May 26, 2025: "Topography," Memorial Day, "Taps"

Yes, it is Memorial Day in the United States.  Every year, on the last Monday of the month of May, we celebrate and honor members of the U.S. armed forces who sacrificed their lives to defend our nation.  This year, more than any other, it's even more important to remember the true meaning of this day--the preservation of freedom and democracy against tyranny, hatred, and authoritarianism.

Sharon Olds writes about the United States . . . 

Topography

by: Sharon Olds

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
intricately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly from the left my
moon rising slowly from the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Okay, Olds' poem is about sex.  It's not very subtle in that regard.  However, it's also about the freedom of speech (that's the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution for all those MAGA readers who've never read the document upon which our entire country is based).  Olds can write a sex poem using the United States metaphorically and parodying the Pledge of Allegiance simply because it's her Constitutional right.

In other countries ruled by fascist dictators, poets have been thrown in jail for criticizing political leaders.  Stalin did it.  Putin is still doing it.  Fortunately, the Constitution prevents President 47 from doing it in the United States (for now).  All those brave members of the U.S. military who fought and died in armed conflicts did so in order to bear "true faith and allegiance to the Constitution" (that's in the oath all enlisted personnel take--check it out if you don't believe me).  They sacrificed their lives so Olds could exercise her Constitutional rights as a U.S. citizen.

I was raised to respect and honor all military veterans.  From a very young age, I knew that Memorial Day wasn't just about a three-day weekend and hotdogs and corn on the cob.  It's about who we are and what ideals we should all hold dear, regardless of political affiliation.  

I went to a Memorial Day parade with my family today.  Then, we attended a Veterans of Foreign Wars service at a local cemetery.  We placed flowers at the graves of relatives, including my father, who was a military veteran.

I am not a hater or war-monger or xenophobe.  I believe in the worth of everyone, no matter where you come from, what you believe, or who you love.  As a Christian, I was taught that all human beings are children of God.  Kindness and compassion should be the guiding force of everything we do.

If you don't agree with these ideals, you are NOT a true patriot and you are NOT a true Christian.  Sorry, not sorry.  Read the Constitution and the Bible.  It's pretty straightforward.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for Memorial Day based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem where the first word starts with "A" and the last word of the poem ends with "Z."  Somewhere in the poem mention the alphabet or alphabetical order.  Have the poem be about something that has nothing to do with the alphabet.  For extra credit, try to use a word that begins with each letter of the alphabet.

Taps

by: Martin Achatz

At my father's grave today,

a flag licks the bright

air as if whispering 

his name, mustering  him

to attention, him standing

straight as a cornstalk

as my mother's ashes

sigh beside him, tell

him to settle down,

relax until the angels

blow "Reveille" and all

the war dead fall in,

waiting to be counted

one last time before marching

off to that final reckoning, 

from Private Second Class

Achatz to Staff Sergeant Zamora.

July 4: "Statues in the Park," Independence Day, Honor

Billy Collins and the code of statues . . .

Statues in the Park

by: Billy Collins

I thought of you today

when I stopped before an equestrian statue 

in the middle of a public square,

you who had once instructed me

in the code of these noble poses.

A horse rearing up with two legs raised,

you told me, means the rider had died in battle.

If only one leg was lifted,

the man had elsewhere succumbed to his wounds,

and if four legs were touching the ground,

as they were in this case--

bronze hooves affixed to a stone base--

it meant that the man on the horse,

this one staring intently

over the closed movie theater across the street,

had died of a cause other than war.

In the shadow of the statue,

I wondered about the others

who had simply walked through life

without a horse, a saddle, or a sword--

pedestrians who could no longer

place one foot in front of the other.

I pictured statues of the sickly

recumbent on their cold stone beds,

the suicides toeing the marble edge,

statues of accident victims covering their eyes,

the murdered covering their wounds,

the drowned silently treading the air.

And there was I,

up on a rosy-gray block of granite

near a cluster of shade trees in the local park,

my name and dates pressed into a plaque,

down on my knees, eyes lifted,

praying to the passing clouds,

forever begging for just one more day.

I've heard of the meanings behind these equestrian statues before, although I wasn't aware of all the nuances of the lifted legs.  These symbolic meanings fascinate me.  Now, I'm sure that, at some point, almost everyone was aware of these artistic codes.  However, over time, these codes have been relegated to questions on Jeopardy! or a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Today the citizens of the United States commemorated Independence Day--the day (almost 250 years ago now) when the Declaration of Independence was signed and British rule in the American colonies came to an end.  In honor of this moment in history, there were parades and community picnics and fireworks all across the nation.  However, much of the original meaning of this day gets obscured by the trappings of these celebrations. 

I'm just as guilty of the next person when it comes to taking my freedoms for granted.  As I sit here typing this blog post, I'm not worried about getting thrown in jail for criticizing the President of the United States or the justices on the Supreme Court.  There's this little thing called freedom of speech in the Constitution which guarantees me the right to express myself without fear of imprisonment or worse.  I can bitch about politicians all I want without fear of retribution (at least in the near future).

 I am not going to discuss recent Supreme Court rulings tonight.  Suffice to say, I've lost faith in the High Court.  Divisive politics and corruption have invaded every aspect of governance in the land.  But, that's not what I'm writing about right now.  I prefer to focus on the time I spent with my wife and kids this afternoon/evening.  I barbecued hot dogs and bratwurst, cooked corn on the cob, and sliced up a watermelon.  We played games and laughed quite a bit.

Now, who knows what Independence Day is going to look like next year.  It all depends on the upcoming presidential election.  My heart tells me that I will still be independent and free.  My mind says I might be incarcerated in some gulag as a dissident poet/anarchist.

Tonight, however, I can still type things like "Fuck Donald Trump" and "Impeach Clarence Thomas" without fear that I will be spirited away in the middle of the night by gestapo agents.  And I honor the sacrifices made by those who fought and sometimes died to insure my freedoms on this Independence Day.  

Saint Marty is now going to comfort his puppy who's cowering in her cage because his neighbors are exercising their freedom to shoot off fireworks.

June 1: "Of the Empire," Angry Poem, Lilacs

Mary Oliver goes a little medieval on humans . . . 

Of the Empire

by:  Mary Oliver

We will be known as a culture that feared death

and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity

for the few and cared little for the penury of the 

many.  We will be known as a culture that taught

and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke

little if at all about the quality of life for

people (other people), for dogs, for rivers.  All 

the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a

commodity.  And they will say that this structure

was held together politically, which it was, and

they will say also that our politics was no more

than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of

the heart, and that the heart, in those days,

was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

Yeah, Oliver is a little pissed.  I've been writing about her and her poetry for six months now, and today is the first time that I can say that.  This is an angry poem.  

Of course, she has every right to be mad.  Look at the inventory of mistakes and greed she provides.  Human beings fear death and adore power.  We care more about the welfare of the wealthy than the deprivations of the poor.  We amass things and ignore the quality of life of fellow planet travelers, dogs, and rivers.  And we put price tags on everything with hearts that are small little fists of meanness.

That's a pretty damning list.  Some of my disciples may take issue with a few of Oliver's assertions (or all of them).  That's okay.  You don't have to agree with her.  That's the beauty of living in a society governed by freedom of speech.  People have the right to say and think the dumbest or smartest shit they want.  I'm totally down with that.

It is around 9 p.m.  Outside, the temperature is still 77 degrees.  All of my lilac bushes are blooming.  I'm surrounded by purple sweetness.  If I were Mary Oliver, I wouldn't be typing this blog post.  I'd be standing in my backyard, basking in these first days of summer, listening to the peepers screaming in the dusk.  I may still do that.

Because that's what Mary would do.  When she felt discouraged or sad or disappointed with humanity, she turned to things that couldn't disappoint her:  her dogs, Blackwater Pond, meadowlarks, rivers, poetry.  No politics here.  Or accumulation of wealth.  Or greed.  Just nature doing what it needs to do in order to survive.

We suck at taking care of the world.  We've proven that, over and over, throughout history.  That's not misanthropic.  That's just plain truth, and that's Oliver's message tonight.  If you have a problem with this poem, then you're probably part of the problem and not the solution.

Please excuse Saint Marty now.  He's got some lilacs to smell.

July 4: Tract of Hyperspace, Fourth of July Parade, Freedom of Speech

Arthur Dent is about to encounter infinity, and not in the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter and peaceful harps kind of way . . .

After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to a gentle halt.

He opened his eyes again.  They were still in the silver tunnel, threading and weaving their way through what appeared to be a crisscross warren of converging tunnels.  When they finally stopped it was in a small chamber of curved steel.  Several tunnels also had their termini here, and at the farther end of the chamber Arthur could see a large circle of dim irritating light.  It was irritating because it played tricks with the eyes, it was impossible to focus on it properly or tell how near or far it was.  Arthur guessed (quite wrongly) that it might be ultraviolet.

Startibartfast turned and regarded Arthur with his solemn old eyes.

"Earthman," he said, "we are now deep in the heart of Magrathea."

"How did you know I was an Earthman?" demanded Arthur.

"These things will become clear to you," said the old man gently, "at least," he added with slight doubt in his voice, "clearer than they are at the moment."

He continued:  "I should warn you that the chamber we are about to pass into does not literally exist within our planet.  It is a little too . . . large.  We are about to pass through a gateway into a vast tract of hyperspace.  It may disturb you."

Arthur made nervous noises.

Slartibartfast touched a button and added, not entirely reassuringly, "It scares the willies out of me.  Hold tight."

The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like.

Traveling into the bowels of Magrathea, Arthur has no idea what he is about to encounter in hyperspace.  Infinity could take any form.  A vast, dark plane of space.  A Star Wars shower of light beams.  The psychedelic wormhole at the end of 2001:  A Space Odyssey.  Or, what I experienced this morning--a seemingly unending line of firetrucks, police cars, and marching bands.

Happy Independence Day to all of my disciples from the United States.  To all of my international disciples, Independence Day is a holiday in my country which celebrates the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a document in which the people of the colonies declared their freedom from the rule of the British monarchy.  (Sorry to all of my British readers, but we did give you Meghan Markle and a new prince.  Probably not an even trade.)

This morning, I did attend an infinite Fourth of July parade in my home town.  That is what infinity is to me.  It was hot.  Over 80 degrees.  Humid.  I was sweating just sitting in my chair.  Of course, it didn't help that I was in the direct sunlight, too.  By the time the last marching band oom-pahed by, I was having visions of black holes and angel choirs.

I do love the festivities and traditions of this holiday.  Granted, there is a LOT wrong with the United States, including the military spectacle with tanks and troops taking place in Washing, D. C., today.  (Millions of dollars spent on a parade that could have paid for the healthcare of thousands of military veterans--not to mention all of the refugee concentration camps on the border--it almost makes me want to turn the country back over to Great Britain.)  However, I sit here, writing this blog post because of my freedom of speech, which is still a constitutional right for the time being.  Just because I am being critical of the current President of the United States doesn't mean that I'm going to wake up to soldiers pounding on my front door to drag me off to prison.  At least, not yet.

That is what I celebrate most this July 4th.  My ability to think freely.  Express my thoughts freely.  Say that Donald Trump is Adolf Hitler with orange hair freely.  Yes, white supremacy is alive and well in my country.  For that, I am deeply ashamed.  I am a Christian, and I can say, without a doubt, that those in positions of power currently in the United States are NOT Christians.  They may profess to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ, but--unless Christ touted protecting the rights of the rich and powerful, empowering racists and anti-Semites and homophobes and Islamophobes and misogynists, and doing nothing about hunger and poverty and climate change--they are lying.

And I am free to say all of that without worry.

Some of you might be clicking on to another blog right now, thinking "fake news" or "fake Christian."  That's fine.  That's your right, as well.  I wish you a happy Independence Day.  Celebrate the fact that you can hold on to your agenda of hate as long as you want, because of the Constitution of the United States, which you are currently pissing all over.  It's all about freedom.

Tonight, I will eat some barbecued hot dogs and bratwursts for dinner.  Then, I will go to a community gathering and watch a fireworks display at dusk.  More traditions.  In a couple of years, maybe I will be able to be proud to be an American again.

For the moment, however, Saint Marty is simply grateful to be an American so that he can express his unpopular opinions without fear.

September 8: The Blacksmith, White Privileged Male, Servants in Washington

Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after concluding his contributory work for Ahab's leg, but still retained it on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades, pikeheads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man's was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart. And so it was.- Most miserable!

A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.

Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter's midnight, on the road running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life's drama.

He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow's technicals called ruin. He had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family's heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now, for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith's shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband's hammer; whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor's iron lullaby, the blacksmith's infants were rocked to slumber.

Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely? Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.

Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!

Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them- "Come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. dome hither! put up thy grave-stone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!"

Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve, the blacksmith's soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth went a-whaling.

An uplifting little tale for a Saturday morning.  A blacksmith artist  loses his young wife and family, home, livelihood, drapes himself in black, and becomes a vagabond.  He's one of those guys you see on the street corner, veiled in a cloud of sadness.  You might not know his story, but he carries loss around with him, wears it like an old tee shirt from a Grateful Dead concert, dirty, tattered, and full of funk.

I think we all know people like Perth.  Walk by them every day without paying any notice.  They're easy to ignore.  You don't want to look at them too closely because it's painful, makes you feel guilty for the relatively comfortable life that you lead.  Or maybe it's fear, like their bad fortune is a virus you might contract.  So, it's easier simply to walk by them, averting your eyes, looking at beautiful cloud formations or an interesting window display.

I think, in my country (and probably the world, as a whole), we've become so self-centered that we've forgotten the very things that make us human--our abilities to feel compassion and empathy, to reach out and help people or creatures in need.  Instead, we worry that we don't have the latest iteration of the iPhone, haven't binge-watched the latest season of Stranger Things.

That's the problem in the United States right now.  The person sitting in the Oval Office has been spoiled his whole life.  He hasn't had to struggle for anything.  He was born rich, lived rich, and will die rich.  And he wants to make sure that he doesn't have to share his toys with anybody else in the sandbox.  Not only that, but he's surrounded by like-minded spoiled people.  White.  Privileged.  Male.  Rich.  Frightened of people who don't look like them, aren't like them.

The United States is one of the wealthiest and freest countries in the world.  Yet, homelessness and hunger is rampant.  Young people graduate from colleges with thousands and thousands of student debt.  Sick people have to make the choice not to seek treatment because it simply costs too much money.  And millions of people work two or three low-paying jobs in order to provide for their families.

It's really time that we stop being afraid of the rich white guys who run this country.  It's time that the rich white guys start being afraid of us.  We need to remind the people in power that they aren't the bosses.  They're the employees.  And they need to start taking care of EVERYONE--young, old, man, woman, teenager, child, black, white, brown, straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, legal citizen, legal and illegal immigrant.  There is enough food and money and resources in this country for every person.  It's just that 1% of our population controls 98 or 99% of this abundance.

It's time to get angry for all the Perths out there.  Time for all the Perths to stand up and retake control.  Remind the servants in Washington, D. C., that they are SERVANTS.

Okay, I'm climbing down from my soap box now, but I'm not closing my mouth.  Not putting away my anger.  If you tell me that American needs to be great again, I will tell you that the only way that's going to happen is when we start taking care of people again.  Not just millionaires and billionaires.  We need to remember what's written on that plaque by the Statue of Liberty:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

When we start living by these words, America will be great again.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for freedom of speech.

July 4: John F. Kennedy, Independence Day, Freedom

A great motor yacht named the Scheherezade now slid past the marriage bed.  The song its engines sang was a very low organ note.  All her lights were on.

Two beautiful people, a young man and a young woman in evening clothes, were at the rail in the stern, loving each other and their dreams and the lake.  They were honeymooning, too.  They were Lance Rumfoord, of Newport, Rhode Island, and his bride, the former Cynthia Landry, who had been a childhood sweetheart of John F. Kennedy in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts.

There was a slight coincidence here.  Billy Pilgrim would later share a hospital room with Rumfoord's uncle, Professor Bertram Copeland Rumfoord of Harvard, official Historian of the United States Air Force.

John F. Kennedy.  The United States Air Force.  I guess that's as close as I'm going to get to Independence Day anything from Slaughterhouse.  Not that I think Vonnegut hated the United States.  On the contrary.  I think Vonnegut cared a great deal for freedom and truth and goodness.  That's why he wrote.  He wanted the world to be a better place.

I am not going to belabor this post talking about the celebration of Independence Day here in the United States.  I am grateful for the freedoms I have as a citizen of the United States.  Because I live here, I can write blog posts and poems and essays about anything I want.  I can criticize and complain without fear of being thrown into prison.  For now.

I am supremely lucky for everything that I have in my life.  That's it.

I have been to two parades today.  Tonight, after dinner, I'm heading to a community picnic/gathering.  At dusk, there will be fireworks.  My kids will eat snow cones and cotton candy and popcorn.  I have sparklers, too.

Saint Marty is thankful today for freedom.

February 9: Private Slovik, Freedom of Speech, Coretta Scott King

Billy's antique mother passed out, and Billy was led from the room by a pretty nurse.  The body of an old man covered by a sheet was wheeled by just as Billy entered the corridor.  The man had been a famous marathon runner in his day.  So it goes.  This was before Billy had his head broken in an airplane crash, by the way--before he became so vocal about flying saucers and traveling in time.

Billy sat down in a waiting room.  He wasn't a widower yet.  He sensed something hard under the cushion of his overstuffed chair.  He dug it out, discovered that it was a book, The Execution of Private Slovik, by William Bradford Huie.  It was a true account of the death before an American firing squad of Private Eddie D Slovik, 36896415, the only American soldier to be shot for cowardice since the Civil War.  So it goes. 

Billy read the opinion of a staff judge advocate who reviewed Slovik's case, which ended like this:  He has directly challenged the authority of the government, and future discipline depends upon a resolute reply to this challenge.  If the death penalty is ever to be imposed for desertion, it should be imposed in this case, not as a punitive measure nor as retribution, but to maintain that discipline upon which alone an army can succeed against the enemy.  There was no recommendation for clemency in the case and none is here recommended.  So it goes.

It's a chilling little passage about Private Slovik.  The death penalty imposed not to punish, but to maintain military disciple.  Slovik is killed to be an example, so that other soldiers do not simply walk away from their duties like Slovik.  It's not that he's guilty of a war crime--some violation of the Geneva Convention or something.  Torture or chemical warfare.  Nope.  He just walked away, perhaps out of fear or cowardice.  Or perhaps he just didn't want to kill any more.

Standing up for your beliefs is a difficult thing.  Ask Elizabeth Warren, silenced by her fellow senators for simply wanting to read a letter on the Senate floor.  The letter was written by Coretta Scott King, Civil Rights leader and widow of Martin Luther King, Jr.  She took a stand--the right stand--and she was punished for it.

Freedom of speech is guaranteed to all Americans by the Constitution of the United States.  It's the reason I can sit here in my living room, typing this blog post that questions the legitimacy of the actions of the elected leaders of this country.  I do this without fear of being thrown into prison.  Because that is my right.  For now. 

I'm not saying that any soldier who gets arrested for desertion is a patriot.  I'm also not saying that all opinions are equally valid or correct.  What I am saying is that, whether I agree with your opinion or not, you have the right to express it.  And I also have the right to argue against it.  That's what Senator Elizabeth Warren was doing.  Expressing a point of view.

You may not agree with Senator Warren.  You may think that President Trump's face should be carved into Mount Rushmore.  Write a comment about your beliefs on this blog.  Put it on Facebook.  Tweet about it.  That's your right.

And it's my right to disagree with you, with civility and respect.

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for freedom of speech.  Keep persisting.