This is how authoritarianism happens…and it’s happening here.
I read the article, and despite some of its hyperbolic tendencies, I happened to agree with much of it. As a CIA military analyst for many years, I studied dictatorships and autocratic regimes, and I saw many similar trends happening here in America. We have seem armed young men willing to take violence to the streets on behalf of their leader (think Kyle Rittenhouse). Trump used federal agents, many (but not all) of whom were unidentified, under the control of an acting DHS secretary, whom OPM said is illegally serving in that role.
The list goes on…
Then something in the article resonated with me:
This is not a joke. This is not a drill.
It was something I had been preaching for some time…the pillars of American democracy seemed to be crumbling in what could be our biggest test of the structure of our country since the Civil War.
So I started to write lyrics based off of inspiration from the article:
No names. No rank. No common sense.
Just throw them in the van and then remind them it’s just happenstance.
No crime. No charge. No writ of proof.
Just roll up in the unmarked van and realize they’re coming for you.
Of course, I am referencing the federal agents, many of whom are unnamed who were snatching up people off the streets in Portland, putting them into unmarked vans and detaining them without any evidence or investigation. Part of the lyrics come from first-hand accounts of people who were detained by these agents in Portland that I watched in a Washington Post video.
Then I kept writing more lyrics that fit the same style:
No face. No place. No history.
Just line up there in Lafayette and watch him in his tyranny.
No love. No care. No empathy.
Just standing there to break their bones, with sticks and shields to make them bleed.
This, of course, is another reference to the incident in Lafayette Square when the president ordered peaceful protesters to be violently cleared by federal officers. Video evidence shows there was no warning, just shield and batons used to hit the demonstrators as they were forced backward. All for a photo op…
When I was conceptualizing the chorus, I went back to the original article I read:
This is not a joke. This is not a drill.
White and armed, they march the streets to kill.
This is not a joke. This is not a drill.
The pillars of democracy are crumbling at his will.
America is dying.
And I meant it, I really did (and do) think our country is dying. The pillars of democracy, a free press, the freedom to organize and demonstrate…these ideals were being attacked relentlessly.
I feared the future.
The song ends up being the longest I’ve ever written, thanks to a repetition of the chorus three times and an outro that is fast and hard-hitting. There is also a solo in the middle of the song, after the second chorus, something I rarely do.
But I’m not great at solos, so I brought in some help: Adil Qureshi, the lead guitarist from a Megadeth tribute band called Dethstrike. I met Adil through my band Spirit in Black, as we had played a show together in 2019, and all of us from the three bands (including NFT an Anthrax tribute band) were on the same group chat.
Adil wrote an incredible solo and I’m glad to have him participate in the song.
Ben Schwartz, the engineer for the album, told me he liked this song the best out of all the songs on the new album. “You should make this a single,” he said.
Maybe he was right, but now that’s for you to decide.
Let me know what you think. Click the picture below to listen to the song.
The first song on my new Truth Assassin album is called Law and Order. It’s about 1:40 long, a good and typical length for a punk song. The song was inspired by Trump’s continual usage of “law and order” on his Twitter feed and his public statements about the protests following the death of George Floyd. The basis of the song is the irony I found that a man who promotes “law and order” has had no less than eight close associates charged and/or convicted of crimes and is under investigation for crimes himself. If you want to listen to the song first before reading the rest of my explanation, visit the Truth Assassin Bandcamp page.
The hypocrisy makes me cringe, so I wanted to build a song around the idea that the president’s talk is cheap, and that he only cares about “law and order” when it putting himself in a good light, but never those close to him or even himself.
So I began to put the song together…
One of the ways songwriters come up with new riffs is by playing around on a guitar while recording it. You put different chords together and see if you can come up with some unique rhythms. With Law and Order, I felt like I had a head-bopping, grooving, four-chord riff, using the A, D, C, and G chords in succession.
As I played around more with the riff, it seemed like it would fit as a good intro to the song but the more I played it, I thought it would work as the rhythm guitar to the verses, as well, so I laid down several measures and started to write lyrics that fit the rhythm and the atmosphere of the song.
The lyrics of the first verse went like this:
Law and order? It’s all for cover, weekly trips to your tax shelters
Never a trust, just sidestep by it emoluments are flying by, yeah
FBI in the same location, stifling all competition
Welcoming the interference leads the way to your impeachment
I was making the point that the president’s comments about “law and order” was a ruse, based on how much his company has made by his continual visits to his own personal properties paid for by taxpayer dollars, the fact that he never put his interest in his company in a trust like previous presidents had done, and that he was receiving emoluments from foreign government officials who were staying at his properties. The part about the FBI references his direction for the FBI to stay in its rundown headquarters building in Washington DC, as he was not interested in having that space turned over to a developer to build a hotel so close to his hotel in the old post office building. The last line, of course, refers to his several statements welcoming election interference, which was the basis of his impeachment by the House of Representatives.
At the end of the first verse, I change the rhythm guitar riff and add in a two-string guitar fill that is in the same scale as the supporting riff. Then, I decided to go right back into the second verse:
Law and order? It’s chaos out thereall because of Black men shot dead
Fires rage across the heartland, women and men with fists raised shout, yeah
Thousands line up at your doorstep, picketing lines won’t move for the feds
Launch the gas at calm protesters, clear the way for the new dear leader
The lyrics in this verse refer to the protests that erupted following the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police officers. It was quite a chaotic scene across the country as some of the protests descended into riots, though it is important to note, most protests were peaceful. The second half of the lyrics again refer to the incident at Lafayette Square. I chose to use the term “dear leader” because of Trump’s seeming infatuation with dictators, autocrats, and other tyrants, many of whom command cults of personality, similar to Trump.
At the end of this verse, I added a bridge that used a variation of the first guitar fill to provide continuity between the first and second verses.
Then, as I was contemplating how the rest of the song would go, something hit me. Trump seemed invincible vis-a-vis the law and I didn’t know what we could do about it. That led to this lyric:
Laws don’t apply to you and we don’t know what to do
I began to play around with the different notes and rhythms for how I could incorporate it into the song, I settled on going from a high to low pitch to evoke a sense of helplessness. But one of my favorite things to do with vocals is to harmonize when I can, similar to how the quintessential hardcore political punk band Bad Religion does.
I’m not trained vocalist by any means, but I do what I can. So I worked on it and came up with two vocal tracks that harmonized in the right places.
From here, I wanted to build up the song to a powerful ending, so I brought back the guitar riff from the verse, palm muted it, and added a different drum beat. Then, I had a build up of drums and guitar until the ending of the song explodes with the lyrics:
Laws do apply to you and we’re coming after you
The song speeds up at the end continuing the guitar riff and fast drums that use the crash cymbal instead of the standard hi-hat, which adds to the crescendo effect as the song ends.
This song is one of my favorite songs on the new album, called The Downfall of Democracy, and that’s why I put it first. I think it has an intriguing and eventually explosive beginning, has a good message, and some cool guitar fills and harmonizing vocals. It also seemed fitting to have the first song on an album called The Downfall of Democracy be titled Law and Order…
You can check out my new album by clicking the images below, which will take you to Truth Assassin’s Bandcamp page. Click the image below to listen to the song for free.
It is true. For the 2018 and 2019 baseball seasons, I was a member of the Washington Nationals entertainment staff, specifically one of the people who wore the famous Racing Presidents costumes. I am no longer on the staff, so I felt I could share my story of how and why I joined the Racing Presidents and some of the experiences I had as a mascot. It is the story of some incredible experiences—many things I will never forget and an incredible group of people, most of whom remain secret to this day.
Prior to this, I hadn’t publicly admitted my status as a Racing President for two reasons. First, my original employment agreement stated that my employment was governed by various rules and procedures, one of which concerned my obligation to keep confidential the proprietary, non-public, and confidential information that I was given as Nationals employee. As I am no longer an employee, I am no longer bound by that agreement (nor did I sign a nondisclosure agreement). Second, the world of mascoting has an unwritten code of secrecy. While it’s no secret to anyone above the age of an elementary school child that there is a human being behind the costume, there is still a clandestineness to it that should be kept sacred.
As a former mascot, I will continue to respect the secrecy of mascoting, and in my story I neither identify the names of anyone involved with the Racing Presidents or entertainment staff nor disclose the inner workings of the Racing Presidents or the races. Those are secrets that should be kept to protect the future work of my former teammates and keep alive the mystery of mascoting. What I describe is only my perspective of what fans could witness by watching the races.
This story has not been reviewed by the Nationals organization or any of my former teammates from the entertainment staff. The first time they read it—if they do read it—will be because they viewed this page.
Trying out for the Racing Presidents
Following the move to Nationals Park for the 2008 season, my grandparents purchased a partial season ticket plan and I would regularly go to games with them. My family grew attached—to some degree—to the Nationals and we were all upset when the Nationals seemed to lose every playoff series they had. I personally had been to all three game five losses by the Nationals in the National League Division Series (2012, 2016, and 2017).
Despite the playoff blunders, I really enjoyed going to games, my favorite part of which was the Presidents Race. In the middle of the fourth inning, four larger-than-life mascots who resembled the four presidents engraved in Mount Rushmore darted out from behind the center field gate and raced around the warning track to the finish line near first base. Sometimes it was an all-out race, other times they would put on a skit, or one of the Racing Presidents would get taken out by another.
In late 2017, I was waiting for my wife Abby to return home from a night out with friends, when I saw a posting on a popular DC blog that said the Nationals were accepting applications to join the Racing Presidents. Applications were due by midnight. When Abby got home, I asked for her thoughts. “You’d be perfect,” she said. I thought I would be, too. I submitted my online application before the deadline was eventually invited to the Racing Presidents tryout in January 2018.
The morning of the tryout was one of the coldest days of the year, with the temperature in the single digits upon my arrival to the site of the tryout at around 8 a.m. Nevertheless, I was determined to see what would happen and hoped that the bitter cold my body was sustaining would be worth it. Every few minutes, groups of three would be taken behind a curtain and soon after would emerge wearing the costumes. Each person had to complete a 40-yard dash and two simulated races, as well as showing off their dance moves and a victory pose.
I waited almost three hours before my name was finally called. I was put in the Thomas “Tom” Jefferson costume and somehow made it through all of the races and poses without falling. After I took off the costume, my three-person group was directed to wait in line inside the training center for an in-person interview. I waited another three hours until finally, around 3 p.m., I had my opportunity. My group of five interviewees were asked questions about our motivations, our availability for games and events, and some ideas that we had for potential race skits. I was honest in my answers and hoped that they would be good enough for the staff to offer me a position.
A few days later, I received a phone call from the director of the entertainment staff, who had run the tryout and conducted the interviews, offering me a spot to join the entertainment staff as a Racing President. I wanted to burst with joy and excitement, but I was at work, surrounded by coworkers in cubicles next to mine and knew I needed to keep my news secret. As I had learned at the tryout, there was a secrecy involved in mascoting, and I wanted to respect that.
I told him how excited I was and that I was grateful for the opportunity.
Learning to mascot
During the next few months, between January and the start of the baseball season, I learned from veteran Racing Presidents about mascoting, including the rules, the dos and don’ts, the mannerisms, and the tricks of the trade. I received a tour of the inside of the stadium, the part underneath the stands that fans don’t get to see. I was shown our locker room, the center field area where the Racing Presidents started their races, and various other places that were necessary for me to know as a new employee.
Within a few weeks, I attended practice sessions where I donned one of the costumes and ran simulated races over and over again. The more practice I had with the 50-pound monstrosity that was attached to my body, the better I would be when the season started.
My grandmother’s last wish: watching me race
In mid-March, a few weeks before opening day, I received an email indicating that I was going to be racing in the preseason exhibition game between the Nationals and the Minnesota Twins. I put it on my calendar and eagerly awaited the day.
At the same time I spent February and March learning to be a mascot, my grandmother was slowly dying of stomach and colon cancer, and her condition was deteriorating each day, and we didn’t know how long she had to live. As her body shut down, her memory became worse and worse, although she never forgot that I was one of the Racing Presidents and continued to ask me when she could watch me in a game. When I told her that I would be racing in the exhibition game, she wanted to be there.
Normally, my grandparents took the metro from Gaithersburg to Nationals Park, but with my grandmother doing so poorly, I decided to spend whatever money was necessary to get them to the park as easily and carefree as possible. I pre-ordered a private car service to pick up my grandparents from their condo and drive them directly to the game. Upon their arrival, Abby would be waiting for them at the center field entrance. She would escort them to their seats and be with them until my grandmother needed to go home.
The morning of the exhibition game I emailed my boss and confirmed that my grandparents would be in the stands. He knew that my grandmother was dying, so when I requested that he allow me to take pictures with them in costume during the game, he immediately agreed.
A few hours later, Abby drove to the game and arrived about 30 minutes before the 4:05 start time so she could take pictures of me as I interacted with fans at the center field gate plaza while she waited for my grandparents to arrive.
While I didn’t know she was there, I was roaming the plaza entertaining the few fans who entered the stadium. Little children lit up when they saw me and ran up to me asking for a high five or a picture or even a hug. I had the opportunity to entertain people, make them laugh and feel good, from young babies to the elderly, and that was an incredible feeling.
After about 45 minutes, the four of us in the Racing Presidents costumes returned to the locker room a few minutes before the game started. After I took off the costume, I looked at my phone and saw a message from Abby saying that she and my grandparents were in their seats. I reconfirmed the plan with Tom, and he assigned one of the Secret Service handlers to help me get to their section in the sixth inning. I texted Abby letting her know when and where I would be.
In the middle of the second inning, we put the costumes back on and made our way through the bowels of the stadium to the grounds crew area where we waited for the race to begin.
Our boss gave us a pep talk and reminded us of the four rules of the Racing Presidents: run fast, don’t fall, stay off the grass, and get off the field.
He then walked from the grounds crew area toward the center field gate, which he would open for us to use as the entrance onto the warning track. “Three to go!” he yelled, indicating the fourth inning had started. We lined up with Teddy first, Abe second, me in the Tom costume in third, and George fourth. My heart started pounding. I was about to run a 200-yard dash with a 50-pound costume attached to my body, where the center of gravity was six feet above my head. I had carried heavy military backpacks before, but they were nothing compared to this.
“Two to go!” I once more ensured the costume was tight, ensuring I had as much control over it as possible. But I made it so tight it was difficult to breathe. I’d be fine, I thought, I would breathe when the race was over.
“One to go!” This was it. Only a few more moments to go. Then, we heard the crowd cheer as the Nationals got the last out of the top of the inning. “Get ready!” he yelled as he looked up at the jumbotron waiting for the Racing Presidents intro video to finish.
Then, we heard the signal:
“GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!”
One by one, we all started running toward the gate. There wasn’t a lot of room for us to fit through, so we had to be careful. If I clipped the side of the wall, I’d definitely fall and might even trip George who was right behind me. But I made it through still standing, making a quick turn to the left so I could start my sprint. Teddy and Abe were already ahead of me, but I soon caught up and passed them. Then, I saw George run past me, taking the inside lane. As we turned the corner from the warning track to the first base line, I could see the finish line ahead. George and I were neck and neck. I wanted to win for Grandma! As I gave all my energy and crossed the finish line, I heard the PA announcer:
“And the winner is….George!”
Disappointed and out of breath, I joined the other Racing Presidents and clapped and cheered for George while he waved the checkered flag.
After resting in the bottom of the fourth inning and taking pictures with other families in the fifth, the four Racing Presidents split up in groups of two and went to each baseline to wait for the seventh inning stretch. During this break, along with a Secret Service mascot handler, I crammed myself and costume into an elevator which took us from the belly of the stadium to the concourse right outside section 113 where my family was sitting.
I came out of the elevator and saw Abby waiting for me. I ran up to her giving her a hug for the first time while in costume. Then, I saw my grandmother walking up the steps of the aisle, one by one, to the concourse. She paused at the top, looked at me, and smiled wide. She shuffled her feet as she walked up to me, then gave me a hug. “Hi, Grandma,” I said softly so no passersby would hear me speaking in costume. “Hi, Parker,” she whispered back. I began to cry as I embraced her. A few moments later, my grandfather was walked up from the seats and joined me, Abby, and my grandmother for a few quick pictures. Before I knew it, I was back in the elevator heading down to prepare for the seventh inning stretch.
My grandparents and Abby left shortly after and didn’t stay to watch me in the seventh inning. Abby drove them to Maryland before returning to our home in Washington, DC. Later that night, Abby told me how all my grandmother could do on the ride home was talk about the race and how I almost won.
While we didn’t know it at the time, that baseball game was the last thing my grandmother did outside of her apartment community. Three weeks later, she was on her deathbed.
My first game results in an injury that plagues me the rest of the season
My first real game, as timing would have it, was a Sunday, and my grandmother had spent the last two days gasping for air as her body continued to shut down. The hospice staff we hired to take care of her informed us that she probably would be dead before the weekend was over. As a result of that news, family had begun to fly in from across the country, and we began congregating at my grandparents’ condo, doing our best to support my grandfather, as he was about to lose his spouse of 61 years.
My family knew that I was a Racing President and they all tuned into watch the game from the condo living room, as it might be a nice distraction from the terrible inevitability that was coming at any moment. We knew that MASN, the network that broadcasts Nationals games, usually showed highlights of the Presidents Race as the network returned from the mid-4th inning commercial break. If the race was good, perhaps my family could see highlights and be entertained for a respite, however brief.
As I rode a bicycle from my home to Nationals Park, I joined up with another Racing President also working the game for the ride down. “I think I have a good chance of winning,” I told her.
“Yeah, could be,” she responded.
“I think it would be great if I could win this one for my grandmother.”
In the locker room, I suited up in the Tom costume and began to stretch and mentally prepare for the race.
“Presidents!” Our boss yelled to us in the locker room before the game started. “Another thing. NOBODY FALLS TODAY. The warning track is crappy because of the rain and falling and it will ruin the costumes. Okay? Nobody falls!” His direction seemed clear. While I knew not falling was one of the major four rules, it seemed especially important today.
“Three to go!”
As the top of the fourth inning came, we lined up in our pre-race position, directly under the center field seats. Teddy was first, George was second, Abe was third, and I was coming out last.
“Two to go!” our boss yelled.
I started to get excited. My heart started to beat faster as I realized that I was about to run my first real race in front of thousands of people. I thought about my grandmother and how much she would have loved to have been at the game, eating chicken tenders and fries, eating ice cream, and watching me run, yelling “Go, Tom! Go!”
“One to go!”
The race could start at any moment. The next pitch could be it. A few moments later, the crowd, albeit a small one because of the dreary and misty weather, cheered as the Nationals made the last out.
The introduction video played on the jumbotron. This was it. Run fast. Don’t fall. Stay off the grass. Get off the field.
As you can tell from the video, as we were approaching the turn to head down to the third base line, I made my move outside George and tried to increase my speed and pass the others before we crossed the finish line.
Then I felt something. One of the other Racing Presidents had run into me. My costume started to jostle. I started to stumble and felt like I was going to fall. The momentum of the costume moved my body to the right and sent me into the wall. The costume bounced off the wall and I began to lose my footing and again I thought I was going to fall. Then, our boss’s direction flashed in my mind.
“NOBODY FALLS TODAY!”
I had to do whatever I could to stay upright but having a 50-pound costume with much of the weight five or six feet above my head was making it quite difficult. Out of the small area I used to see, I noticed there was the railing that prevented fans from coming (or falling) on to the field. It had thin metal bars that ran vertically between the wall and the top of the railing, so I grabbed at them, thinking that if I could hold on, maybe I could stay upright, and most importantly, not fall.
As I grabbed at the bars, the fingers on my right hand got caught between the rails, and I felt a sharp pain in my hand. Despite the pain, I continued to grab at the bars until I was able to regain my balance and continue running through the finish line. After the post-race celebration, we exited the field and made our way up the tunnel and into the underbelly of the stadium.
Once we were underneath the stadium, we pulled our heads out of the costumes to take a breath and talk about the race.
“I told George to take you out!” our boss yelled. “You were supposed to fall!”
“You told us today,” I responded, “‘under no circumstances does anybody fall,’ so when I got hit, I was doing everything I possibly could to stay up. That’s why my hand is in pain. I might have broken a finger trying to grab hold of the railing to not fall. All I kept thinking was, don’t fall or you’ll get fired!”
We all had a good laugh as I eventually realized my fingers weren’t broken, but sprained.
Doing my best, while injured
As I worked more games, the entertainment staff director and the other veteran Racing Presidents would secretly talk behind my back, giving me the impression that I was going to be taken out again and that I would surely fall because of it.
“Parker, if you fall, you’re fired,” he would joke with me each race.
I was nervous about being taken out by surprise, especially because of the pain that I felt in my left shoulder. In addition to the pain in my fingers, I damaged my shoulder in that fateful Sunday race and was in a lot of pain. My primary care physician suggested a shoulder brace and Advil, but that did no good as the pain continued. After a visit to an orthopedic surgeon and a few x-rays, he determined that I had sprained my AC joint. He sent me to eight weeks of physical therapy, which helped, albeit only a little. I fought through the pain and continued to race in games and work external events.
But every time I did, my shoulder would throb. My teammates watched me don a special t-shirt with sewn-in foam padding that I wore to take some of the pressure off my shoulder. It didn’t work much, and the pain persisted.
I continued to be the brunt of lots of jokes in July and August, but I never complained and always played along. I had pretty thick skin for those sorts of things, and I’m confident that they only singled me out because I played along with it. I’m sure if I had said something, they would have stopped. Nevertheless, I was lucky to be assigned as the GEICO Gecko for some of the All-Star festivities, which I very much appreciated being a part of. Then I raced again as Tom on July 20th earning my second victory, then on August 1st and August 23rd.
As the season wound down, the Nationals weren’t in the hunt for the playoffs and the excitement for the season started to fade. I worked the games on September 2nd and the double header on the 8th. My body was hurting. The physical therapy wasn’t doing much, so I had resorted to getting bi-weekly full-body massages and attending yoga classes to try to stretch out the muscles around my shoulder so the entire joint would loosen up and eventually heal.
As 2018 ended, I reflected on the games and the other events I had worked, including the White House Easter Egg Roll, an Air Force retirement ceremony, a company softball game in the outfield of Nationals Park, the Nationals Dream gala, and the new intro video for the Racing Presidents. It was a good year and I knew that if I could heal up, completely, that I’d be set to go for 2019. I just hoped they would bring me back.
Invited to return, I’m ready for a great 2019 season
In January 2019, I once again tried out for the Racing Presidents and was offered a spot back on the squad. During the phone call in which I was offered to return, my boss told me that he expected me to work more external events as I had not done my fair share the previous year. I shared, for the first time in detail, my injuries that lingered throughout 2018, and that I was now fully healed and would be ready to exceed the minimum expectations for games and external events.
I was now a veteran Racing President, and I felt infinitely more comfortable in the costume and running races. I wasn’t overcome with nervousness and I could actually take in the moments as I was in them. The race skits I was a part of went well and according to plan, and my boss always seemed happy with my performance.
I worked as many games and external events as I could, everything from weddings to trade shows, from elementary school events to summer camps, from public appearances to private parties. I even worked a Congressional event and was one of the Racing Presidents in the NBC4 “Hand it to Handly” video featured on the local NBC affiliate. (I wore the George costume and won the race.)
The most exciting race I participated in was the Sunday Night Baseball game on May 19th. That night’s game, was featured on ESPN and the only baseball game to be played on Sunday night, which meant every baseball fan had the game on.
Because of that, the Presidents Race was going to be huge and shown on live television. Usually, MASN would broadcast a few seconds of highlights as they returned from a commercial break. But our boss told us that for this game, it would be live on television, and it was going to be a relay race between the Racing Presidents and four new mascots resembling the four announcers for ESPN’s Sunday night baseball crew.
I was in the caricature-like bobble-head mascot of Matt Vasgersian, the play-by-play announcer. Some of my teammates were in the others, Jessica Mendoza, Alex Rodriquez, and Buster Olney.
Here is the video of the race, in which you can see that my Racing President teammate, Abe got to me late, but I did everything I could to catch up to Buster. I needed just a few more feet and I would have made it.
That was definitely the fastest I have ever run in my life.
I was trying to do as much as I could that season, not only to meet my requirements and expectations, but also because my wife was pregnant, and we were expecting our first child in late August or early September. I knew the first few weeks (or even months) would be hectic.
But within a few weeks after my daughter’s birth, I was racing again, working the game on September 4 and another one on September 24.
I was doing my part to help the team as best I could, keeping the fans engaged, and maybe bringing some vigor to the team so they stayed energized, and maybe that might help them pull off a much-needed late-season victory.
Suddenly, the Nationals won eight games in a row to end the season and secured a spot in the National League Wild Card Game. Then, in front of 43,000 fans, the Nationals scored three runs in the bottom of the eighth inning to secure the victory and move on to the NL Division Series.
Then the entertainment staff got an email asking for a Racing President who was available for four hours the next morning to do a local television circuit the next morning. As I was on paternity leave from work, I was available for the whole morning and was selected for the shift. On Thursday, October 3rd, the day the series against the Dodgers started, I donned the Teddy costume and joined the Nationals mascot Screech for three television appearances at the local ABC, Fox, and NBC affiliates. Bouncing from studio to studio, I found myself in the middle of weather updates, sports reports, and general broadcasts…on live television. Once again, I was doing my part, as best I could.
I was excited, as the rest of the entertainment staff was, but the Nationals had never won that series before. The Dodgers won. They always had.
Later that night, the entertainment staff reserved a bar in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of Washington, DC to watch the game. Despite the newborn at home, I still managed to watch the game with the crew for a few innings before relieving my wife and giving her a break. The Nationals lost that first game in Los Angeles, but won the second game, tying the series as it returned to Washington, DC.
The series went to five games and the Nationals, miraculously, beat the Dodgers to move on to the National League Championship Series. Then, the Nationals kept winning and swept the Cardinals in game four of the series to win the pennant and head to the World Series for the first time since 1928.
As the Nationals never had home field advantage, the games the entertainment staff worked were limited, and I didn’t get an opportunity to race in any of the games.
Instead, my wife and I drove to New Jersey to give her parents some time with our daughter. We were watching game seven of the World Series with the Astros up 2-0 as my father-in-law turned to me: “I think the Astros will pull it out.” In the top of the seventh inning, the Nationals scored three runs, adding another in the eighth, and two more in the ninth. The Astros were down by four runs in the bottom of the ninth, and that was how it ended. The Nationals had won the World Series!
The Washington Capitals had won the Stanley Cup in 2018, the Washington Mystics won their first WNBA Championship in 2019 and the Nationals won the World Series. Washington D.C. was starting to be called Washington, District of Champions.
Several weeks later, I received an email from the Nationals that indicated that all full-time and part-time employees would receive a World Series ring. “We truly appreciate everyone’s hard work and commitment to the organization over the years,” the email read.
I didn’t return to the entertainment staff in 2020 and looking back it seems fitting to end my short tenure on a World Series championship. Nevertheless, after waiting for many months, in mid-June, I finally received a follow-up email that said that the rings would be available soon, and four days later they were.
On Wednesday, June 24th, I rode my motorcycle from my apartment in Arlington, Virginia to Nationals Park and was directed to one of three Nationals employees who were handing out ring boxes. I gave my name to the attendant and she found my name on the list.
“Just sign and date,” she said, pointing to the empty boxes next to my name.
A moment later, a person behind her handed me a white cardboard box that was about 9 inches by 12 inches. A sticker on the outside had my name on it.
“Have a great day,” the woman said to me.
“Thanks,” I replied with a smile. “Thank you very much.” I put the box in my backpack and rode back home. I waited until Abby got home from work to open it. When she walked in the front door, she immediately saw the white box sitting on our television console.
“So,” she said looking at me with wide eyes, “do you want to open it up?”
I nodded and slowly opened the box, reading the information inside before opening the ring box. There was a letter from the Lerner family, the owners of the Nationals. There was a story about the ring, the meaning behind its components, and how it was designed.
Then, nuzzled in some paper confetti was a blue ring box with the word Jostens, the ringmaker, on the top.
I opened it up and saw the sparkle of the crystals, the red curly W, and the words “World Champion.” SCHAFFEL was engraved on the side. I would always have this ring to show that I was part of something special, especially because, up until the posting of this story, very few people knew of my affiliation with the Nationals. Only close friends, family, and work supervisors knew that I was one of the Racing Presidents.
Even though I’m no longer a part of the entertainment staff, I’ll always be able to look at my ring and think back to my tiny role in something historic and think of the memories of when I was part of an elite, secretive group that entertained millions. At least I can think that Grandma would have been proud.
I ran fast. I didn’t fall. I stayed off the grass. I got off the field.
To my former teammates, LFG and keep doing great things and entertaining tens of thousands. To the Nationals, thanks for an incredible opportunity.
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It’s the Jewish rite of passage that is thousands of years old. It’s the entrance into adulthood. It’s the time when, biblically speaking, when a boy would rise up and (figuratively) say, “I am man! Hear me roar!”
And thousands of years ago, when life expectancy probably was around 40 years old, that made a lot of sense. Teenage years brought about puberty and the start of menstrual cycles. Families could be formed with children galore.
But times change. And so do expectations. Yet traditions stay the same. “This is the way we’ve always done it,” they said. “So we have to keep doing it this way,” they add, despite the fact that the traditions are rooted in a language that hasn’t been spoken in 5,000 years and has been translated an umpteen number of times and many messages get lost in that translation…
But, I digress.
I grew up in a Jewish family with a grandmother who was the youth adviser for a regional reform Jewish youth group that spanned from Delaware to the northern half of North Carolina. I went to the Jewish Day school for kindergarten until I attended public school in first grade. My family celebrated Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Hannukah. I attended Hebrew school and participated in events at the synagogues of which we were members.
As I got older, my Hebrew school lessons, which were on Tuesday nights, if I remember correctly, consisted of learning how to read Hebrew and studying various Hebrew texts, mostly in preparation for our bar miztvot (the plural of mitzvah). It was what we all looked forward to because it meant a big party…and usually lots of money in gifts.
My bar mitzvah was scheduled for June 14th, 1997, and everything I did in the preceding year (at least everything that was related to Judaism) prepared me for that momentous event. As I have recently become a father and have agreed with my wife to raise our child with an openness toward all religious beliefs (letting her choose her own when she and we feel that she is ready to embark on a journey), I have reflected on my upbringing and am intrigued at many of the oddities about the situation.
The Torah is a weird book
First is the selection of the Torah portion. As the Torah, the five books of the Old Testament, is read from the beginning every year starting at Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish new year), a child’s birthday determines the approximate book and verses to be read during that service. In the initial preparation sessions, which happen anywhere between six months and one year prior to the scheduled bar mitzvah date, the rabbi works with the child and parents to determine the passages that correspond to the selected date. For me, I was in the book of Numbers, the fourth book. According to the online version of Encyclopaedia Britannica, the book is basically the sacred history of the Israelites as they wandered in the wilderness following the departure from Sinai and before their occupation of Canaan, the Promised Land. It describes their sufferings and their numerous complaints against God. Yep. Wandering in the desert bitching about stuff. Definitely not the riveting tales of the creation of the world or the fight against the Pharoah. There’s no burning bush or anything exciting like that.
You’re not really entering adulthood
When I was 13, I was still a child, in so many ways…it’s not even worth getting into. There was nothing about “entering adulthood” that the rite presumed to preach. And don’t even try to pull the “Well, I had a bar mitzvah, so now I’m a man!” line with your parents. That will end poorly for you.
Why the insanely large party?
When I was 13, my family didn’t have a lot of money, but they still managed to throw a party at a local Holiday Inn. We had more than 100 people, half of whom I didn’t know. I invited my male friends, and the girls we invited were from the temple youth group, because again, at 13, I was a boy and hadn’t even had my first kiss yet.
We had a giant cake with 13 candles, and each candle was lit by someone important to me. It was, by far, the longest candle lighting I’ve ever had.
And don’t forget the gift you gave everyone for coming and giving you money. For the $50 or so you got from each attendees, you gave them a crappy t-shirt with “Adam’s Bar Mitzvah” on it that obviously nobody ever wore. My part was “sports themed” and we gave everyone a gym bag as their gift. I still shake my head at that.
You actually have multiple bar mitzvahs…kind of
A bar/bat mitzvah is supposed to be the first time that a young person reads from the Torah. But that’s not actually the case. Before the actual date, I practiced about five or six times out of the Torah from which I would read for my service. So wasn’t the first time I read it during the practice my actual bar mitzvah?
As a 13-year-old, you’re expected to provide a sermon. And yes, it’s terrible.
Asking a child to interpret a story that was written 6,000 years ago that has been translated in and out of multiple languages is like asking a sloth to run a race. It’s not going to go well. The idea behind the rite is that you’re supposed to learn from the passage and convey its meaning to the congregants. But as I mentioned above, the Torah is a weird book. Here are the 22 verses I read:
8But if the man has no kinsman to whom to make restitution, the debt which is restored to the Lord, [is to be given] to the kohen. [This is] besides the atonement ram through which expiation is made for him.
15Then the man shall bring his wife to the kohen and bring her offering for her, one tenth of an ephah of barley flour. He shall neither pour oil over it nor put frankincense on it, for it is a meal offering of jealousies, a meal offering of remembrance, recalling iniquity.
18Then the kohen shall stand the woman up before the Lord and expose the [hair on the] head of the woman; he shall place into her hands the remembrance meal offering, which is a meal offering of jealousies, while the bitter curse bearing waters are in the kohen’s hand.
19The kohen shall then place her under oath, and say to the woman, “If no man has lain with you and you have not gone astray to become defiled [to another] in place of your husband, then [you will] be absolved through these bitter waters which cause the curse.
21The kohen shall now adjure the woman with the oath of the curse, and the kohen shall say to the woman, “May the Lord make you for a curse and an oath among your people, when the Lord causes your thigh to rupture and your belly to swell.
Even today, I have a hard time understanding what this is about, but it seems like I was reading the ancient Jewish rules of adultery and what happens to a woman when she lays with another man. The last two verses speak to something about a sort of potion made of water than will cause pain and suffering. And I don’t want to guess at what the writing refers to when it says “causes a woman’s belly to swell and thigh to rupture”…
A new age development: a social cause/donations
As my younger cousins started to have their rites of passage into adulthood, a new trend had taken over the Jewish community: social action. Most of the other Jewish kids I knew came from well-to-do households and the fact that they threw parties to get thousands of dollars from other kids and their families seemed a bit absurd. So someone came up with the idea to support a social cause. My cousin’s, for instance, was genocide in Africa. Others have been homelessness, LGBTQ rights…really anything you can think of.
In the end, I haven’t been to a bar/bat mitzvah in some time, and I’m not sure when I will again the future, and I’m sure things will continue to change. Looking back, it is a memorable experience, but I don’t know if the rite was as impactful as some of the other things I did at that age. If anything, it brought a lot of family and friends together for a seemingly important day. And for that, I am grateful. It’s still an odd experience…
Here are some pictures of my endeavor.
For more on my heritage and history, check out the blogs I wrote on my family trees:
As former Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis recently released a scathing article about President Donald Trump, there has been much back-and-forth about Mattis from political pundits, and the president, who wrote on Twitter, that Mattis is “the world’s most overrated General.”
In the summer of 2012, General Jim Mattis was the head of US Central Command, meaning that he was the four-star general in charge of all US forces in the Middle East and South Asia. When I learned that he was going to be visiting Baghdad and that I was going to be leading his visit, I was thrilled and a bit unnerved because I didn’t want to make a mistake around the guy who was called Mad Dog and Chaos.
It was my job, working with my US military counterparts to put together the visit, which was only two days, each packed full of meetings with representatives from the US Embassy and Iraqi government officials. I won’t bore you with the details of what we did or with whom he met, but I want to tell you the highlights of the things that were most special and memorable to me. I wanted to share my side, albeit however small, of my experiences with him and why I was so impressed.
He’s extremely cordial and respectful.
When General Mattis arrived in Baghdad, I greeted him upon his arrival to the US Embassy. As I was walking him to his accommodations, I shook his hand and introduced myself, saying that I was going to make his visit as impactful and as smooth as possible. “Thank you very much, Parker,” he said, repeating my first name. “I’m looking forward to it.” Just the fact that he immediately said my name back to me let me know that he was listening and his second comment affirmed his readiness to participate in our scheduled events.
He trusted us and was on our team.
When I sat with General Mattis through his numerous meetings (all but his meeting with the Iraqi Prime Minister), he stuck to the talking points we had written for him, which showed two things: first, that he studied the material in advance, and second, that he trusted our advice. Meeting after meeting he vocalized the talking points, which helped us send a clear message to the Iraqis about how we wanted to work with them on various security-related topics.
He showed a deep interest in people.
I’ll never forget the morning of the second day of General Mattis’ visit. I met him and his team outside his accommodations on our way to the chancery for our first meeting of the day. “Good morning, Parker,” he said as he walked out of the building. Again, that he remembered my name meant a lot. As our conversation continued, he asked about me and my background, where I had come from, how I got the assignment to Baghdad, and more. When I told him that I was a reserve intelligence officer in the US Navy, he beamed a smile. “Glad to have you on the team, Parker.”
He loved his Marines.
As the second day of his trip came to an end, General Mattis asked us to assemble the Marine Security Guard detachment so he could speak with them. I had dealt with generals and senior government officials plenty of times, but for these marines, many of whom were in their early 20s, this was something really special. These marines were some of the lowest ranks in the entire service, and here was a guy who was the highest rank, and a man they revered. He spoke to them like he cared about each one, giving them advice on their careers and how hard work, perseverance, and dedication to their mission would take them far in life. He then posed for a picture with the entire unit.
There is probably more I could say, but eight years later, this is what I remember, and what I still remember, because those two days were very impactful and showed the true character of General Jim “Mad Dog” Mattis, call sign Chaos.
This false version of history to which Northam refers includes the belief by Southern sympathizers and white supremacists that Lee was actually an abolitionist and good soul that didn’t want war between the states but had his hand forced by powers greater than his own, but let’s take a look at who Lee really was.
Reason #1: Lee was a bigot. Just read his own words.
In 1934, author Douglas Southall Freeman published a Pulitzer Prize-winning, four-volume biography on Robert Edward Lee, the 1829, West Point graduate who became the military commander of the Confederacy.
On page 372, Freeman quotes a letter written by Lee on December 27, 1856 to his wife, which the author found in archives at the Library of Congress. It reads:
“The views of the Pres[ident]: of the Systematic & progressive efforts of certain people of the North, to interfere with & change the domestic institutions of the South, are truthfully & faithfully expressed. The Consequences of their plans & purposes are also clearly set forth, & they must also be aware, that their object is both unlawful & entirely foreign to them & their duty; for which they are irresponsible & unaccountable; & Can only be accomplished by them through the agency of a Civil & Servile war.”
In modern language, Lee is suggesting that the northern states desire to abolish slavery in the south (the domestic institutions) is clear and that the north intended to accomplish this by waging an unlawful war. Lee continues:
In this enlightened age, there are few I believe, but what will acknowledge, that slavery as an institution, is a moral & political evil in any Country. It is useless to expatiate on its disadvantages. I think it however a greater evil to the white man than to the black race, & while my feelings are strongly enlisted in behalf of the latter, my sympathies are more strong for the former. The blacks are immeasurably better off here than in Africa, morally, socially & physically. The painful discipline they are undergoing, is necessary for their instruction as a race, & I hope will prepare & lead them to better things. How long their subjugation may be necessary is known & ordered by a wise Merciful Providence. Their emancipation will sooner result from the mild & melting influence of Christianity, than the storms & tempests of fiery Controversy.
And there it is: Lee writes that enslaved black people are “better off” in the United States than in Africa and that their enslavement was necessary for “their instruction as a race.” The only thing that can undo slavery, Lee writes, is divine intervention. In the next ten or so lines, Lee writes that slavery would be abolished through the divine and that “we must leave the progress as well as the result in his hands who sees the end.”
Reason #2: Lee was responsible for hundreds of thousands of American deaths.
Instead of accepting Abraham Lincoln’s offer to lead Union forces, Lee declined and several days later resigned from the US Army and took command of Confederate forces. His first battle against the northern states was at Cheat Lake in modern day West Virginia in September 1861. Following that battle, Lee was involved in the the following battles, many of which were some of the largest and most deadly of the war.
The combined total casualties (dead and wounded) of these battles is 286,634 Americans.
Reason #3: You don’t see statues of Nazis in Germany, and you shouldn’t see one of Lee.
As I have written previously, slavery is the greatest atrocity ever committed by the United States: a 150+ year, government-sanctioned system of buying and selling human beings from Africa. Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy existed and fought a war to preserve that system. Since the end of that system, former Confederate soldiers, along with Daughters and Sons of the Confederacy groups, erected statues to their fallen comrades, military commanders, and political leaders, idolizing their status as a remembrance of what they stood for. These statues exist all over the southern states, and you can read about them on the more than 30,000-word Wikipedia page.
Just as you don’t see statues idolizing the commanders and leaders of the Nazi party in Germany, you shouldn’t see any statues idolizing the commanders and leaders of the Confederacy.
Slavery, and the inequality it created, was an abhorrent travesty that continues to deeply plague our nation today. The leaders of the fight to keep slavery going belong in history books, not monuments and statues.
When I was posted to the US Embassy in Baghdad, Iraq from 2011-2012, I was part of the embassy’s Trauma Response Team, a group of non-medical staff who received extra medical training to help triage casualties in the event of a large attack. We learned CPR, how to insert an IV, and how to apply a tourniquet.
Each of us was given a medical kit to keep in our rooms in the event of a mass casualty incident, and I’ve kept that kit ever since.
Around 4 p.m. on Tuesday, June 2nd, I hopped on my motorcycle and rode into Washington, DC and gave the medical kit to my brother, who told me he would be attending the protests about an hour later. I had witnessed the scene the day before, watching riot police beat peaceful protesters with shields and batons for the president’s photo op. I was scared it would happen again. I wanted to join him, but the stress it would cause my wife, especially as we have a nine-month-old infant, would be too much.
As I approached his apartment in the Eastern Market neighborhood, just southeast of the US Capitol, I got nervous and started to cry.
I was there, giving him my medical kit, because I feared for his life.
When he came up, I pulled out the medical bag from my backpack and unzipped it to show him the contents, explaining each one: gauze, bandages, wraps, wound dressings, splints, tape, gloves, goggles, scissors, and lastly, tourniquets.
“Do you know how to use these?”
He shook his head.
“Only use it if there is blood spurting out from a wound. That means there is an arterial bleed and if it’s not stopped the person could bleed out and die. Undo the Velcro and slide the tourniquet as high up on the limb as possible. Pull the Velcro tight and then twist this until the bleeding stops. Lock it underneath the lip and fold the Velcro over.”
I had just explained to my younger brother how to apply a tourniquet. He was never in the military. He hadn’t been to Iraq or Afghanistan.
He was protesting the death of George Floyd, as well as the recent draconian steps by federal officials to quell the right of Americans to peaceably assemble.
And I still felt that he needed to know how the tourniquets worked because I feared for his life. I don’t have a lot of family left, and losing him would be devastating.
I know that no protesters have been killed…yet. And that is my worry. If things get worse, bullets may start flying, and then those tourniquets may just save his life or the lives of others.
In response to the actions by the Minneapolis police officer that led to the death of George Floyd, I say this: the actions of that police officer were horrific and abhorrent, and yes, I think he should be charged with second-degree murder.
As has been said by others, if I did that to anyone else, I would be on trial and would most likely go to jail. My actions were clear as day, caught on video, with multiple witnesses.
And as I think about this situation more, these questions keep coming to mind:
Why is it that when a black man, who is pinned to the ground, struggles and says, “I can’t breathe!” these officers do not have an immediate response to ease up on their responses?
If these officers were wrestling with their children in their backyards, and one of the children said, “Dad, please get off me, I can’t breathe,” wouldn’t they immediately stop what they were doing?
Why is it different while on the job with a black adult male?
As a law enforcement officer, my fundamental duty is to serve the community; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation and the peaceful against violence or disorder; and to respect the constitutional rights of all to liberty, equality, and justice.
When a police officer kills an unarmed black man, where is the duty to safeguard lives? Where is the duty to serve the weak against oppression? Where is the duty to respect the constitutional rights of all?
Death, as a result of digging a knee into a man’s neck or shooting him in the back, leaves him no constitutional rights…because he’s dead.
So here is my message to police officers:
Live by your code of ethics. Value human life…ALL human life. Hold each other accountable. Stop tolerating this behavior and STOP KILLING UNARMED BLACK MEN.
With my dog, I used to run the two-mile trail that looped the Union and Confederate trenches of the Battle of the Wilderness, fought in May 1864. The two armies met in skirmishes along Plank Road, and in an effort to outflank one another, made their way further from the road into the forest until organized combat became entirely ineffective.
One day, when I finished a run, I was giving my pup some water at the visitor’s center, which had a small parking lot of about 15 spaces. As I stood in front of my car and caught my breath, I saw two motorcycles pull up in the spaces next to me. Each had two passengers, and all four were wearing black motorcycle jackets.
As one of them hopped off, she turned around to get something from one of the storage compartments, and I noticed the large patch on the back of her jacket.
It was a circular patch, with a rose in the middle. Lining the edge of the patch were the words “Order of the Confederate Rose.” It looked something like this:
On the back of her helmet, there a Confederate flag and more writing: “Heritage, not hatred.”
Later that night, while sitting on the deck of a lake house and watching the sunset, I thought about that phrase: heritage, not hatred.
It seemed to strike me as quiet strange for two reasons:
First, the heritage was based on hatred, as southern states seceded from the Union for the sole reason of preserving their ability to enslave other human beings they viewed as not human. It remains the single greatest atrocity our country has ever committed.
Second, the 11 southern states that seceded from the United States and all of the Confederate soldiers and statesmen who joined the secession would be guilty of treason, as defined by 18 U.S. Code § 2381: Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason. As the Confederate states waged a four-year war against the United States in what has been the bloodiest conflict our country has ever seen, that sounds like treason to me.
So why do these motorcycle clubs (and many other southern-related organizations) still exist and idolize Confederate soldiers who were traitors to their country, bigots, and human rights abusers?
We can look (and many historians have, including me) at the Civil War and study its battles, commanders, and strategies and learn lessons about leadership, combat, valor, civil-military relations, and more. Of course, we can do the same for any war. Thousands of historians have studied the German war machine in the Second World War and have analyzed the successes and failures of German commanders like Field Marshalls Heinz Guderian and Erwin Rommel.
But think about how you would react if a friend of yours told you he was proud of his family’s ties to Nazi soldiers and that he was a member of the Order of Heinz Guderian and invited you to a dinner to celebrate Guderian’s birthday. If you have a soul, you’d be horrified. These men led an army that was responsible for the world’s greatest atrocity, the Holocaust, and (according to some estimates) 20 to 30 million deaths of other men and women. Yet for the “southern pride” groups, idolizing Confederates seems common, accepted, and perhaps expected.
In researching this post, I came across the website for the Florida chapter of the Order of the Confederate Rose. It reads:
The Order of Confederate Rose (OCR) is an independent support group to the Sons of the Confederate Veterans (SCV). We are a nonprofit, nonracial, nonpolitical and nonsectarian group.The idea for the Order of Confederate Rose came to Jane Latture of Birmingham, AL, after a Robert E. Lee birthday dinner in January 1993, when the speaker, Charles Lunsford, told Mrs. Latture of an Order of Robert E. Lee that had been reactivated in Georgia [and she] felt the need to help combat the growing attack on their Confederate Heritage.
Non-racial? I’d like to see how many people of African descent are in their group. An order for a traitor? Combat what growing attack on Confederate heritage?
In the end, I suppose they want to combat a post like this, one that questions why they do what they do, questions why they have such pride for traitors and human rights abusers, and questions why their love of the Confederacy is any different than someone loving Nazis. As a person who lost ancestors in the Holocaust, I don’t think I’ll ever understand the attraction to the slave-holding south and the what groups like this are trying to behold. Because remember, according to them, it’s heritage, not hatred.
In January 2012, I had the opportunity to travel to Naples, Italy for four days. It wasn’t a personal vacation, rather a work-related trip. The best part about it was that I was stationed at the US Embassy in Baghdad, Iraq, and any excuse to get out was a welcome one.
As the embassy’s lead for NATO affairs, NATO’s International Staff was holding a lessons learned conference at the NATO base in Naples to discuss what went right and wrong with the NATO Training Mission-Iraq, which had departed Baghdad about a month earlier.
I booked my hotel next to the base, which was about five or so miles from downtown Naples, and attended my meetings each day. On the second to last day of the trip, my colleague from NATO Headquarters, Amanda, who happened to be, strangely enough, a classmate of mine in high school, and I decided to get dinner in the city.
Being as we were in Europe, we did as the Europeans did, and had a very late dinner. (This was nothing new for Amanda as she lived in Brussels). At around 9 p.m., we took the light-rail train a few-minute walk from our hotel, even though we knew the trains weren’t going to be running when we were to head back. We’ll just grab a taxi, we thought. No big deal.
We found a very cool looking restaurant in a space that looked like a kiln or perhaps a large pizza oven. Having been seated, we ordered an excessive amount of food and wine and ate and drank to our hearts’ content.
At around 11 p.m., we paid the bill and walked outside, hoping to find a taxi stand nearby. When we did eventually find one, we found plenty of taxis, but no taxi drivers. We kept walking toward the water and found another taxi stand. Again, there were cars, but not drivers.
We started to get concerned. What was going on? This wasn’t like the United States. You didn’t hail a taxi by sticking up your arm on the side of the road. Italy didn’t work like that.
But by this time it was midnight, and we were hoping that at least for this night that Italy would work like that. We walked further toward the water, to the main street that hugs the coast, and I put up my arm.
Taxi after taxi passed us. Yet none stopped, not even slowing down. One taxi driver even shook his finger at me as he drove by. What was happening? Why did they not want to pick us up? Is it because they could tell we were American? Was it something else? We had no idea.
At around 12:15, I called our hotel and asked for assistance.
“Oh, yes, sir. We have a shuttle that can pick you up.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic!” I said back excitedly. I started to give our location, until the man started speaking again. “Our shuttle starts at 6 a.m., so it can pick you up then.”
“What? No, you don’t understand. We need the shuttle now. We are stuck in the city.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The shuttle starts in the morning. Goodnight.”
I was in disbelief, and now even more hopeless than I was a minute before.
And now it was almost 12:30 a.m., and Amanda and I were stuck in downtown Naples, and this was the Italian city known for its “baby gangs” who had gained prominence in recent years after the city had basically been run by the mafia for decades. I was starting to get very nervous and was struggling to think of ideas of what to do. Amanda was drawing blanks, too.
I used my Blackberry phone, provided to me by the State Department, to use its rudimentary map feature to find out where we were and try to locate a hotel. If we could find a hotel, I thought, I was sure they could find us a taxi or at least give us refuge until we could figure out how to get to our own hotel. Worst case scenario is that we’d get rooms at whatever hotel we could find and get back to the base in the morning.
But hotel after hotel I found (and we walked to) turned out to be small boutiques that had closed up for the night. There was no Holiday Inn or Hilton. No place with a lobby to give us safety. It was now after 1 a.m. and I was scared. I would have just walked (or ran) back to the hotel myself, but Amanda’s shoes weren’t conducive to a five-mile trek.
At around 1:30 a.m., after what felt like two hours of trying to find a way out of the city, I saw a taxi cab pull up to a small newsstand. A passenger from the right side of the car jumped out of the front seat and moved quickly to the newsstand. Without missing a moment, I sprinted up to the driver’s side of the car.
“Hello! Hello! Good evening!”
“No work! No work!” he yelled back.
With no other choice, I pulled out my wallet, and took out a 50 Euro bill, holding it between my hands right outside his window. His eyes grew wide and fixated on the bill. He rolled down his window slightly.
“Where are you going?”
I gave the name of our hotel. He licked his lips, briefly.
“Okay. Get in.”
“Amanda!” I shouted to her. “Come on!” She trotted over and we got in the back seat, me behind the driver and Amanda behind the passenger in the front seat, who had finished buying cigarettes from the newsstand.
After a few breaths of relief, I asked the driver about what had happened and why there were no taxis available.
“Starting at midnight,” he said in his very thick accent, “We go on…” He trailed off as he started speaking to his friend in Italian, seemingly asking how to say a word in English.
“Ah yes!… We go on strike!”
“On strike? For what?”
“We want to retire early…at 52 instead of 55!” (It is possible he might have said 62 and 65, but I couldn’t be sure.)
“You mean like a pension?” I asked.
“Yes! The pension!”
As this man, in a sense, had our lives in his hands, I didn’t want to press the issue further as I thought it absurd to receive a pension for driving a taxi. About 15 minutes later, we arrived at our hotel. At close to 2 a.m., I fell asleep, safe and sound.