Author: Peter Freilinger

So June 19 is the anniversary of something important in American history – it’s the day that, officially, the abolition of the legal institution of slavery was promulgated in the last rebel state to lay down arms in the Civil War, Texas. There had been the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863 but that was a bit of a con job: Lincoln announced that slavery was outlawed in those states that had rebelled against the Constitution and the Union, but the Union largely had no control over the regions affected – and in states that had not rebelled, slavery remained legal. The 13th Amendment to the US constitution declared slavery illegal in all of the United States in December of 1865, but with the military defeat of the rebel states in April of 1865, the Union government had the power and the authority to enforce the Proclamation of 1863, and it was finally promulgated in that last large bastion of slavery on June 19, 1865. Given that both Mexico and Canada had long since eliminated the peculiar institution, we can thus celebrate June 19 – Juneteenth, as it came to be known by the newly freed black in the South – as the last day of chattel slavery in North America.

And as we all know, it was not the last day of racism in continental North America. Or anywhere.

Continue reading “Juneteenth”

I’m on a retreat right now.  I’m taking the train from Los Angeles to Washington, DC, with a change in Chicago.  It’ll take four days.  The boy is with his grandparents, and the dog is with a trainer who hopefully will get her to stop jumping on people.  I have a two-person “roomette” to myself for the entirety of the journey.  After fifteen months of full time single parenting with just two six day breaks when the ex-wife flew out to have in-person time, I’m savouring every moment of being solitary, just the gentle sway of the train, and no more human contact than the occasional trips to the cafe car for mixers and ice. I miss the boy and the dog, but my guess is, on some level, they’re both enjoying a break from me, too.

Continue reading “Down by the tracks”

I took my son to the art museum yesterday, for the first time in I don’t know how long. It was a free admission day, but you still had to make a reserved time, and having got there a little early, we got a snack and waited outside. As he ate his chocolate cake lollipop, I checked my email on my phone, and saw a note with the subject line”

“The “racist” and “about … implicit racism” word, “character”, is found throughout the Comprehensive Plan.“

Hmmm, I thought, this is new.

Continue reading “Character”

Moving back to Maine with my son has been entertaining on multiple levels. For example: he is not nearly as outdoorsy as I was when I was a kid, and that proves to be the source of endless mutual frustration. He would much prefer staying in his room, reading or playing a video game or playing with his Legos, to ever going outside, no matter how lovely the day. I admit I was pretty bookish and Lego-ish as a kid too (I just barely pre-dated decent video games), but I also liked hanging out in the backyard, or on the beach, or in the woods – but no, he does not. So on any sunny day, we’ll have a good 20 minutes of argument about getting him outdoors. I find those 20 minutes to be supremely enjoyable, as he uses his eight year old rhetorical skills to try to convince me that fresh air is horrible and cold and awful, and that the real point of being a young man is to play “Roller Coaster Tycoon” or read Diary of a Wimpy Kid or watch cooking shows on the Food Network. He never wins – although in his mind I’m sure he never loses, either – but he never fails to make me smile – although usually for fatherly purposes I have to keep the smile internal.

Continue reading “Foreign affairs”

(with apologies to Fyodor)

I watched him walk through the lobby entrance and take a seat at the top of the horseshoe, and as he sat down, he asked if I knew how to make a Corpse Reviver.  I asked him number one or number two, and he said “you passed, barman” and after the briefest of pauses he said “number two, if you please” and I got to work.  

He was clearly of the retired political type: well dressed, in the kind of suit that isn’t quite tailored, but it’s at least been fitted properly.  Someone who had to look good on television, not just a backbencher type glad-handing the farmers on weekends.  I vaguely recognized him but not enough to remember what for; it nagged at me.

Continue reading “Four rusty nails”