Les Phillips Blog

The Twin Cities Women’s March was led by a Native American color guard. Behind them were 90,000+ people who came to support women’s issues and oppose the newly inaugurated Pretender President.

On Saturday I attended the Women’s March in the Twin Cities. It was the most amazing thing that I’ve seen in decades. The only other time that compared to this was Richard Nixon’s 1973 inauguration. But that is another story.

The weather was overcast, damp and cold. The kind of winter weather that Minnesotans call balmy.

Word of the demonstration supporting the Women’s March in D.C. had been spreading for sometime. By Saturday over 20,000 people had pledged online to march to the Minnesota State Capital in St. Paul. It would be a good turnout if the weather didn’t dissuade demonstrators from coming.

For the last week, I had been doing an informal survey of who was planning to go to the local march.  I was surprised at the number of folks who said they planned on going. I was similarly surprised by an equal number of people who knew nothing of the event in St. Paul. Needless to say, I passed on information and encouraged them to join.

I went to the march with my good friend Kathy. We used the light-rail to get to St. Paul. There was an ever-growing crowd at the train station and the feeling was upbeat. We got onto an almost full car and headed off. By the time we got to the downtown station to transfer to the St. Paul bound train, the entire train was jammed until no one could get on. At the transfer we met with a continuously expanding torrent of people. The ride to St. Paul was even more crowded. The excitement and friendliness of everyone kept claustrophobia at bay.   It was just the beginning to an inspiring day.

Gobsmacked!

Green Line station on University Avenue swamped with marchers.

Marchers coming from bus and light-rail stops pass by state capital on their way to join main group of demonstrators near the St. Paul Cathedral. In an hour they would march back, 90,000+ strong.

As more and more people appeared I began to suspect that the estimated number of 20,000 marchers was correct. However, the torrent of people coming from the bus and train stops didn’t let up. They just kept coming and coming. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  During the speeches the number of marchers was updated to 45,000 and then again to 60,000. Each announcement was greeted with a tidal wave of cheers. The sound of the crowd cheering sent a shiver through me. This was the sound of democracy. This was the sound of the American people standing up against the Pretender President and his cronies.

Lessons Each Generation Must Learn

Kathy holding a Planned Parenthood sign that she carried 12 years ago in the 2004 women’s march in DC.

The crowd was a mix of all ages, races and creeds, each well represented. It was a rich tapestry of humanity. For the first time in years I felt part of something bigger. My optimism has returned.  I have hope.

Looking back from the Capitol towards the Cathedral, a quarter of a mile away.

Every generation must learn the same lessons that their parents and grandparents have had to learn. Since the Vietnam War and Watergate, we Americans have become complacent. We assumed that democracy was a force of nature that would always prevail. We forgot our history. Now we are paying the price with a Pretender President who is intent on undoing 70 years of bipartisan policies and commonly held values.

Democracy is not a spectator’s sport. It only works when each of us takes responsibility for our part in governing. Democracy requires an educated constituency that understands how our government works, each citizen’s responsibilities, and the lessons of human history.

Democracy only works when we are engaged for the long-term. Now, more than any other time in our history, we face an existential threat that took years to evolve and will take years to correct. We have hard work to do.

Let’s rejoice at this opportunity the Pretender has provided us and get to work. In the coming days and months more and more people will come to realize the danger the Pretender and his supporters pose to the U.S. and the world. Opposition will continue to grow and with it a renaissance of ideas, idealism and altruism.

Rejoice for the challenges we face. The future is open for us to write.

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Rest Easy America by Les Phillips is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

American politics in 2016 is very scary.

A large, vocal minority are expressing their anger at our political system by supporting Donald J Trump, a man who has clearly demonstrated throughout the primary and now general election his psychopathic personality.  Lying, threatening, dramatically changing positions for each audience, and promoting a bigoted agenda against African Americans, Mexicans, and immigrants.

Every day brings new assaults on logic and the truth.  At least once a week he says something that in any previous campaign would have killed a candidate’s chances and yet he continues to register about 43% in national polls. Almost half of the electorate supports a man who knows nothing about the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. They support a man who starts out his campaign appearances by threatening the media. On occasion he has singled out specific journalists who later required the Secret Service to escort them out of the hall and to their cars.

The fire of anger, ignorance, and bigotry is being fanned by the Right-Wing media who have, after 30 years of propaganda have prepared the a segment of white America to follow a demagogue who embodies the ugliness they have been broadcasting.

I fear for this country. There are strong similarities between now and the fall of the German Wiemar Republic and the rise of Adolf Hitler.

I could go on and on about how Trump is unqualified to be president and how he is a genuine existential threat to the U.S. and the world, but what is the point?

All that is left is to vote for sanity on Election Day, November 8th.

James and his daughter Aria. With each generation comes the potential for the Phoenix to rise from the fire and ashes of previous generations.

On Monday last, I went to the Black Lives Matter encampment in front of the Governors Residence in St. Paul, to see for myself what was going on, to talk to some of the folks and take some pictures. I did this and returned home to write this post. For the following four days I’ve tried to marshal my ideas. Every day something would happen to add yet another complexity to an already daunting situation. President Obama’s speech at the memorial for the five murdered police officers set off a storm of protest. The police and some protesters thought that what he said had in some manner betrayed or minimized the losses that each group had suffered.  I kept trying to write but nothing sounded right; nothing felt right.

I’ve decided to post my first draft because it seems closer to what I feel. Here it is.

I drove over to the Governors Residence in St. Paul to get a firsthand look at the Black Lives Matter encampment. The day was hot and humid with skies overcast, the kind of weather that breeds thunderstorms and tornadoes.

Black Lives Matter had occupied the sidewalk and street in front of the governor’s mansion. The wrought iron fence that separated the public from the mansion was covered with signs and banners. Both the US and Minnesota flags at the residence flew at half-staff. Bob Marley was on the PA. About 50 people were scattered about, involved in the mundane daily routine of political action. No drama.

Supporters, many white, have provided supplies for the protesters.

They were there to demand justice for a young man, Philando Castile, who had been shot to death by police during a traffic stop. Philando’s death came just two days after another black man, Alton Sterling, was shot to death in Baton Rouge. In both instances Alton and Philando were carrying guns, one illegally the other legally with a permit. In both cases citizen videos showed men dying under questionable circumstances without weapons drawn. The following day, in response to these deaths, a young black man opened fire on police who were monitoring a peaceful Black Lives Matter march in Dallas. Five officers were killed, another seven wounded, along with two civilians. The following night, protesters in Minneapolis attempted to shut down a portion of the freeway. What began peacefully, ended with 21 police officers injured and 46 protesters arrested.  Protests continue all over the nation. Everyone is uneasy. This situation could escalate into a summer of even greater violence.

I parked my car on a side street within a block of the encampment. The Governors Residence is on Summit Avenue, a tree-lined boulevard with beautiful large homes from another era.  Direct access to the Summit Avenue was blocked by police squad cars and saw horse barricades. A group of black officers were talking and drinking bottled water. Under their blue shirts they wore bullet proof vests, the kind that provide protection from pistols and knives but are useless against military style weapons like the one used in Dallas. I approached them and offered my condolences for the police that had been killed.

Halfway down the block was the Black Lives Matter camp. This was a vigil commemorating the death of Philando Castile. At the same time it was also a statement of faith in justice and the belief that the future could be made better. Why would people march in protest unless they believed that their voices would be heard and that meaningful change would occur?

A black woman with hennaed hair approached me and asked if I was with the media. I said no, that I was a local blogger, and that I had come to see for myself what was going on. She said that Black lives Matter had prepared a statement. Her voice changed to an official tone and she said, “We have a duty to fight for our freedom. We have a duty to win. We must love and protect one another. We have nothing to lose but our chains.”

How often have I heard a declaration like hers over the last half century? Each time it has signaled another painful, incremental step toward greater equality, greater justice. That’s what a peaceful revolution is all about. Small steps, never enough but headed in the right direction, until after decades there is a noticeable change. There are always grievances that remain, that in time, will ignite another fire of protest and another small step in the direction of justice. This is the life blood of democracy; injustice leads to protest which leads to change.

It is easy for me to take the long view. I don’t know the people dying. I don’t feel like my neighborhood is under siege. I don’t feel personally threatened. I can only partially empathize with the grieving families. I have experienced death and crushing grief. But, none of my losses were the result of violence. I have no idea what it feels like when someone I love is killed through the actions of another. That is a layer of pain I hope that I will never endure. Yet daily, families across our nation are forced to live with it.

Death through violence is devastating. Death at the hands of someone you are supposed to trust, like the police, is worse. It is betrayal.

Among the posters on the fence was a rain stained placard with the following poem by Jeffrey Joseph Young.

        Jeffrey Joseph Young and Crypto.

Because of my skin

Because of my skin I am worthless.
Because of my skin I am judged more than those of the fairer.
Because of my skin you are uncomfortable.
Because of my skin I feel devalued and unwanted.
Because of my skin you are quicker to react in a more violent manner.
Because of my skin your approach is more cautious.
Because of my skin I receive a less friendly greeting at the grocery store.
Because of my skin I was pulled over because I fit the description of a suspect.
Because of my skin you squeeze your purse tighter as I walk by.
Because of my skin I am dehumanized and thought of as savage.
Because of my skin I was forced out of my homeland and made your slave.
Because of my skin I was passed around and thought of as not human.
Because of my skin I do not have a name, I am only a nigger.
Because of my skin you beat, raped, murdered in cold blood, sic dogs on and hung my brothers and sisters.
Because of my skin I get shot with my hands up.
Because of my skin I get choked harder when I said I couldn’t breathe.
Because of my skin I get my license to carry but am still terrified to carry my gun.
Because of my skin I get shot when I told you that I had my license to carry.
Because of my skin I get tackled and murdered while selling CDs.
Because of my skin I am shot first and asked questions last.
Because of my skin I can’t answer your questions because I am dead.
Because of my skin you are the oppressor and I am the oppressed.
Because of my skin I get your brutality and not your humanity.
Because of my skin I see the lack of democracy and the real hypocrisy.
Because of my skin my life doesn’t matter.
Because of my skin I do not matter.
Because of my skin …
Because of my skin?
Because of my skin.

I met the poet, Jeffrey Joseph Young and his dog Crypto. He is a gentle young man with black and white parents. He straddles both worlds. The fact that I need to describe him as such simply underscores the continuing power of race in America.  We still live in a nation where skin color is history and destiny.

Later, I met another young man, James, and his 7 month old daughter, Aria. He told me that when he was a child, his father had exposed him to bad influences which had resulted in a troubled youth. Now he was showing his daughter a positive world of community and engagement. Later, when I looked at the picture of James and Aria I thought, “From the fire rises the Phoenix.”

At last the weather got to me and I headed back to my car. Along the way, I encountered more police, standing in the shade and drinking water. Again I offered condolences for the officers killed in Dallas. Violent death is violent death and its effect on family, friends and community is devastating.

I found it all confusing. Protesters and police separated by violence and yet bound together by fear and grief. I hope that all of the deaths this week will be the catalyst to meaningful changes. Peacefully seeking justice and understanding will lead us all from this darkness.

I’ve begun to simplify my life by getting rid of the clutter of 69 years.

Because I have no siblings, wife or children I have no one to whom I can leave the jetsam and flotsam of my life. So rather than dumping a huge load of shit on my brothers-in-law, I’ve decided to get rid of unused or unnecessary things. I tend to move slowly on projects, so I figure I’d better get started while I still have some good years left. It’s going to take years.

Looking at all this stuff is like time travel on steroids. Each image carries not only the memories of taking the picture but also of the time surrounding it; little bubbles of life captured in the amber of photosensitive silver. It’s an amazing experience to discover that my memory hasn’t flat-lined but still works great. Just don’t ask me what I had for breakfast.

I’ve been reviewing my accumulated work and trying to get some control of my 55 years of photography. I’ve got 100,000s of negatives and slides; most of which have never seen the light of day. Like Vivian Maier, I’ve documented my life through photography and squirreled it away. Unlike Vivian, I’ve occasionally shown a few of my images and now, I am working to get my art out into the world rather than die and leave it all to the vagaries of chance.

This is not a somber task. Each day I find treasures.

When I take a photo I have two simultaneous thoughts. One is conscious composition, weighing the context, drama, shapes, light and shadow. The other is subconscious, a clearer eye that sees beneath the moment and imparts meanings that I’m not aware of at the moment. It is only later as I work with the image in Photoshop that the two thoughts merge into a cogent whole. Each image surprises me.

While creating an image I often enter a meditative state. Often it leaves me feeling enriched. I used to get the same feeling working in the darkroom. However, Photoshop is more rewarding. I am able to see my ideas come to life almost instantly, not requiring long hours in the darkroom exposing, developing, washing, and drying before there is a proof to evaluate. In addition, Lightroom and Photoshop offer capabilities that only the most sophisticated photo labs could offer.

I’m having fun and using my brain. Perhaps in the process I’ll create pictures that will tell a story.

Eventually, what will become of all this stuff? Haven’t a clue. As I separate the wheat from the chaff I am looking for those images that are either of artistic or historic interest. Perhaps at a later time, I’ll find a historical society or museum who will give them a home.

Technical Note

I’m scanning the the best of the keepers at 6400 dpi which creates huge files that allow me to make prints 13″ x 19″ or larger. I’m also using an Access database to list and describe what I’m keeping.

Photo is from 08/21/2015 when smoke from western forest fires transformed Minneapolis sunsets.

This morning, I woke up early. My subconscious alarm, that reptilian part of my brain that automatically warns me about ancient threats, had gone off. Something was wrong and I could smell it. Smoke. I got up and went through the house sniffing for the source: nothing. The campfire smell was coming from outside. Sunrise confirmed it with a molten red sun.

Smoke from two forest fires, the gigantic fire in Alberta, Canada and a blaze up north near Bemidji are pumping vast amounts of CO2, particulate matter and noxious gases into the atmosphere. I can still smell it at mid day. A pale high altitude haze mutes the power of the sun.

Preoccupied with the endlessly repeating of the presidential campaign’s non-news, the media has given little attention to the fire in Alberta, even though it is a disaster of historic proportions. A city of 90,000 people has been evacuated; one of the largest evacuations in North America in 100 years. Some of the vast oil sands pit mines, refineries and pipelines are threatened. Over 25,000 acres of northern forest, vital for sequestering CO2 from the atmosphere and combating climate change have been destroyed.

What we are witnessing is another example of global warming and the future problems that we need to begin preparing for. Fort McMurray is a product of the oil boom. In the 1950’s it had a population of about 1,000 people but today it was 90 times that size until the fire. People from all over Canada and the world flocked to Fort McMurray for work and a chance at a better life. What survives of Fort McMurray is a ghost town.  Now what are they going to do? How can you rebuild a city if its people have been dispersed, businesses and infrastructure destroyed?

A lot of people will not return to Fort McMurray. The tar sands oil boom is over and the army of workers once needed to build the mines, refineries, pipelines, housing, and associated infrastructure are no longer needed. Some of the smaller tar sands mines are closing down completely. Fort McMurray was already feeling the impact of lost jobs before the forest fire but, now the situation is far worse. The fire has taken many service jobs as well. The Alberta and Canadian economies will feel the effects of this fire for years to come.

The majestic old growth trees that made this area beautiful are gone. An area of over 390 square miles has been stripped of its ecosystem. When the rains eventually come there will be mud slides and flooding. It will be decades before a forest returns and it will be scrub and not the majestic old growth. Even if you lived in Fort McMurray for your entire life, would you return to the desolation?

What happens to the 90,000 or so refugees fleeing the fire? Where will they live temporarily and in the long-term? What will they do? Will they have resources to rebuild or relocate and start fresh or will they be condemned to poverty? Will there be long-term psychological support for those that are injured or traumatized? These are the questions that will come up again and again as climate change forces people from their homes and livelihoods.

To deal with climate change effectively we must also create sustainable social programs and institutions that address the dislocation of large numbers of people over a long period of time. Otherwise, all of us face a very uncertain future; just one climate event away from poverty and homelessness.

It’s time to open our minds and think creatively. Our future depends on it.