Jimmy Newell's Blog

This post may be a litle hard for even those who know and love me to digest.

I was reminded about what you are about to read(if you are brave enough to continue) while reading a book on Christianity in Trump America. The premise of the book (Separation Of Church And Hate by John Fugelsang) is that many so called Christians forget what Christ actually said.

The book rekindled my own thoughts on Christ and two specific memories came to mind.

I was brought up as an Irish Catholic in the Bronx in the 50s. Like all my siblings, I went to Blessed Sacrament Elementary School. I also went to a Catholic High School, Catholic Undergrad and Graduate School and, eventually, Catholic Law School.

Along my journey I taught in Catholic elementary and high schools. When my parish on the East End of Long Island was in need for an eighth grade teacher for their CCD (Sunday School) program, I volunteered and continued teaching on Sunday mornings for ten years.

I bought into the Catholic program.

When all the scandals erupted and virtually destroyed Catholicism, I got mad and frustrated with the Bishops and other church leaders and remembered that Christ did too.

I realized that my faith was not in the leadership of the church but in Christ. Fortunately, I had many friends who, by their own grace and observance of what Christ taught, inspired my continued faith in Christ.

That wasn’t too bad, was it? Many of you may have had similar experiences. But, here it comes now.

I commuted from East Quoge via Speonk on the Long Island Rail Road as part of my trip to work up to 168th Street and Broadway in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. It was an arduos ordeal to say the least. I started commuting in the early 80s. There were no iPhones, no iPads, in fact we were a decade from having the internet at our disposal. So, in order to obtain my monthly LIRR ticket I had to get it at a ticket booth in Penn Station.

Trying to get it in the morning was impossible. I was already running late and hundreds of my fellow commuters were attempting to get their ticket. One time I decided to go down at lunch time rather than risk missing my train in the evening while stuck on a line.

The 8th Avenue A train was fast and convenient making it possible to accomplish my task during the lunch hour, but I had to hurry.

I caught the subway right away and soon arrived at Penn Station. I am running from the train and down the stairs making my way. through the turnstile and had my ticket booth in sight. All of a sudden I am accosted by a homeless woman asking me for money. I had no time for this and rushed past her and said I had nothing to give her.

I am now on the end of a fairl long line but the tickety agent was up to the task. I soon was second in line when this same homeless woman renewed her plea for money. Again, I just wanted to get my ticket and get back to work without being late. I don’t have anythin to give you, I protested.

Finally, I got my ticket and soon to be up on the subway platform waiting for the northbound A train. But, of course, just as I am putting my token (remember it’s the 80s and no Metro Cards or Apps) when the old homeless woman once again demanded me to stop what I was doing and give her some money. (Actually, she never made any demand but beseehed me for some help however little it might be).

I am now on the other side of the turnstile and realize what I have done. I turned around, frantic, hoping to see her but she disappeared.

At that moment I realized how appropriate it was for my mother to make my middle name Peter.

That woman was Christ and , like Peter, I denied her three times. Whatever you do to the least, you do unto me. It wasn’t just a story. It wasn’t a recommendation. It was a commandment. Worse than not giving Her any aid or sustenance, I failed to recognize Christ in Her.

I met Christ that day for the first time. It would be a few years before I saw Him again. Ironically it would be in New York’s other train station.

Ten or so years after this first encounter with Christ I, as I always seem to be, was rushing to get to work. This time I was working on the East Side and had to take the Flushing Subway to Grand Central to the northbound 6 train.

As I came up the escalator to get to the stairway down to the 6, I entered a world of mayhem with no ssemblance of order. Just getting from the escalator to the concourse was like swimming in a rip current. There was this one guy who had absolutely no tolerance for other people and merely smashed his way through the crown disregarding whether or not he ran over people or not. I was one of the people he tried to run over. It was like being a running back and he was a middle line backer. While I didn’t get knocked down I did get knocked into.

I was now thinking and muttering all the hateful things that came to mind. I may have made up a few along the way. Finally went down to the platform for the 6 and a northbound train sonn arrived. The best part of this journey was that the train woul be virtually empty…or so I thought.

I entered a subway car, still seething from my ordeal of getting knocked about. There was hardly anyone on the train as the northbound trains at that time of the morning did not have to transport as many commuters as they would later have to once the work day ended.

I am quietly sitting, not making any eye contact in case there were any eyes attempting contact. I had my subway face on… no smile, looking down, and giving the appearance that I am either sleeping or reading a book. But this was not going to work on this day.

It wasn’t long before I felt a presence. I tried as hard as I could to ignore the person standing right over me but, it was obvious that this strategy would not be successful.

I looked up to see this youngish man looking down at me. I said, YEAH?

Then it happened.

He had this smile as he asked me if I was a teacher. At that very moment, all the hatred and rage that I haad been feeling only seconds before was gone. He then went on to say that I reminded him of his favorite teacher who was so important to him I told him that I was a teacher in the past and knew that I met Christ once again but this time to remind me that my hatred and rage that I was feeling was not who I was.

I was a teacher and it did not matter that I was no longer employed as one.

My friend on the train forgave me and, in so doing, I forgave the linebacker who took me out while getting to my train

Compassion and Forgiveness were the lessons I had forgotten as the cornerstones of Christ’s teachings. A homeless woman and a young man on a subway who was not too bashful to teach this. teacher.

Too often we expect (if we expect anything at all) that God will come to us in a burning bush or a James Earl Jone voice from the sky. This is the Cecil B DeMille School of Theology. But, God AKA Christ,

is alredy here, in us. We just have to recognise each other in this way. Compasion and Forgiveness are the first steps to overcome fear and loathing.

I am not sure how you feel about my encounters. I only know they have served me well in this world begging for Compassion and Forgiveness.

Peace and Love.

It was a Saturday and the Viet Nam War was still raging.

I was with Peter, Paul, and Mary and Country Joe McDonald in Washington DC. PPM sang Bob Dylan’s Blowing In The Wind and Country Joe sang the Fish Cheer.

I sang along with them along with 300,000 of my closest friends.

There were no problems. No confrontations. No Violence. Everything was straight up.

There were many people then and many people now who did not agree with our protest. Some stupin people demonstrating were against the soldiers who fought in the war. I never was and prayed for their safe return. I was anti Military because they, along with our politicians, both Democrats and Republicans, brought us into a needless war.

In 1971 our right to peacefully protest was in our DNA as a nation.

It still is!

Accusing those who voice their opinions about snatching people off the streets or out of their beds does not mean you hate America.

People who say peaceful protestors hate America hate Americans.

I didn’t hate America in 1971 when I protested on the Capital Mall anymore than those protesting in the No King marches today.

There is an underlying nastiness to the hate mongers today.

Wanting the ultra rich to pay taxes, never mind their fair share, or a government that provides health care and takes care of the needs of the poor and the veterans they purport to love is not based on hate. Far from it. We are proud to be Americans and we wish to make it an even greater country for all.

Most of us are either first generation children of immigrants and probably no more than second or third. We should live up to the inscription on the Statue of Liberty and to the tenets of our faith.

It’s sad that we are so divided that we can not see the danger that faces us.

America was formed because we wanted to cast off the shackles of living under the rule of a king.

That country still exists…for now.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to go to law school or even teach law school these days.

As a former history teacher, Constitutional Law was my favourite class when I was in law school. I took as many Con law related classes as were offered. The case law at that time defined, as the Supreme Court saw its obligations, was settled and new cases that demanded new interpretations of the Constitution were decided in a political vacuum.

The classic example of the apoliitical nature of the Supreme Court was the Warren Court.

Earl Warren had been the Republican Governor of California before his appointment to the bench as Chief Justice by President Dwight D. Eisenhower, also a Republican. That however did not affect the jurisprudence of the new Chief Justice.

Brown v The Board of Education and Miranda v Arizona are only two of the Court’s decisions that revolutionzed Ameerican law during Warren’s tenure.

I am not going to bother writing about the current court.

However, given the state of affairs in which we find ourselves where it is impossible to predict which rights we have and those that are being taken away, I would like to address the Firt Amendment to The Constitution particularly as it applies to free speech.

Like all rights (except those mentioned in the Second Amendment) the right to Free Speech is not limitless. The famous line by Oliver Wendell Homes explained that the First Amendment is not absolute by using the analogy of yelling fire in a crowded theater. The notion that free speech doesn’t extend to causing physical harm. (But I always asked: Are we not allowed, are we not duty bound to alert the people in the theater when there is a fire?)

Anyway, the first amendment is not absolute.

However, the purpose of the first amendment is clearly that of protectin unpopular speech. Pornography is protected. The marches of hate inspired groups are allowed to protest just as Civil Rights workers and anti war demonstrators.

You may not like what any of these groups have to say but that is the point of thte First Amendment. We all have the right to speak our mind so long as we do not cause physical harm or incite others to do so.

So late night TV hosts can offer us political satire just as Fox News can say what they say. Trying to bully the media by threatening to cancel television stations licenses or preventing corporate activities should be unconstitutional but we know this court doesn’t have the stomach to even read the Constitution never mind apply its tenets.

I am not sure where these justices (or our politicians) went to school but they should bring a suit based on educational malfeasance.

You know what you were doing.

You know who you were with.

You know how you felt.

You can’t help but remember.

You may have had one other event that lives in your psyche as real today as when it happened.

Twenty-four years has done nothing to alter your sense of that day.

And that is a very good thing.

I have a bad habit of writing in my head when I am trying to get to sleep.

Very often the title of a post or specific phrases that I will use keep me up well into the wee hours of the morning.

Sometimes I equate these moments to dreaming while awake.

I have had similar experiences while fully awake and with a group of friends. One memorable instance of my waking dream phenomena happened when I was thirteen while attending a Halloween Party out Jeannie’s house. This was in 1963, and all our friends were there.

It was a magic moment, and I understood the significance of that time even as I lacked sufficient understanding of the hormones that were attacking my body and psyche. At some point during the party, I was able to draw myself out of the reality of the music, dancing, and laughter as I became a silent observer rather than a participant.

I was only gone for a few seconds, but I can still remember the joy that those few seconds helped me to appreciate.

Another moment like this occurred on September 3, 1971.

Unlike the Halloween Party in 1963 which I had been anticipating for days, I had no hint that a special moment was on its way.

It was my last day working in the mail room at Lorillard Corp. and, like most Fridays that were also paydays, my colleagues and I cashed our checks and headed to the nearest Blarney Stone on Third Avenue. We didn’t have to walk far, as it seemed that a Blarney Stone occupied space on every block on Third Avenue in Midtown.

Lunch consisted of roast beef sandwiches on rye and a few cold brews to aid in their digestion. Later on the walk back to the office, we stopped off at a Tobaconist and bought some Tipparillos for a light after lunch smoke. Ironically, we worked for a tobacco company that made cigarettes but no cigars.

The work day soon came to a close, and goodbyes and hugs were exchanged, and before I knew it, I was on the Six train heading north to the Parkchester stop. I should add that in 1971, subways were not air-conditioned, and warm air was rendered even hotter by the ceiling fans pushing hot air into your face.

Because it was my mother’s birthday, I had to stop at the Parkchester Pharmacy on The Circle when I got off the train. I purchased the typical cosmetic collection of perfume, scented soaps, and hand cream. My mother was always appreciative of my modest efforts to honor her birth.

After dinner, I went, as planned, to Al’s Wine and Liquors to meet up with my friends. Cake and a Happy Birthday rendition were planned for Sunday, when other siblings would share in the festivities.

Little did I know that when I entered the liquor store that my life would be forever changed.

No specific plans were set for our Friday night adventure. We wound up going to one of the usual bars that had served us well in the past. The bar was called the Castle Keep but on this particular Friday night, the Castle might as well have been protected by a moat given the paucity of female clientele.

We didn’t stay long enough to order a beer.

So. we meandered down East Tremont Avenue to another bistro known as the Hollow Leg, previously known as the Bronx Irish Center, AKA BIC.

I wasn’t a fan of this place as it held too many memories or traumatic experiences dating back to high school. Here I was on the verge of entering senior year in college and I was sucked into the black hole that was the Hollow Leg….Thank God!!!

As I was bobbing and weeving on the dance floor by myself, my friends having abandoned me, I spotted someone at the bar smiling or perhaps laughing at me. Thinking along the lines of Oliver Hardy I mused, What Could Be Worse?

I then made my way to the bar and the smiling or laughing individual. Now, even from the great distance of ten. feet I could tell that she was a red head. I previously encountered a beautiful red head on two occasions at Manhattan College’s Manhappening and had a good time on both occasions. Except, when the time came to go home or to plan our next encounter, she always used the barrier of her father. She said he would not appove of me and she itereated the reasons, I believe, in iambic pentameter.

However, as I approached this particular red head, I could tell she was a completely different person…Thank God.

But here I am approaching her and I had no clue as to what I should say. I adlibed and uttered a disastorus opening line, “I’ve been admiring you all night.”

Well, there was no doubt as to whether she was smiling or laughing as she nearly fell off her bar stool laughing so hard at my poor excuse for a pick up line.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before I realized that I had found the wife of my children and the Memaw of my grandchildren.

That was fifty-four years ago today and on September 19th a short five years after our first encounter, we were married.

So much has happened from that September night in 1971 but most of what happened was completely expected.

So, the one take away I can offer you is that sometimes you never see what is heading your way until you walk through the door and find the girl who smiles.

The rest of that evening was previously described in A Bronx Boy’s Tale so, while it bears repeating, I will allow you to do so at your own leisure.

Well, it’s not officially the last weekend of the summer but it might as well be.

If you were one of my boomer friends who grew up in the Bronx and attended Blessed Sacrament School, you can almost smell the stale aroma that permeated our classrooms on that first Tuesday after Labor Day.

The hatefule jingle of the Robert Hall ad reminding us in the beginning of August that school bells would soon be ringing had already lost its sting as our parents had taken over preparing us for the return to school.

Although we had a good idea as to whom our new teacher would be, we never. were quite sure and had no idea at all as to how she (it wouldn’t be until high school until we had male teachers) would be to deal with on a daily basis. I have to say that I was always pretty lucky in that regard, despite having a break in period before we each appreciated the other’s humor.

Eighth grade was a different story all together and I have written about that experience in A Bronx Boy’s Tale. But even 62 years later the special nature of that experience still resonates with me as well as the friends and classmates who shared it with me.

I prefer to think of those times today as whether it was a factor of age or naivety, those years seemed happier and less dangerous. Even after the Kennedy Assassination we were able to mourn without despairing.

Then the Beatles came to (I Want) To Hold Your Hand and suddenly we could smile and sing.

This weekend many of us may continue that tradition with friends over a barbecue as we anticipate a beautiful autumn season.

The wheel turns; we get older; we live to laugh and bring joy to others.

Don’t watch the news; don’t read the paper; play music and eat a hot dog.

Have a great weekend and I will write again soon.

We were living in Bradenton, Florida for only a year when the Parkland school shooting occurred. The day after the mass murder of innocent children I started volunteering in a cancer research compontent connected to where I receive treatment for CLL.

That first day I was working along side a woman of about my age (being kind), so late 60s, and I remarked to her about the tragic shooting in south Florida. Her response always haunts me anytime there is another school shooting.

She said, ” I JUST WORRY ABOUT THE SECOND AMENDMENT! ( Caps and exclamation point are my own.)

I asked, “Are you worried about people worshiping false idols or taking the Lord’s name in vain?” That of course references the Second Commandment. I didn’t reply to her and I didn’t say another word to this poor excuse for a human.

Even the gutless right wing nuts catering to their gun lobby support at least offer their “THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS.”

I don’t pretend to know God personally or what his thoughts are on human behaviour, but I do believe He/She (Remember we are all made in God’s image or is it the other way around?)

Thoughts and prayers don’t seem to be working against automatic rifles but thoughts and prayers are the only things our cowardly law makers can offer to stop the murder of children.

Of course, the National Guard can reduce crime in our nation’s capital (well, not really) and federal agents can mask up and wear all sorts of body armor to arrest people hanging out at Home Depots just looking for work.

Why don’t we use all those thoughts and prayers in someting for which they have the best application. Say, combating hatred and racism. How about we offer all those offering thoughts and prayers a bounty for handing in all the weapons they have stockpiled? Pay them twice what they paid for these guns and we can fund it by cancelling the tax reduction for the billionaires.

It’s a terrible way to live when you have to worry about your children and grandchildren going off to school for the first time.

Boomers like me only had to worry about the Bomb, and, thankfully, we had leaders that made America great without going Nazi on us.

A few years ago, I signed up with Major League Baseball to participate in one of their outreach programs.

Fans At Bat is a survey device that MLB sends participants via email to gauge fans’ support (or lack thereof) for various baseball-related topics. The League and its owners want to take the pulse of public reaction to some of their programs and events, ostensibly.

I have received surveys on what candidates should qualify for the Baseball Hall of Fame, and what TV station is broadcasting the All-Star game (and in what city will it be played). I have even been asked about the sponsors supporting the transmission of the game.

The other day, I received a survey about my favorite topic…sports gambling.

Having watched the exploits of Shoeless Joe Jackson and his contemporary ghosts play baseball in a cornfield in Iowa, the history behind the Black Sox scandal has always struck a chord. Baseball at that time was so concerned with maintaining the integrity of the game and having fans continue to value their product, that they made a special effort to punish the players as well as appointing the first Commissioner of Baseball in the person of Kenesaw Mountain Landis, AKA Judge Landis.

Landis was a federal judge who quickly applied law and order to professional baseball. He was appointed in 1920, and so ingrained was the goal of keeping Baseball free of gambling and gamblers that even in the 1970s, two of baseball’s all-time greats were banned from baseball activities, eg, Old Timers Day.

Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays were banned for merely serving as greeters at gambling casinos. They were later reinstated when they stopped serving in this capacity.

But now? The gamblers are not only allowed into the inner sanctum of America’s Pastime, but they are also welcomed as sponsors and collaborators with sports gambling companies.

Odds are posted on MLB broadcasts, and fans are encouraged to bet on whether Aaron Judge will get a home run or a particular pitcher will get six strikeouts.

Judge Landis is spinning in his grave.

It seems that making money has now displaced Baseball as America’s Pastime.

That is why I take every opportunity to slam MLB on their surveys when they ask for a comment, even if the topic has nothing to do with gambling or the companies that provide an opportunity for some fan to lose money he can’t afford to lose.

I know…I have a case of the cranks. But really, I just can’t tolerate hypocrisy.

Remember when you were a kid and awaiting the last day of school and the first day of summer were like waiting for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?

It’s still that way for me and I haven’t been in school for quite a while. Nevertheless, you never lose that feeling that something wonderful is about to happen. Despite it being the longest day of the year, the first day of summer also ushers in the beginning of days getting shorter.

When I was a kid my mother always told me the story about her mother telling her on the first day of summer, “Now the days will be getting shorter and shorter.”

That always depressed my mother but it didn’t keep her from repeating that observation to me each and every first day of summer. But, it never really got me down as sleeping later, staying out well into the summer night, and staying up late watching TV easily overcame the sudden realization that summer was on a short leash and the first day of summer and the last day of school would suddenly and inexorably transform to the end of the summer and the first day of school.

John Sebastian said it best, “Hot Fun Summer In The City.”

The air conditioner didn’t make its appearance at Apartment 6, 1261 Leland Avenue, until the summer of 1975. Window fans kept us “cool” from the fifties through half of the seventies. Subways never had airconditioning when I commuted to Manhattan on the 6 train. The subway wasn’t just hot, it was jam packed with hot, sweaty people…it was lovely.

The best part of the work-day was arriving at 200 East 42nd Street after an unbearable subway ride and an equally unbearable walk along 42nd Street. Once inside the haven that was 200 East you were ensconced in cool, moist vapors that revived you in an instant. So much so that you were eager for a hot cup of Horn and Hardart coffee from Kathleen who brough our brew each morning in her coffee cart.

Having cooled off and imbibed a hot cup a Joe, it was now time to make our rounds and deliver our mail to the executives of the company.

Actually, we made our deliveries to the secretaries which was the best part of our day.

Our bosses thought we were merely go-getters and hard workers when in fact, we just wanted to talk to the girls (back then it wasa ok to call them girls) of the office.

Hot town in the summertime .

To quote my dear friend, “Hey Ice keep cool.” Good advice during a summer heatwave.

It’s difficult to understand how so many “patriots” have succumbed to a lying cheat. A man who mocks those who have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States (words foreign and unknown to this man) and plans to use the anniversary of our US Army as a way of honoring him on his birthday with a military parade of all things!

I hope that, in the near future, a special day is set aside to remember the abominations of this would-be dictator as well as those cowards who enabled and encouraged his outlandish antics.

So as we remember those who served our nation this Memorial Day, let us not forget that a new day, a Memorable Day, is coming soon, and America will again be the country we have known and loved.