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Autobiographies from the Dead – Abdullah the Terrorist

17 Aug 2015 Leave a comment

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: Attack, Bomb, Freedom Fighter, Hamas, Israel, jihadist, Mayhem, murder, muslim, Palestine, Terrorism

Abdullah the Terrorist

My name is Abdullah. My name means “One who serves Allah.” They will call me Abdullah the Terrorist. I have killed twenty-five Jews, five Christians and of course myself. They will call me a suicide bomber. Calling it suicide is ironic since I did not want to die and neither did any of the thirty people I killed.

I am twenty-four years old and have recently graduated from Al-Azhar University in Gaza with a degree in Pharmacy. My parents said that people will always need medicine and I could help many of my people with such a degree. I had always wanted to help people and I thought of being a doctor but I did not like seeing blood. Another irony, since I probably have not helped any of the thirty people I just murdered and now I am covered with their blood and my blood. The blood of an Arab mixed with the blood of infidels.

I am not a fanatic. I did not choose to do this act. Never in my wildest fantasies did I think I would become a terrorist. I am not the type of person who wanted to sacrifice themselves for a cause. I certainly did not need thirty or forty virgins. I had all the virgins I could want while I was in college. How did I get to this place? I should not be dead. I should be enjoying a good career, a happy family and a long and prosperous life.

I was taught by my father and mother not to hate people. I was the eldest son in a family of six. I have two younger sisters and one younger brother. My father was a well-respected business man with a small appliance store. He had gone to college for two years but dropped out to help his father run a family business. My mother is a stay at home mom who loves to read, sew, cook and take care of the family finances. Both my mother and father are very devout Muslims. My father always told me, “If you hate people, you are no better than the people you hate.” So how did I become a “Terrorist?”

It began about a year after I graduated from college and after I had started working as a pharmacy assistant at a small pharmacy in Ramla. The pharmacy was about an hour commute from my home in Gaza. I had no problem getting a position there as I had never been linked to any anti-Israel activities. One day, my father was visited by three men in masks shortly after my family had eaten dinner. We were all told to “get lost.” My father was given the following message.

“Allah has been good to you. You have a thriving business. You prosper and your family prospers. Over the years, nothing has ever been asked of you for your people and nothing has ever been given. You take but you contribute little to the freedom of our country. You are a Palestinian but you ignore the sufferings of your neighbors who are oppressed by the Jews.”

“What do you want of me” said my father.

“All we ask is that you speak to your son. We want him to join us and help his people.”

“My son has his own free will” replied my father.

“Yes, but your son is also a Palestinian and all good Palestinians are expected to help overcome our oppression. This is not a request. It could go very badly for your family if you are on the wrong side here. You are either with us are against us. There is no in-between. Speak to your son and explain this to him.”

“Are you threatening me?” said my father.

“We do not threaten. We speak for the good of our people. You have been asked nicely. Please talk to your son and explain how it is to him.”

They left my father with the address of a meeting place for me to go to.

Later that week, my father came to talk to me about his conversation with the freedom fighters. He told me what they had said. He told me that he would not force a decision on me and that it was my choice whether to join them or not. He said that regardless of my decision, he would stand by me and respect me.

I would not dishonor my father and mother and family. I decided to meet with the men whom he had talked to. At our meeting, it was emphasized that I had a responsibility to my country as well as my family. I was told that many of my friends were also freedom fighters and that I would bring great honor to my family by joining them. I did not really have a choice. There were no other options. Thus, I became a freedom fighter for my country or in the West, I became a Terrorist.

A few months went by and nothing really terrible occurred. I continued working at the pharmacy by day. At night, I ran messages around the town and other minor errands. My family and friends continued on as before and to all appearances nothing really changed in my life. Then one day, I was called to a special meeting. Many of the upper level officers were there. I had seen some of these men before but as a low level soldier I had never talked to them. One older and very important looking man stood up and said:

“Abdullah, your time has come.” Your country has need of your services. You are the only one who can carry out this assignment. It will require great bravery and great dedication to our mission. Your actions will bring great glory and honor to your family. You will be remembered by all of our people and the name of Abdullah will go down in history for your heroic deeds.”

My knees were shaking and I was full of fear but I answered “What must I do?” I was going to become a real Jihadi.

The next few weeks were full of instructions and operational details. I often went between my pharmacy and a pharmacy in East Jerusalem to exchange products and some medicines. On one of these trips, I would carry a package strapped to my chest. I would probably not be inspected too thoroughly at the checkpoints since the guards were very used to seeing me come across. They would usually just wave me through. I did not have to use too much imagination to know what I would be carrying. The entire apparatus that I had strapped to me weighed about twenty pounds. It had a large cord with a ring on one end. The other end of the cord was attached to a detonator.

My instructions were to go the pharmacy where I made my purchases and exchanges and simply act as I usually did. I was to do this on a typical workday so as to appear that I was simply doing my job. The time of day that I was to make the trip was between one and five in the afternoon. It was thought that at this time of day, the pharmacy would be the busiest and there would be more Jews and tourists waiting for drugs or prescriptions. I was to count the number of people in the pharmacy and note whether more or less were coming in. If there were at least twenty five people shopping, then I was to yell out “Allahu Akbar” and pull the detonator.

The day started out like any other day in my life. I rose at 7 AM. My brother and sisters were all getting ready for school. Mom was making breakfast for all of us and dad was doing some work on the internet. I knew it was going to be the last time I would see any of them but I tried to act like nothing was different and nothing was going to happen. We ate breakfast and I said goodbye to each of my siblings as they left. As I went out the door, mom reminded me to take my lunch and I gave her a hug and told both my mom and dad goodbye. I did not say farewell as I did not want them to be suspicious. It was all I could do to leave my home knowing it would be the last time I would ever see it.

On the way to the pharmacy, I stopped at our headquarters. Two men attached the weapon to my chest under my tunic. The officer in charge asked me if I wanted to go over operational details one last time. I said no and he asked me if I wanted to take anything for my nerves. I again replied no. I left for the pharmacy. Once at my place of employment I went about my normal routine until 1 PM. At that time, as I had planned, I said that I needed to go to Jerusalem to pick up some medicine and supplies. This was a fairly usual procedure for me, so no one raised any eyebrows.

I passed through the check point with no problem. I was greeted cordially by the guards who made some funny remark that I did not catch. I guess I was too nervous to concentrate on any banter. I proceeded on to the bus which took me to the large pharmacy in East Jerusalem where I often purchased supplies. I entered the revolving front door and was surprised at how many customers were either shopping or waiting to have a prescription filled. I started to follow my instructions and count the number of people who were in the shop. I stopped after I counted at least twenty five people who were there. I knew it was time. I took a deep breath and said a quick prayer to Allah. I reached under my jacket. I took hold of the large round ring. I pulled it as hard as I could. That is the last thing I remember doing.

**FILE2004**
Paramedics take care of a victim who was wounded in a suicide bombing of an Egged bus no. 19 in Jerusalem. Eleven people were killed and over 50 wounded, 13 of them seriously. Both the Fatah-related Al Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades and Hamas claimed responsibility for the attack. January 29, 2004. Photo by Flash90
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I have never seen such mayhem and carnage. Even in war movies, it is nothing like this. There are no words that can describe the horror. People are screaming and crying and pulling their hair out. Body parts and blood are everywhere. People are calling out names and looking through the debris. People are fainting and others are vomiting. Everywhere, people are weeping. Ambulances, doctors and nurses are attending to some injured people while others are being carried out on gurneys. I look for my body but I cannot find it. People are cursing Allah and many are swearing retribution on my people. I am wondering if this is Jahannam and I am in it. Surely, I am not in Jannah.

“Did I do the right thing?” This is the question that now torments me. Did I help my people? Was it worth the cost to other people? What have I now brought down on my country? I need to find Allah and ask him these questions. My soul will never rest until they are answered.

Time for Questions:

What is a terrorist? What is the difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter? Do you think terrorism is ever justified? Do you think terrorists might be just like you or I? Are terrorists cowards or courageous? What do you think of the comment that the American Revolutionists were considered terrorists by the British during the American War of Independence?

Life is just beginning.

The following deaths are attributed to US military Action during Operation Iraqi Freedom. The toll of Iraq’s war dead covered by the report is limited to the early stages of the war, from March 19 when American tanks crossed the Kuwaiti border, to April 20, when US troops had consolidated their hold on Baghdad.

Researchers drew on hospital records, official US military statistics, news reports, and survey methodology to arrive at their figures.

Total war dead (Iraq) From March 19 to April 20

Between 10,800 and 15,100, with a midpoint of 12,950

Combatants killed (Iraq)

Between 7,600 and 10,800, with a midpoint of 9,200

Noncombatants killed (Iraq)

Between 3,200 and 4,300, with a midpoint of 3,750

Up to 15,000 people killed in invasion, claims thinktank by Suzanne Goldenberg in Washington

Autobiographies from the Dead – Ed the Soldier

10 Aug 2015 5 Comments

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: battle, general., heroism, insurgents. army, military, patriotism, patrol, platoon, private, soldiers, squad, war

Ed the Soldier

I was brave and loyal. I gave my all for the corp. I was taught to respect and obey authority. Right or wrong, it was my job to follow orders. I never questioned my assignments. I never questioned my Sargent or my Captain. As was said in the famous poem, “mine was to do or die and not to question why.” I am looking now at my body and those of my nine squad members. We had one medic, three guys with M-16’s, one guy with an MGL-140, one guy with a Barrett .338 Lapua Magnum, one guy with an MPIM/SRAW rocket, one radio guy or in this case a radio gal, Sarge our Squad Leader and of course me also carrying a good old US issue M-16 along with a bunch of grenades.

It looks like my arms and chest have been shot full of holes. However, I think it was the two bullets that caught me in my brain which finished me off. My head looks like it was stuck in a meat grinder. Most of my squad does not look much better. There are a few guys minus heads, some missing legs and others missing body parts. A good jig saw puzzler could not put us all back together again. I can’t believe the number of bullets that hit us. One minute we were joking around and the next minute it sounded like a Fourth of July celebration. The difference being that we were the targets and the bullets and rockets were lighting us up instead of the sky. What happened to our vaunted Intel?

I enlisted right out of high school. I did not want to go to college and I could not think of anything else to do. I went down to my Army recruiting office and was scheduled immediately with an appointment. I did not have to wait long. About thirty minutes later, a well-dressed very sharp looking soldier came out of an office to greet me. “Son” he said, “You have come to the right place. We will fix you up so that you can serve your country and really make a difference in the world. Do you want your parents and friends to look up to you? Do you want to be get laid more than you could ever dream possible? Do you want to be a real hero and not some phony cardboard actor hero, then just sign right here.”

“My boy, you have just saved the free world. Welcome to the US Army.”

After basic training, they said I had been selected for a tour in Iraq. They said it would be easy duty. It would just be some mopping up operations and nothing really tough. The really tough stuff had been done months before. And besides that, the “ragheads” could not shoot straight so we had nothing to worry about. Each day we went out on patrol to a different village or a different part of the same village. They all looked alike. Some of the locals seemed friendly, but most just ignored us. Kids would come over and ask us for candy or cigarettes when they would see us walking. We were taught to trust no one but after a while you got to know certain kids and you would give them candy or sometimes some money.

The women really kept to themselves. You hardly ever saw any on the street and if you did they were always covered from head to toe. We were not allowed to have any alcohol as it is illegal in Muslim countries. There wasn’t much to do all day long except when we were on patrol. Most of the fun we had was out in the villages. We loved to play pranks on each other. On one patrol, one of the guys had hid behind a wall and as we started to walk by, he threw a dummy grenade at us. We scattered like rabbits and waited for it to go off. After a few seconds, we could hear laughter coming from behind the wall. We soon realized that it was one of our guys. He was laughing so hard, it gave him cramps. It took us weeks but we figured out how to get even with him. I guess we were always really wound up when out on patrol, so it was not hard to find something to break up the tension. Often it would involve shooting at anything that seemed sinister or menacing.

The Soldiers of Company F “Blues Platoon,” 3rd Assault Helicopter Battalion, 227th Aviation Regiment, 1st Air Cavalry Brigade, 1st Cavalry Division, move forward, almost shoulder to shoulder, with live ammo while practicing team movement drills at an Advanced Close Quarters Marksmanship course at Camp Beuhring, Kuwait, May 13. The ACQM course is meant to sharpen the Soldiers skills before moving north to support Operation Iraqi Freedom.

The day we got it was like any other day, nothing unusual about it. It was bright, sunny and warm. We had an assignment to check out a village that had been quiet for some time. We were on foot patrol. Ten of us joking and clowning around. Some kids had just run by and yelled “Go home Americans” at us. We threw some candy at them and laughed as they scrambled to pick it up. As we turned the corner of a street, we saw some quick movement in a doorway and some guys running across the roof tops. We raised our rifles to fire but it was too late. The grenades and RPG’s burst all around us and then the AK 47 fire started. We never had a chance. There must have been about fifty of them. We never thought that there were that many bad guys left. One by one we went down. I never even got off a round.

I can see them now. They are picking over our bodies. They are taking cash, weapons, armor and anything else of value. The little kids are there too. They are kicking us in the heads or what is left of our heads. I even saw one kid who I thought was my friend (I gave him many snicker bars) come running up and kick me in my head. He then took out his wiener and pissed on me. It seems like a holiday for them. They are all so happy. Like one big celebration. They are laughing and patting each other on the back. I can hear one guy in English saying: “I guess these fucking Americans will go home now.” Another one replied: “Yeah, home or Jahannam.”

I know I was supposed to be a hero. I thought I was making the world safe for democracy. Where did it all go wrong? Looking down at our bodies now, it does not seem like we really accomplished much. It looks like they would have been happier if we had never come. I guess I might be a hero when my body comes back to Ohio. I never got laid either.

I can’t hang around here much longer. I can’t bear the sadness. It is time to leave. I was brought up as a good Christian. I am sure that there must be a reason for all this. My pastor said “God’s ways are unknowable.” I am going to go find God. I am sure he can tell me what this was all for.

Time for Questions:

Do we fight for the right reasons? Do we simply fight the wars that our leaders tell us we should? Do we question whether we should fight or negotiate? Are we fighting wars for gold or for justice? Can we be proud that we are the “land of the free and the home of the brave?” Are we fighting for the rights of humanity or for our own National pride? Do you question authority or do you simply go along?

Life is just beginning.

The following excerpt is from “War is a Racket” by Major General Smedley Butler. General Butler was one of the most highly decorated soldiers in WWI. He won two Medal of Honor and at the time of his death was the most decorated Marine in United States history.

WAR is a racket. It always has been.

It is possibly the oldest, easily the most profitable, surely the most vicious. It is the only one international in scope. It is the only one in which the profits are reckoned in dollars and the losses in lives.

A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of the people. Only a small “inside” group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few, at the expense of the very many. Out of war a few people make huge fortunes.

In the World War [I] a mere handful garnered the profits of the conflict. At least 21,000 new millionaires and billionaires were made in the United States during the World War. That many admitted their huge blood gains in their income tax returns. How many other war millionaires falsified their tax returns no one knows.

How many of these war millionaires shouldered a rifle? How many of them dug a trench? How many of them knew what it meant to go hungry in a rat-infested dug-out? How many of them spent sleepless, frightened nights, ducking shells and shrapnel and machine gun bullets? How many of them parried a bayonet thrust of an enemy? How many of them were wounded or killed in battle?

Out of war nations acquire additional territory, if they are victorious. They just take it. This newly acquired territory promptly is exploited by the few — the selfsame few who wrung dollars out of blood in the war. The general public shoulders the bill.

And what is this bill?

This bill renders a horrible accounting. Newly placed gravestones. Mangled bodies. Shattered minds. Broken hearts and homes. Economic instability. Depression and all its attendant miseries. Back-breaking taxation for generations and generations.

Autobiographies from the Dead – Josh the Teenager

03 Aug 2015 4 Comments

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: angst, depression, fear, parents, suicide, teen suicide, teenagers, teens

Each semester the Graphics Multi-Media Students select a global issue that is meaningful to them and then create a logo and infographic about their issue.

Josh the Teenager

They are sorry now! They are all weeping and crying. They care more about me now that I am dead then they did when I was alive. All I ever heard from Mom was her telling her friends how handsome I was and what I good student I was. Bullshit! The only time Dad ever talked to me was to tell me how well Robert (my brother) was doing in law school and why couldn’t I be more like him.

Robert was a real suck-up. He is 21 years old and is forever gloating about his accomplishments in school and in sports. The big shot was our high school football hero. Dad spent all his time with him and never had any left over for me. Robert was a four letter athlete and was in every league in town. If he wasn’t getting A’s in school, he was getting medals and trophies for his athletic exploits. I hated him.

I also have a sister Maria who is fourteen years old and the most popular girl in the high school. That’s because she goes to bed with anyone who has a zipper in their pants, girls as well as boys. Mom and dad think she is an angel. She is the biggest slut in school. My friends are forever making fun of me about her. Like: “When can I come over and screw your sister?”

My father works for an investment firm as some kind of an analyst. He makes good money but is always busy. He probably invented multi-tasking and 24/7 work. Anytime, I ever suggested doing anything together, his standard reply was: “Great idea. Let’s hold it for a while until I catch up on my accounts.” I have been holding it for seventeen years and still waiting. He can go to hell. I hate him also.

My mom was some sort of a medical worker in the local hospital. She did not like to cook or clean so we went out to eat a lot. Twice a week, we had a housekeeper come in to do our laundry and straighten up the house. Mom spent a lot of time at Robert’s ball games. She also spent a lot of time shopping with Maria. My mom liked to spent money on clothes and sometimes I could not decide whether Maria was the teenager or my mother was the teenager. My friends all said that my mom was one hot MILF.

I am seventeen years old and a junior in high school. I have a Facebook page and do lots of on-line stuff. I hate school and I hate my teachers. I hate most of the kids in school. The majority of them are either jerks or snobs. I don’t belong to any groups and I mostly hang around with one or two friends. My father wanted me to play sports but I knew I could never be as good as my brother so why bother. The teachers at my school treated me like I did not exist. I was a B student and I can’t say I really excelled at anything. Most of the time, I felt like a born loser.

I often thought of making a big name for myself by blowing up the school or maybe killing both of my parents and my sister and brother but I decided against it. Not that I did not think they were good ideas but what if I screwed up? My father was forever telling me what a screw up I was. What if I screwed up my high school massacre? What if I botched killing my entire family? That would prove what a screw up I really was. I decided that I could not risk it. Safer to simply kill myself!

I thought of shooting myself but that would be too messy. I thought of jumping off a high bridge but that might not be fatal. I had heard of too many people who had survived such falls. I finally decided to hang myself. I would hang myself in the closet at home. That would be great. They might not find me for a few days and they would be worried sick. That would serve them all.

Anyway, I could be pretty sure if I killed myself at home mom and dad would be the ones to find me. And sure enough they did. The look on my mom and dad’s eyes was priceless. There I was swinging from the clothes hook suspended by a leather belt which I had wrapped around my neck. I had stood on a small step stool and kicked it far away so that I could have no second thoughts. It was much less painful than I had imagined. A few choking breaths, a feeling of swelling in my head and that was it. Lights out! I think I must have died about ten minutes after I kicked the stool away.

I am hanging with my tongue and eyes bulging out. My face is quite red and swollen. I look rather pitiful. There is a pool of piss on the floor under me and an awful smell coming from my pants. I suppose I shit myself when I died. I am glad. They deserve it. I hope they are really sorry now for the way that they treated me. I just wanted them to like me for who I was. But no, I was never good enough.

It seems like our society is full of heroes and idols and celebrities and athletes and rich people and music stars and famous politicians. I was a B person in an A society. Nobody cared about me. Nobody gives a damn about B people. Not my mother, father, sister, brother or teachers. I was not popular or smart or athletic enough to get the girls like the A guys got. The only girls that were interested in me were the losers like I was. I went out with one girl once and that was my last date in high school. We kissed a little but she got all agitated when I put my hand on her tit. She asked me to take her home. I was a loser with girls as well.

Well, now they will all be sorry. Screw them. I don’t care. They had it coming. I finally feel like somebody cares about me. It only took my death before I really mattered to anyone. I look forward to visiting my funeral service. That should be funny. I can imagine all the good things that they will say about me. At last they will all be able to spend some time with me, even though I am now dead.

I am going to go look for God now. I would like to ask Her why I was such a loser. How come I did not get the brains or skills or something that would have made me stand out and be noticed? Why was life so unfair to me when everyone around me seemed to get some sort of special treatment? Maybe God will be able to tell me why I was a loser.

Time for Questions:

Can we spot potential teenage suicides? Are we taking neglecting our teens? What do we have to do to help decrease teenage suicides? How does our culture contribute to the problem?

Life is just beginning.

Suicide (i.e., taking one’s own life) is a serious public health problem that affects even young people. For youth between the ages of 10 and 24, suicide is the third leading cause of death. It results in approximately 4600 lives lost each year. The top three methods used in suicides of young people include firearm (45%), suffocation (40%), and poisoning (8%).

Deaths from youth suicide are only part of the problem. More young people survive suicide attempts than actually die. A nationwide survey of youth in grades 9–12 in public and private schools in the United States (U.S.) found that 16% of students reported seriously considering suicide, 13% reported creating a plan, and 8% reporting trying to take their own life in the 12 months preceding the survey. Each year, approximately 157,000 youth between the ages of 10 and 24 receive medical care for self-inflicted injuries at Emergency Departments across the U.S.

Suicide affects all youth, but some groups are at higher risk than others. Boys are more likely than girls to die from suicide. Of the reported suicides in the 10 to 24 age group, 81% of the deaths were males and 19% were females. Girls, however, are more likely to report attempting suicide than boys. Cultural variations in suicide rates also exist, with Native American/Alaskan Native youth having the highest rates of suicide-related fatalities. A nationwide survey of youth in grades 9–12 in public and private schools in the U.S. found Hispanic youth were more likely to report attempting suicide than their black and white, non-Hispanic peers. (Center for Disease Control and Prevention)

Autobiographies from the Dead – Cindy the Wife

27 Jul 2015 2 Comments

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: battered, beaten, boy friends abuse, domestic abuse, domestic violence, husbands, women

Cindy the Wife

He beat me. He beat me. He beat me. I hurt so badly from the pain. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain. I loved him. Why did he hurt me? He kept on beating me. Finally, I yelled for him to stop. He screamed “I will stop when I am damn well ready.” He then picked up a baseball bat and started to beat me with that. The first blow to my head, and I could see stars. The second blow, I thought my head would explode. The third blow was the last one I could remember and then I lost consciousness. I can see my body now. My brains are leaking from my skull. My blood is splattered all over the walls. I think my arms are both broken and maybe my legs. My poor body looks so lonely and disfigured. I can hardly recognize my face. I don’t feel pain any more but I still feel lonely.

I probably should never have married him. I was only twenty-five and he was thirty. I had dated a series of jerks and losers and he seemed like a real nice guy. We married about a year later. We were so happy at first. I thought all my dreams had come true. Then the fights and arguments started. A year after we were married was the first time he hit me. He slapped me in the face and called me a bitch. I think I deserved it. I apologized and said that I was sorry. A short time after that he punched me in the face. I apologized again. I probably deserved it. The punches and hits became more and more frequent. What was I doing wrong?

Terrified abused woman trying to stop the attack and devend herself,

My friends all urged me to leave him but I could not. I know he loves me and needs me. If I could only get him to stop hitting me. The punches turned into beatings. More and more beatings! I would frequently have a black eye. I always had bruise marks on my arms and legs. He knocked a few of my teeth out one day. Another time, he threw me against a wall so hard that it broke two of my ribs and dislocated my shoulder joint. I told him I was sorry. He screamed at me that I was a bitch and it was all my fault.

Police photos of Heather Thompson in a hospital bed are displayed at her home in Monroe, N.C. Thursday, May 28, 2009. Thompson was 23 in 1994 when her then-husband Thomas Howard Price Jr beat her senseless, leaving her with bone spurs, pinched nerves and osteoarthritis. She has taught law officers about domestic violence in the years since Price vowed in a letter from prison to kill her and their daughters. Price was released Friday May 29, 2009, from a federal prison in South Carolina. (AP Photo/Nell Redmond)

I don’t know if I can take any more of this. Maybe I should leave? If only I could figure out what I am doing that makes him so angry. I try and try. I am a good wife. I cook and clean and sew. I keep a very tidy house. My meals are always cooked just like he likes them. I fold his clothes and put them all away. I try to adjust my time so that I am available whenever he needs me. I want to have children some day. I always watch how much money I spend. I get along well with all of his friends and relatives. I always try to make them feel right at home. I am a faithful, loving and loyal wife. My name is Cindy. Please do not forget me. I need someone to remember me.

Nobody is home now. The police have come and taken him away. I feel sorry for him. I know he loves me and did not really mean to hurt me. I don’t physically feel any pain now. All I feel is this deep loneliness and regret. I must go to find God. I do not really understand what I did wrong. I have always believed that God was good and he would protect me. I need to talk to God and ask him for forgiveness. I want to know how to make this feeling of loneliness go away. I will ask him to explain to me how I could have been a better wife. My soul will never rest until I find God and ask him this question: “Why?” I know I am very sorry for whatever I did to cause this problem.

Time for Questions:

Why do we put up with so much domestic violence? What do we teach our children that make them think it is okay to hit a woman? What do we have to do to stop this violence? Should we have a “War on Domestic Violence?” Do we simply accept that there is nothing we can do about it? Do you realize that t this is an international problem and not just a US problem?

Life is just beginning.

May 10, 2015 5:00AM ET

Brazil passes femicide law to curb domestic violence

Legislation defines gender-based killings and sets out tougher punishments for attackers

by Donna Bowater & Priscilla Moraes

RIO DE JANEIRO — “My best hope is that he dies,” the tall, slight and articulate 45-year-old speech therapist said calmly of her husband. “I know that he can kill me.”

The woman, who asked not to be identified, had gone to the courts in Rio de Janeiro to seek protection from her husband of 22 years.

After her husband suffered a psychiatric breakdown in 2001, she said, he became violent and threatened to kill her, their daughter and himself. “I learned that between him and me, it’s me first,” she said.

It is estimated that more than 13 million women have been victims of domestic abuse in Brazil, where a woman is killed every two hours. Despite measures to reduce domestic violence with the Maria da Penha law in 2006, government figures suggest 700,000 women still live with aggression and assaults. Out of 84 countries, Brazil had the seventh-highest rate of women killed, according to the World Health Organization.

Autobiographies from the Dead – Ephraim the Jew

20 Jul 2015 4 Comments

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: Extermination Camps, Final Solution, hate, hitler, holocaust, Jew, Jewish, nazis, prejudice

For the next several weeks, my blogs are going to consist of “autobiographies” written by some very special people. They have one thing in common. They are all dead. Some have a burial place and some were simply discarded like pieces of trash. Their stories will be told by the deceased themselves. They cry out from the fields, rivers and graveyards to speak. I have heard their cries. They want to tell their stories to you. They want you to know what their living and dying was for. They chose me to be the medium for their voices to be conveyed to you. I do not know why or how I was chosen. I do nothing but repeat in 12 pt. font the stories that they tell me. There are many more dead who want to be heard, but for now I have only agreed to share eight of their tales. Each of the dead will give you a brief vision of their lives but much more importantly to them, they will give you a vision of their deaths.

Ephraim the Jew

My name is Ephraim. I was born to a Jewish mother and a Jewish father in Germany. My parents and great grandparents were all born in Germany. We were not rich but we made a living over the years in various trades. My family was all hard workers and I was taught the value of hard work and an education at an early age. We were proud to be Germans. My father had served with distinction in WW I and my great grandfather had served in the earlier Franco Prussian war. We had many musicians and writers in our family and were proud that we could contribute to the rich German cultural heritage of our homeland.

One day, some young men started throwing stones at my father and me as we came home from work. We arrived home with bruises and cuts but no broken bones. My mother said that things were getting worse for Jews in Germany and that she had heard of many such incidents from other friends. My father said she was being an old woman and should not worry so much. This was just the result of a bunch of hoodlums and the government would soon arrest such bullies so that the streets would be safe again.

Weeks and months went by. More assaults! More bullying! Everywhere we turned it seemed that people hated us. The government passed Pro-German Laws to protect “Pure” Germans. Somehow this seemed to mean that we Jews were now the enemies. We were no longer Germans. Our businesses were taken away from us. Our jobs were taken away from us. Then they took our freedom away from us.

They took us in trains to these large detention centers. Smoke and flames were visible from numerous chimneys when we arrived. Some people whispered that these were Jews who had been cremated. It was too horrible to conceive. It could not be true. We were whipped, kicked and herded off the rail cars. An angry looking German soldier in a black uniform with skulls and lightning bolts directed each person either to the right or to the left when we fled the cars. Women and young children went one direction. Men and young boys went the other direction. My mother and sister went to the right. They waved and said good bye. “We will see you soon.” “We must go to the showers first.” We never saw them again.

My dad and I were assigned to work details. Food was meager and work was hard. We labored with very little rations from before sunrise to well after sunset. My father died a year later. He was nothing but skin and bones. He said: “I am sorry.” Another year later and I could not get up and go to work. The guards came for me one day and said, “You are garbage and you are no longer useful.” Two other Jews were forced to pick me up. They carried me to a large pit. I noticed many other bodies in the pit. They threw me in the pit with the other bodies. A holocaust-bodies-mass-grave guard shot me three times. “Like shooting fish in a barrel he said.” I was shot once in the head and twice in the chest. He laughed as I twitched and as the blood oozed out of my veins. I was surprised that it did not hurt as much as I thought it would. I could feel my soul leaving my body.

Finally, I was looking down at my distorted figure and it was no longer twitching. Even the blood had stopped oozing out. The guard who shot me had lit a cigarette and was enjoying a quick smoke before returning to another work detail. I watched for a while as other men and boys were carried to the pit and murdered. I could no longer bear to look. I decided to go find God and talk to him. I was confused and angry but I thought that perhaps a talk with God might straighten things out. My spirit left this hell on earth.

I am dead many years now and I am still searching for God. I want to know what we did to deserve such a fate. We worked hard. We paid our taxes. We treated our fellow Germans with respect. We worshipped on the Sabbath. We upheld all of the commandments. We were good people. We were good Germans. Why did they hate us so? What did we do to cause this suffering? Was this some kind of a test?

I think God is hiding from me. He is nowhere to be found. I have wandered now for years and still I find no God. I know he exists. I believe in God but I think he is avoiding me. I think he may be ashamed for letting this happen. I swear my soul will never rest until I find God and ask him this question: “Why?” But what if he doesn’t know the answer?

Time for Questions:

What is an Anti-Semite? Why do people still hate Jews? What did any Jews ever do to deserve such a fate? Are you an Anti-Semite? What can you do to help fight Anti-Semitism? Do you try? Why not?

Life is just beginning.

“I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” ― Elie Wiesel

Perspiration or Inspiration: Which is more Important to the Writer?

13 Jul 2015 10 Comments

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: faulkner, hemingway, inspiration, perspiration, stein, writer, writing

Inspiration or perspiration, perspiration or inspiration, which is more important? Is inspiration the mother of writing while perspiration is the father? Some weeks, I am going to write a blog on a subject that I have been thinking about for many years when suddenly out of the blue, I get some crazy thought and I feel impelled to write my blog about this sudden flash of insight. These insights might come from something I heard from someone, some bit of news, or just an impulse to write about something. Inspiration has provided the content for about 1/3rd of my blogs. For the other 2/3rds of my blogs, the ideas come from perspiration. I sit, sweat, read and do research on the subject. (Here is a song to listen to as you read my blog this week: Jeremy Secrest – HELP! I’m Writing A Book! Theme Song)

Some writers will tell you that writing is hard work and that perspiration is THE key element of the writing craft. They will tell you how they get up every morning and sit down in front of the keyboard and start to write. It will not matter what they write as long as they write. They may grind out one or ten pages each day this week. They discipline themselves to do this day after day, week after week and year after year. If you think about it, this will produce a prodigious amount of work. Think 3 pages a day for 365 days and you have put out about 3 novels. Think doing this for ten years and you have put out about 30 novels. With good writing and a bit of luck, you just might find one of these pieces of works makes the NY Times Best Seller Lists or the Amazon Top Ten or perhaps the Oprah Book List. Once you have broken through with your writing, you have simply to reap the benefits of recognition and acclaim. Many writers simply become “one hit wonders” while others capitalize on a “formula” to keep churning out hit after hit.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ― Ernest Hemingway

Stephen King tells the story of how and why he wrote the Bachman books. After achieving much fame and fortune with his suspense novels, he decided to see if he could start over again and achieve popularity and success under a new name. He published three or four books under a pseudonym as Richard Bachman. The books (Which I enjoyed very much) were nowhere near as popular as his King novels but before he could finish his experiment, he was outed. The books were then re-released as “The Bachman Books” by Steven King and of course, their sales skyrocketed. Perhaps with time, King would have been able to duplicate his former success, perhaps not. I have read many works by many authors which I think should have become best sellers but did not. Hard work and perspiration for an author does not simply transfer into major book sales.

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” ― Stephen King

Inspiration will sometimes take a writer where mere perspiration fears to tread. In my weekly writers group, I sense that many of the authors rely a great deal on inspiration for their themes. The idea of perspiration is anathema to some wordsmiths. Why “force” yourself to write if it is not fun or if you do not feel really excited about the idea. According to this school of thought, writing should be a pleasure. You do not subscribe to a weekly time frame of when to write or a quantity to write. You simply write when you feel moved by the spirit or impelled to write by the muse of writing. Writing like this flows more naturally because it seems to come from somewhere other than the brain. Perspiration writing is driven by intellect and discipline but inspiration writing is driven by the heart and by the soul.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ― Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

One of the most famous examples of inspiration writing must surely be Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. It was written on the back of an envelope while he was on a train going to the recent battlefield to give a testimonial to the men and women who fought and died there. Two hundred and seventy some odd words depending on which of the four versions you read (Computers and exact copies for things were not as prevalent in 1863 as they are now) and it has become one of the most famous and well known pieces of writing in the history of humanity. You never get tired of hearing this speech or reading it because it truly reflects the soul and spirit of this great human being. Full of repetition and redundancy, it nevertheless achieves a magnificence that can only be attributed to the power of inspiration. No Madison Avenue ads men or White House speech reporters had a hand in the words that Lincoln spoke that day. We tremble in horror at the very idea.

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” ― Robert Frost

There is an entire school of inspiration writing. Go ahead and Google the theme and you will find over 387 thousand hits on the subject. There are numerous books, programs, quotes, articles, courses and even software that will teach you how to be an “inspiration” writer. Paradoxically, the Father of writing is much less popular. When I type in Google “perspiration writing” I am only able to find 1,090 hits on the topic. Apparently sweating is a lot less popular as a writing motive than inspiration.

“If genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, then as a culture we tend to lionize the one percent.” ― Susan Cain,

When I wrote my blogs on Immigration, I read over a dozen books on the subject before I started to write. I read pro-immigration books, anti-immigration books, history of immigration books and some textbooks on immigration law. The result of this research was a three part series on Immigration. I am very proud of this work. I put a lot of time and effort into the writing in the hope that it would reflect an intelligent and actionable manuscript. I wanted to produce a piece of writing that might help people who were thinking about this subject and wondered what we should do about it. I even created a t-shirt that read: “Necesitamos una política migratoria justa. No es una política anti-inmigración.” Translated, it means “We need a fair immigration policy. Not an anti-immigration policy.” I wanted to express an opinion that would be understood by much of the Latino population in Arizona where I live in the winter. (See my blog titled: My Take on Immigration – Part 1 of 3 Parts)

There are those who would say that writing must be comprised of both inspiration and perspiration. Writing they say is 99 percent perspiration and 1 percent inspiration. Such formulas are more easily quoted than done. Many the author who has had a brilliant idea and then waited years for another spark of brilliance. The great science fiction writer Ray Bradbury wrote at least 27 novels and more than 600 short stories and yet is primarily remembered for one novel: Fahrenheit 451. It is rare indeed for many scribes to be remembered for even one. There is a large degree of serendipity that goes into any popularity that does not seem to be captured by effort alone. Think of all the books that were written on the O. J. Simpson Trial. There were over 7 thousand books dealing with various aspects of this case. How many of them can you name or remember? One might argue that most if not all of these tomes were written based on the sordid idea of making money. Whether any of them were guided by pure inspiration is a question that probably cannot be answered. Nevertheless, there is little evidence that even adding inspiration will make a successful book. The Goddess of Success seems to be very fickle when it comes to writing.

“The moral flabbiness born of the exclusive worship of the bitch-goddess SUCCESS. That – with the squalid cash interpretation put on the word ‘success’ – is our national disease.” ― William James

You and I may never be a Hemingway or a Faulkner or a Stein or even a “best seller.” What really matters is that we share our joys and fears with the world and bring passion and conviction to our effort. If we can do this, then the question of inspiration or perspiration will fade away like Mc Arthur’s “Old Soldiers.”

Time for Questions:

Have you ever wanted to write something? When will you start? Did you write today? Why not? What is holding you back?

Life is just beginning.

“If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”
― Toni Morrison

Hooters versus the All American Sports Bar

06 Jul 2015 Leave a comment

by Dr. John Persico Jr. in Uncategorized Tags: big game, fans, Hooters, jocks, score, sports, sports bars, sports nuts

Let’s get it straight. Real men go to Hooters and not an All American Sports Bar. This is no joke. Wannabee jocks, would-be athletes and sports has-beens all go to an All American Sports Bar. An All American Sports Bar is a place with twenty or more flat screen TVs, a large single screen of 60 or more inches, cheap lite beer (I call them Piss Beers) and some servers. These are places for over the hill jocks that never even made it to the first string in high school. Their usual line is “I would have made it but I blew my knee out.”

Real men go to Hooters. Hooters, if you have not been to any, are very similar to an All American Sports Bar and will also have nightly athletic events on a large screen TV. In addition, unique events such as JELL-O and slime wrestling are occasionally featured along with tap beer specials. But the main attraction at Hooters has to do with the name of the business: Hooters. If you have not guessed it, one of the requirements for a server at Hooters has to do with what are known in the business as extra-stimulus physical attractions. At Hooters, you have a chance to see reality up close and personal. Hooters uniforms are very modest and afford the patron at the establishment an ample opportunity to view the extra-stimulus attractions of their individual servers. Hooters Girls calendars can also be purchased on site.

Thus, I maintain that an All American Sports Bars is for fantasy and jock wannabees but Hooters is for all the real men who want to deal with real reality. Let me explain further. In an All American Sports Bars, you can only watch your role models or jock heroes on a big big screen. These heroes exist physically in another plane and as far as any jock wannabees are concerned it might as well be another planet. In Hooters, the real thing is right in front of you. Front and center are boobs and breasts that in most cases will knock your socks off. These are usually the real McCoy, although in some cases they may be silicone implants.

There is no way you can score in an All American Sports Bar since all the goals are on some 60 inch flat screen TV. At any Hooters, if you are a real man, you can score one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen short of half-time entertainment at an All American Sports Bar. However, your chances of meeting one of the leagues Pro Cheerleaders at your local All American Sports Bar is about zero, while at Hooters, you can have your pick of women that in many establishments rival anyone you will ever see on the big screen TV.

Now, I realize that many of you are probably dubious about my claims. Some of you may even be offended by now or perhaps or calling me a liar. So to keep this memoir objective and scientific, I decided to do what Sociologists call “First hand field work.” Some would call it “Participant Observation.” To test my assumptions and theories, I spent several hours at a local All American Sports Bar called “First Draft” observing the participants. I subsequently went to my local Hooters of Frederic to also observe the participants. It was hard not to “Go Native” and join in the festivities. But I tried to maintain a certain neutrality so as not to favor one establishment over the other. Eavesdropping on participants in both of these establishments provided plenty of evidence for my assumptions. Just to give you a flavor of the night’s insights, I have summarized the following conversations that I overheard from patrons at each of the two venues that I visited. (We Are the Champions)

First Draft Sports Bar:

Wannabee Jock #1 “Hey, you going to watch the big game tonight?”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yep, watched the big game last week too.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Think they got a chance to win?”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yeah, if the lineup holds, but they have had quite a few injuries.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “What’s his name seems to be off his game.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Should have traded him a while ago.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Do you remember when what’s his name was playing?”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yep, that’s when they had a team.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Should have gone all the way, but for the poor coaching.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yep, it took em a while to get rid of that bad coach.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Best thing they ever did.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “So who do you pick tonight.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “I dunno. Tough choice.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yeh, it all depends on what’s his name.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Yeh, if he is on his game they could have a great night.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yep, it all depends.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Hey, the games started.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Hey, I want my regular, a Bud light.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Yeah, my regular too, a Miller light.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Nothing like a good beer and a great game.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Yep, you can say that again.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Say what?”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Wow, did you see that play.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “Yeah, they keep missing all the opportunities.”

Wannabee Jock #1 “Yep, bad coaching.”

Wannabee Jock #2 “You can say that again.”

Well, that’s just a brief sample of the inspiring, scintillating, innervating and dynamic dialogue that I heard while visiting the First Draft All American Sports Bar. After washing this conversation down with a Bud Light, I journeyed on over to Hooter’s of Frederic. The following conversation was heard while I was at Hooters of Frederic. (Hooters Theme Song and Video)

Hooters Patron #1 “Did you see that?”