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ME

A Visit To My Past Through A Film

A Visit To My Past Through A Film

INVERNESS, SCOTLAND

A city on Scotland’s northeast coast, where the River Ness meets the Moray Firth. It’s the largest city and the cultural capital of the Scottish Highlands. Its Old Town features 19th-century Inverness Cathedral, the mostly 18th-century Old High Church and an indoor Victorian Market selling food, clothing and crafts. The contemporary Inverness Museum and Art Gallery traces local and Highland history.


INVERNESS, QUEBEC

Irishman William Bennet came to Inverness Township in 1819, but the first colony dates to 1829 with the arrival of 12 families from the Isle of Arran, Scotland. Their descendants built two churches in the village: St. Andrew’s Presbyterian (1862) and the old Methodist Church (1862), now a bronze foundry.


My Grandfather Ernest Romanzo Davidson was born in Inverness Township, Megantic County, Quebec, Canada (a Scottish settlement) 14 November 1881 and died 4 September 1933 in Wells River, Vermont.

In the early 90s I drove to Montreal for a Dystonia Symposium for doctors, in place of the doctor who was invited and couldn’t attend. Although I wasn’t a doctor I had sufficient knowledge on the topic that he thought it would be beneficial, plus I have dystonia.

The evening before it started, I drove out to Inverness, about a two and a half hour drive. One very long paved, country road, no traffic, not a single car but mine.

When I reached Inverness and saw a general store, I got out and looked back to where I had started – it was flat land – and saw all the city lights of Montreal light up the sky in the distance, which made me decide to on head back before it got too dark. There were no street lights as I recall.

When I called my mother in Massachusetts and told her I went to Inverness, she asked if it was a town or a city. Frankly, “I don’t know”, I told her. All I knew was that I was in Inverness – what lied beyond that general store was a mystery. I didn’t see any signs of a town or city from that vantage point, only a store.

Well, this morning, about twenty-five years later, I thought to look up Inverness, Scotland and Inverness, Quebec. I didn’t know that Inverness, Scotland was the capital city of the Scottish Highlands. Upon looking up Inverness, Quebec, and seeing the images, it was a town for sure. It looked like there had been no population surge or building boom in that tiny region of Quebec. Not even a hotel – upon checking. Lots around them though at a distance.

One of the first images that stuck out to me was that General Store. Wow. Right there looking as it did back then, probably some changes in sign content. It was like I was there again.

I’ll never forget that drive along that long road, talking in my mind to Uncle Ernie I used to call him. My mother didn’t like that title. “No one ever called him Ernie, and he was your grandfather not your uncle, but me being playful stuck with the Uncle Ernie.

Frankly, I don’t think Grandpa Ernest minded – at least I was talking to him directly, how many others do that? They usually go through God in prayer.

Anyway I never know much about any of my roots from any of the countries linked to me by ancestry – my mother and father didn’t talk that way. There were always more pressing issues in life than obsessing over where your people came from. Others make careers out it, for the purpose of exploitation, or just because they have separatists natures and cling to their ethnicity or race or religion for comfort.

I didn’t find out that I was Scottish till I was in high school and my parents had the neighbors over for dinner, who were Polish, and one of them remarked, “I wasn’t expecting to be served pierogi in a Scottish household”.

Later that night after everyone went to bed and my father and I remained at the table, I said, “I didn’t know I was Scottish”. He quickly retorted rather gruffly, “You’re not, you’re Lithuanian and don’t ever forget it”.

I was a quiet, not-looking-for-trouble, rather everybody get along, have fun and don’t fight so much, kind of kid, rather to please than disrupt, still independent though and firm in my beliefs, although I kept them mostly to myself.

People can pretty much discern you by your actions; they don’t need to hear you pontificate or hypothesize, or tell your story or opinions that change like the wind.

Still, I do all that now, and love doing it, but never with malice, I truly do respect people for being people and the struggles they’re confronted with just by the fact that they’re living, and not so much for what they do, but again I usually do understand the ‘WHY’, and when I don’t, the ‘WHY’ is where I look first to bring out the truth – whatever that means – even I’m not sure. It’s not like I developed a standardized process for everything I think or do or figure out.

Actually, since early childhood till the present day my primary question in life is why people do what they do.

So yeah, looking back and later watching the entire Lithuanian surge for independence and hearing them sing while holding lighted candles, not so much in protest but rather to show to the world what they wanted and deserved in a peaceful, non-violent way impressed me. In fact they, more than the Africans, adopted Martin Luther King’s non-violent process for social change.

Seeing them fail only to rise again triumphant made me identify with them more closely than my other ethnicities, and even though I didn’t speak much ‘way back when’, my father saw those qualities in me from early on.

It wasn’t until I saw the movie Brave Heart or portions of it that my eyes opened and then wanted to shut, being too young and peaceful leaning to understand the type of brutality people endure and impose on each other for their freedom rights. It seems everybody wants to Lord over everybody else and when others oppose it, violence occurs to protect it. I see it all over the world. Minorities trying to rise to dominate the majority, and often times winning, but at a tremendous cost.

This was a film made about Scotland. I’m seventy years old and just started watching it again on NETFLIX only to be cut off halfway through. Guess I’ll have to wait a bit more till they fix it and maybe scold the person who broke it – in my mind at least.

But I found another one – a series with three seasons so far and I only have three episodes to go and when it’s done I will miss it. It’s called OUTLANDER, another movie about Scotland, more specifically, the Scottish Highlands and done so well and creatively that I had to start pacing myself, so it would last longer.

I don’t usually recommend movies, because Steve and I watch so many of them, but this one excels in all the right ways. One small criticism – the sex scenes are wa-a-y too long. Other than that, I look forward to a season four!

THE MAGICAL STONES

Visiting the past for the purpose of changing the future.

What a trip that was!


https://theplanetd.com/clava-cairns-scotland/





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CORE STORIES

Religious Head Coverings Oppress Women

As a young Catholic girl I had to cover my head in church; the boys didn’t have to. They had to remove their head coverings upon entering church.

The boys were allowed on the altar; the girls weren’t. Even though girls would collect and take home their surplices to wash, starch and iron for the next Sunday mass, we had to enter through the back door.

The boys could assist in the mass; the girls could not. How could you assist in mass if you weren’t allowed on the altar? Only boys could be altar boys. Fair enough, but there was not a category for altar girls. A trick I thought as a young girl learning early what a backseat was.

Of course you’re special, you’re just different. No, it doesn’t mean the boys are better, it’s just the way it is. You think too much. Stop dwelling. I’m only asking a question, not dwelling. Boys and girls are different. Your job is as important as theirs.

But they do all the fun things. Why can’t they collect, wash, starch, iron and return the surplices and I assist at mass, I thought to myself.

Catholic families learn early in life through the doctrines of the church the value of their own children through the eye of the church, the Pope’s eye and in the eyes of God, even in the eye of Jesus. It wasn’t till decades later, on a trip to Montreal to attend a doctor’s symposium on dystonia, that I made my first walk on an altar.

I drove myself from Cleveland. Brought a bunch of Vox Dei Newspapers I published (similar to the word warrior content I publish online now, only in print form) and dropped them off Johnny Appleseed-style all along the way. I was also visiting by car (a visual tour) the birthplace of my maternal grandfather in Inverness, Quebec, a Scottish community, whom I never met, since he died early of pneumonia.

One of the stops along the way was a church (not planned, just me coming up on places or people and stopping to handout or drop off papers). I stopped, found the side door hallway, left a bunch of papers at the top of the steps, then went inside the church. I sat about in the middle and as I looked toward the altar saw a used baby diaper in the middle of the aisle – blue. I thought that’s strange. How could somebody drop a used diaper in the middle of the aisle of a church and keep walking?

I moved a little closer to the altar and took a seat near the aisle. I looked around to see nobody present. Catholic churches are much the same no matter where they stand. I scan the stations of the cross and recall doing them many times during the run up to Catholic holidays. I look at the altar with regrets for all the time spent during my childhood being a Catholic second class citizen. Why was I born a girl? Other religions are the same though – I’ve studied at least the basics of most of them.

My thoughts turn to the head coverings. First it was a hat, not carried, but actually on our heads that we needed to enter the church. God was in the church. That’s all we needed to know. Cover your head. I learned that men were made in the image of God, women were not, so they bared their heads and we covered ours. God is a he not a she.

What they really meant, in my view, was that men wanted to be seen by God alone, wanted to negotiate with God, wanted to be accepted by God. Women would steal the show, so cover them up, so God can’t see them. Always secret deals going on with God and men. Men wanted God to themselves. Men didn’t want to compete with women for God’s favor. Men were self-designated go-betweens. Men designated themselves as the Gods for women.

Men wrote the bible, not women. God – Men – Women. God tells the man what to do, then the man tells the woman what to do. The man is the filter through which the woman sees what the man allows her to see. These were man-made, church-made, not woman-made laws of religion.

Jesus was a man. Gay or not it doesn’t matter. He did the same thing. You have to go through him to get to God. He was one of those Jews who likes to fulfill prophecies. It got him killed. Jews aren’t the only ones who like to fulfill prophecies for personal gain. I’ve seen members of congress do the same thing.

So here I am – alone in a church somewhere in Quebec. Dare I do the deed? Maybe I should have pre-thought an excuse for being on the altar should a priest walk in, or some big local church official or an altar boy. Or a mother who knows I don’t belong there. But I didn’t.

Next thing you know I’m siting in the papal chair looking out over the throngs of worshippers.

Eventually the Catholic church did away with demanding head coverings for women in church. It was a gradual process – hats were no longer required, but a small piece of lace secured with a bobby pin was the next and last step to head freedom. Now God could see everybody. I was glad about that.

Whenever I see a Muslim child or woman with a head covering and a man with none to me it’s a sign of oppression and I personally find it offensive. The oppression I experienced very early in life, that marred perceptions of my worthiness, is why I eventually turned away from all religions.

Muslim women forcing non-Muslim women in America to look at that symbol of oppression wherever they roam in public is the same for me as a black person being forced to look at, communicate with, do business with and work with white people who wear nooses loosely around their necks, or a Jew being forced to look at, communicate with, do business with and work with Germans, Austrians and Poles who wear Swastika arm bands.

Oh no, no, no, it doesn’t mean that. No, no…

Yes, it does mean that to me. It will always mean that to me. To watch Muslim women enjoy being oppressed makes it all the more grotesque, thus obscene. Wear it at home or in the places where you worship your oppressive Gods. This is not a religious country. It’s a multi-ethnic country that allows you the freedom to go to church, mosque, temple or wherever you gather with like-minded individuals to worship without persecution.

It’s not a symbol of oppression. No it’s not. Look at me, I’m a congresswoman.

A congressperson who thinks her hair has magical powers that will make every man except those in her family, want to rape her if she exposes it.

So here we’ve got a congressperson who wants to look like a prostitute to remind people she isn’t one (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez), and another congressperson who wants to wear a symbol of oppression against women to prove that she isn’t oppressed (Ilhan Omar).

Both women are signaling solidarity to women in their own ethnic and religious groups, rather than to all women and all men, whom they were elected to represent while members of a federal congress. They are executing preferential prejudice by gender, ethnicity and religion as well as discrimination toward every person not in those stylized groups.

Most of all, using oppressive symbols to gain popularity among select groups is offensive and manipulative. It hurts people; it doesn’t help people

Once you’re in the USA federal rather than the USA state congress, your votes effect all people in the nation, not just your constituency, or gender-specific or religion-specific or ethnic-specific bases.

Their message: Push down the women who already fought and created their freedom by making them feel sick by association with oppressive symbolism they’re forced to view in public places, while simultaneously raising up those still oppressed by showing them they can succeed while being oppressed.

Look at us; we’re congresswomen.

Congresspeople.


Ask Ilhan Omar if she supports segregation.

Ask Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez if she supports federally funded abortion for Spanish speaking prostitutes.






 

Categories
ME

The Real Natives In The USA and Canada

My grandfather was born and raised in Inverness, Quebec Canada, yet my DNA results do not reflect me as being Canadian. I was born and raised in the Unites States of America, yet there is no DNA marker that proves that I am an American.

Canada and the United States are not ethnicities. The ethnicities of those who live in Canada or the United States are of a different origin.  Native Americans, although they were here before the Europeans arrived are also not American nor Canadian by their DNA.

So-called Native Americans migrated from Siberia to the western coasts of Canada and the United States, then moved inward. That makes those we call native in America and Canada basically Siberian in ancestry, which makes them essentially Russian/Asian, which explains in part the confrontational history and animosity between these two Peoples: Russians and Americans.

The question that remains is who inhabited North America before the Siberians came to inhabit and claim this land as their own?

To answer that question, you’d have to know how the first human emerged as a human and at what place on the planet that occurred. Did it occur in only one location, as one human in one location, or as two or more humans in the same location, or in simultaneous locations around the planet?