piece of good news that stood out for me in 2023 was that we’re two-thirds of the way towards paying down my student loans. I’ve been seriously working at it since Matthew was about sixteen.  He’ll be 25 next month. 

The world may not be in the shape I see it in; there may be better things going on than I am willing to admit. 

But on the other hand, I sort of feel like Bette Davis’ character in All About Eve. 

To paraphrase her most famous line from the movie: “Fasten your seat belts.  It’s going to be a bumpy year!”

And please do NOT take your HAZMAT suit off. Because, if past events are any predictor of future performance, you will need it!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Why to learn Hebrew . . . and why not to

On Tuesdays, with breaks for spring, summer, and Christmas, I meet with a group of women at my church for Bible study and discussion. This year, we did "secret sisters", where you draw a name, and then remember to pray for them and send them the occasional note. 

This Tuesday, we revealed who our secret sisters were. 

One woman in our study received a beautiful basket of scented flowers. On the front of the basket, the words "Love First" were written on it in Hebrew. The giftee has made many trips to Israel and has a true heart for the people there. "Love First" is the motto, slogan, whatever you want to call it, of our church, and she is one of the people who tries to live it out daily. 

What a wonderful reason to learn Hebrew! 

Both the gifter and the giftee were blessed. 

Now, here are reasons not to learn Hebrew. 

(Content warning: references to and graphic descriptions of sexual assault, sexual violence, and death. Please use appropriate self-care if you choose to read further.) 

A recent NBC News article covers what they call a "mounting body of evidence" of "gender-based crimes" committed by Hamas terrorists on October 7th. 

One of the pieces of evidence, according to Israeli officials, was a Hamas pamphlet they discovered which gave instructions on how to pronounce the following phrases in Hebrew:  

"Raise your hands and open your legs."
"Take off your pants." 

Israeli investigators are cautioning against using exact numbers of rape victims right now. NBC News quoted them as saying that "evidence continues to come in and that the investigation is likely to go on for months."

What they are finding so far is -- if the reports are true -- horrific.

• Female corpses tied to beds.
• Eyewitness accounts of sexual violence
• Reports of women being repeatedly raped repeatedly, their bodies mutilated while still alive.
• Women shot in the breasts and in the vagina.
• Terrorists allegedly having sex with dead bodies. 
• Women bleeding from between their legs.
• Bodily mutilation of private parts, both women's and men's.  

I am sick just writing this. 

At the moment, investigators just aren't sure of the scale of sexual violence. They are moving slowly and carefully to make sure they have a thorough investigation.

But during videotapes of Hamas terrorists being interrogated, they, according to NBC News, talked about rape of women and children as a "Hamas tactic of war." One Hamas militant was quoted, "To have our way with them, to dirty them, to rape them." (NBC News noted that they could not independently identify the authenticity of the videos, and that "officials declined to provide unedited versions of the interrogations.)

Yes, rape is not only a crime, not only an act of violence, but a weapon of war, mostly utilized against women and children. 

And before anyone says to me, "But what about crimes that Israelis have committed against Palestinians?" I'm not doing an overview of the history of the Middle East since 1948, when Israel was founded as a nation. In this specific case, Hamas started the war.  

If reports are accurate, Hamas invaded Israeli territory. Hamas murdered people. Hamas attacked people. Hamas raped people. Hamas kidnapped people and dragged them back to Gaza, through their network of tunnels. The youngest hostage is a baby, 10 months old, and I have not heard if the baby is alive or dead. 

It is a wonderful thing to learn Hebrew to communicate a message of "love first."

It is a brutal, sickening thing to learn Hebrew in order to violently assault someone. 

Last night was the first night on Hanukkah. Since around 2008-2009, at the urging of my son (who is autistic and learned about "December holidays" in school) we have celebrated our own version of Hanukkah. We light our menorah and read from a book that talks about the history of Hanukkah. 

There are three prayers said on the first night of Hanukkah (from www.chabad.org): 

• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.
• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days, at this time.
• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.

Too many Jews were not enabled to reach Hanukkah at this time. This year, not only have the survivors lit Hanukkah candles, they have lit candles for their dead and sat shiva.

A Jewish friend of mine says that the celebrating of Hanukkah is also the celebration of hope. 

I pray he is right. 

People should learn Hebrew to communicate "love first". 

Not, "take off your pants."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

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