I came of age in the 60’s, a young boy in Johnson City, NY, a village that sprung up 50 years earlier to house the Endicott-Johnson factory workers emigrating from Europe to become American shoemakers.  The life experiences of my father, uncles and grandfather working in those factories forged my heritage.

Allen Street’s elegant canopy of giant Elm trees arched over the street, shading the some 50 houses along her length.  Ranging from the stately home of the village fire chief to the modest simplicity of middle-class America, to those just on the edge of poverty, the street’s architecture displayed the gamut of divergent social standing.  My family lived on both sides of that vividly stark divide, first at 80 Allen in a third floor, four-room walk-up tenement, then later at 40 Allen, a mansion by comparison, our American dream.

On the odd side of the street was 59-61 Allen, commonly known as The Greystone.  This slummy, stormy colored, 3-story, blocky monolith had 13 apartments and looked like it was lifted out of the Bronx and dropped onto a dusty lot, tenants to match.

The Baby Boom had produced three Bobby’s from the dozens of kids that lived in the neighborhood; Bobby Wilson, Bobby Wright and me.  Wilson was a few years older, street-wise and mean.  Wright was a one-armed scrapper, capable and willing to pummel anyone foolish enough to rile him.  I was the cop’s kid who was assumed to be a snitch and not trusted.  Wilson and Wright both lived in The Greystone and at times, would impose “travel tariffs” on my passing.  I had to avoid them, hide from them, run from them or face the music.  Much of the time, I lived in fear of those two bullies’.

To survive, I formed alliances and made friends with the older, more powerful kids.  I learned how to negotiate, bargain, threaten, extort, anything practical to deal with tough situations.  I learned that life isn’t fair and even sometimes painful and that others have similar problems but together we are stronger than we are alone.

The strong-arm of the bully’s eventually exposed their own weaknesses.  I know first hand what their oppression feels like and I came to understand that delivering that oppression was in some ways ironically also a burden to the oppressor.  It helped me develop compassion, while simultaneously making me tougher.

A trial best endured in youth, postponing the lesson only makes it harder.  The weak will find strength through struggle and shielding them from it lasts only as long as your control over them does.  From these battles, I learned the power of critical thinking, reasoning, logic and the complexities of human emotion.  The days on the harder side of Allen Street taught me how to think on my feet; sometimes by running, dancing, walking tall and deliberate and on rare occasions, by kicking back.

For all of its shadowed darkness, Allen Street showed me the brightness of light and its warmth as well.

I came of age in the 60’s, a young boy in Johnson City, NY, a village that sprung up 50 years earlier to house the Endicott-Johnson factory workers emigrating from Europe to become American shoemakers.  The life experiences of my father, uncles and grandfather working in those factories forged my heritage.

Allen Street’s elegant canopy of giant Elm trees arched over the street, shading the some 50 houses along her length.  Ranging from the stately home of the village fire chief to the modest simplicity of middle-class America, to those just on the edge of poverty, the street’s architecture displayed the gamut of divergent social standing.  My family lived on both sides of that vividly stark divide, first at 80 Allen in a third floor, four-room walk-up tenement, then later at 40 Allen, a mansion by comparison, our American dream.

On the odd side of the street was 59-61 Allen, commonly known as The Greystone.  This slummy, stormy colored, 3-story, blocky monolith had 13 apartments and looked like it was lifted out of the Bronx and dropped onto a dusty lot, tenants to match.

The Baby Boom had produced three Bobby’s from the dozens of kids that lived in the neighborhood; Bobby Wilson, Bobby Wright and me.  Wilson was a few years older, street-wise and mean.  Wright was a one-armed scrapper, capable and willing to pummel anyone foolish enough to rile him.  I was the cop’s kid who was assumed to be a snitch and not trusted.  Wilson and Wright both lived in The Greystone and at times, would impose “travel tariffs” on my passing.  I had to avoid them, hide from them, run from them or face the music.  Much of the time, I lived in fear of those two bullies’.

To survive, I formed alliances and made friends with the older, more powerful kids.  I learned how to negotiate, bargain, threaten, extort, anything practical to deal with tough situations.  I learned that life isn’t fair and even sometimes painful and that others have similar problems but together we are stronger than we are alone.

The strong-arm of the bully’s eventually exposed their own weaknesses.  I know first hand what their oppression feels like and I came to understand that delivering that oppression was in some ways ironically also a burden to the oppressor.  It helped me develop compassion, while simultaneously making me tougher.

A trial best endured in youth, postponing the lesson only makes it harder.  The weak will find strength through struggle and shielding them from it lasts only as long as your control over them does.  From these battles, I learned the power of critical thinking, reasoning, logic and the complexities of human emotion.  The days on the harder side of Allen Street taught me how to think on my feet; sometimes by running, dancing, walking tall and deliberate and on rare occasions, by kicking back.

For all of its shadowed darkness, Allen Street showed me the brightness of light and its warmth as well.

He’s obviously no super-model and undoubtedly hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in a while, his late, middle-age image is one best suited for radio.  His hair has an identity and ideas of its own.  He makes a Ravazzollo suit look like it came off the bargain rack from Sear’s.  He scowls, carps, complains and seemingly shoots from the hip, so just what is it about this guy that evokes in otherwise normal people either revulsion or rejoicing?

Donald Trump is perhaps his own biggest admirerer, proud President of the fan club that bears his name.  People pay him astronomical sums of money to have “Trump” plastered on buildings, golf courses, casinos, skating rinks, wineries, hotels, high-rises and penthouses, private clubs, restaurants, bars, ice-cream parlors, fragrances, home furnishings, steaks, watches, men’s accessories, vodka and chocolate, just to name a few.

So, at 69 years of age, legacy firmly established, two accomplished and talented adult kids under his tutelage and becoming quite capable of running his businesses, Trump continues his “watch what I’m going to do next” tour by taking on the media business with a hit TV show, (The Apprentice), buys and sells the rights to the Miss Universe and Miss USA and then decides to run for President of the United States.  With an estimated net worth of $4.5 billion, Trump can and does run his own campaign with his own money, making him the only true “free-agent” in the race.

Assuming, (as quite naturally he would), a two-term presidency, Trump would be 78 when he stepped down.  Perhaps what we are witnessing is Mr. Trump writing and performing in the script for what will be the last episode of his so-far unbelievable life, as he is carefully engineering his illustrious retirement from the public arena, but not before he, (according to his campaign slogan,) “Makes America Great Again.”

Trump has single-handedly beaten the media at a game they not only invented, but were previously undefeated in; shaping and defining the narrative to suit their own prerogatives.  In the past, media bullying ran interference for the sainted favorites and vanquished the apocryphal.  Not with Trump.  He uses the media as a platform to launch  his statements and positions that up until now would have been his swan song.  Instead, he shocks the media host, refuses to give ground to their objections, and smiles inwardly as they unwittingly carry forward his agenda in the mistaken notion that this will finally be his undoing.  Time and time again they are out maneuvered on their home court in a flurry of slam-dunks.

Trump has a heightened insight that saw the pendulum of political correctness swinging back towards sensibility and had the horsepower to not only ride that momentum, but to push it ahead even faster.  Whatever Trump is or isn’t, he has changed the topography, the tone and the tenor of the political landscape in a way that many find refreshing and long over due.

Just seven days into his four-year term as the newly elected mayor of Philadelphia, Jim Kenney became the poster-boy for the charade of political correctness, (PC,) at the expense of his own police department.

Before Philadelphia police officer Jesse Hartnett was even out of surgery, Mayor Kenney was busy holding a news conference attempting to convince everyone that what had happened really didn’t.

Captured on video, officer Hartnett is ambushed and shot at thirteen times at nearly point-blank range as he sits in his patrol car in the middle of the street.   The shooter, Edward Archer, is seen in the video, rushing towards the police car wearing a typical Muslim thawb, a long, white robe and firing rapidly at officer Harnett.

At a news conference, Philadelphia police commissioner Richard Ross reported that Archer told police that he pledges his allegiance to Islamic State, he follows Allah, and that is the reason he was called upon to do this. Archer also told investigators that, “police defend laws that are contrary to the teachings of the Koran.”

Incredibly, after hearing all of this from the police officials, Mayor Kenney took to the podium and said the following; “In no way shape or form does anyone in this room believe that Islam or the teaching of Islam has anything to do with what you’ve seen on the screen. That is abhorrent. It’s just terrible and it does not represent this religion in any way shape or form or any of its teachings. And this is a criminal with a stolen gun who tried to kill one of our officers. It has nothing to do with being a Muslim or following the Islamic faith.”  Kenny concluded his moronic remarks by stating that, “there are too many guns on the streets.”

Mayor Kenney attempts to cow everyone “in the room” with him, as well as everyone viewing his news conference or reading his statement into accepting the narrative of his lie over that of what our own eyes and ears tell us. It’s radicalized Islam, it’s ISIS inspired, it’s divinely driven instruction from a maniacal view of the Koran, all from the lips of the would-be cop-killer himself.  How much plainer, clearer or straightforward could it be?

To the PC crowd, the hoped for world of their alternative reality is shaped by a dreamt-up utopian narrative that they believe if repeated over and over again can change the actual world. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, clicking her red-ruby shoes together three times while she closes her eyes, she and the PC folks reject reality for the hope of a dream.  Unlike Dorothy, we’re still awake and to quote Aniekee Tochukwu, “Illusion is so fragile; it rarely survives questions.”

Mayor Kenney should answer those questions with his resignation and Americans should begin accepting the fact that we are under attack from a real and formidable enemy, remembering what William Shakespeare wrote in Henry V, “Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.”