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Worldwide ACLU Edict : ‘Voting By Mail is My Lifeline’: Voter with Disability Shares Importance of Mail-In Voting
ACLU: ‘Voting By Mail is My Lifeline’: Voter with Disability Shares Importance of Mail-In Voting https://ift.tt/zgV5oTA One voter with cerebral palsy shares how Trump’s executive order against mail-in ballots limits voting accessibility and keeps voters with disabilities out of the election process.
Donald Trump will not make it to the end of his term. That is my prediction and I am becoming more and more convinced of it each and every day. There are many potential reasons why he won't make it. The most obvious is his health. He is clearly not well. They are obviously lying to us about his health. Dying in office is a very real possibility. The second reason is political. Trump is politically toxic. He is historically unpopular. He is destroying his party. Right now, Republicans still support him... publicly. But that could change in an instant. The truth is that most elected Republicans HATE him. Believe this or not, I don't much care, but it is true. Most of them publicly support him only for political reasons. At some point, their political calculation may change. If that happens, they could turn on him in an instant. MAGA is dying. Fewer and fewer Republicans support Trump and identify as "MAGA." The political calculation is changing. The midterms may change the game completely. Impeachment and removal, resignation for a "health" reason, who knows? The third potential reason that Trump may not make it to the end of his presidency is legal. Trump is a criminal. We know this. He is a 34-time convicted felon. He continues to commit crimes on a near daily basis. He is immune from prosecution for some of those crimes, thanks to the corrupt Supreme Court. For other crimes, there is limited or no immunity at all. (Those who say that Trump has "absolute immunity" and cannot be prosecuted have absolutely no idea what they are talking about and you should not listen to them.) Trump has enormous criminal exposure. This could potentially lead Trump, along with collapsing support from his own party, to consider ways to protect himself from prosecution once he leaves office. This could result in his early departure from the presidency. There are many specific ways it could happen. Maybe I am wrong, and Donald Trump will serve out the remainder of his term, but I doubt it. One way or another, I don't think he makes it. If he does make it, I think his presidency will end even more disastrously for him than if he is impeached and removed. If he digs in his heels, survives all the things that could drive him from office, and reaches the end of his term, I do not think he will leave willingly. He may try any number of things to cling desperately to power. In the end, it won't work. If he tries, he will be removed, by force if necessary. And that will make it even more likely that he will be prosecuted. We can discuss those potential scenarios more later. I won't speculate about that now because, as I said, I don't think he will make it to the end of his term anyway.
Clara Hale wouldn't give the addicted babies a single dose to stop the shaking. She held them instead, walking the floor of a Harlem apartment all night, for weeks, with one trembling newborn after another. Almost a thousand babies came through those arms. Picture twenty years of those nights. By the spring of 1969, Clara Hale believed the hardest part of her life was already behind her. She was sixty-four years old, living in a five-room walk-up in Harlem, and the last of her foster children had grown up and moved on. For nearly three decades she had kept a houseful of other people's children, seven and eight at a time, on top of her own three. She had earned her rest, and she meant to take it. Clara knew, better than most, what it was to be a child nobody was left to claim. Her father died when she was small, and her mother was gone by the time she turned sixteen, leaving her to finish high school orphaned and alone. She married a man named Thomas Hale and followed him north to New York, where he ran a small business and she cleaned floors for a living. He died of cancer when she was only twenty-seven. Twenty-seven years old, three small children, and the man who was supposed to help her raise them gone into the ground. She did not come apart, and she did not hand her children to anyone. She went and found more work. She cleaned houses in the daytime and theaters at night, but she could not bear leaving her own babies alone in a dark apartment. So she began keeping other people's children in her home instead, charging two dollars a week for each one. The little ones who came for the day started not wanting to leave. Their mothers would arrive on the weekend and the children would beg to stay. In 1940 she got a license to take in foster children, and for the next twenty-seven years that walk-up held a rotating family of forty kids, every color and every faith among them. Her own daughter, Lorraine, was almost sixteen before she figured out that the other children in the house were not her real brothers and sisters. Everyone in those rooms, Clara liked to say, simply called her Mommy. That should have been a full life on its own. Instead it was the warmup. That same year, 1969, Lorraine was walking through a Harlem park when she saw a young woman slumped on a bench, drifting in and out of a heroin haze. A two-month-old baby was slowly sliding out of the woman's arms toward the pavement. Nobody on that path was stopping. People stepped around the bench the way a city teaches you to step around what you cannot fix. Lorraine, by then a psychologist, did not call the authorities or fill out a form. She scribbled her mother's address on a scrap of paper and pressed it into the young woman's hand. The next day, there was a knock at Clara's door. By her daughter's account, Clara got on the phone with Lorraine and said something flat and almost funny. "There's a junkie at my door," she told her, "and she says you sent her." Clara did not want anything to do with it. She did not know the first thing about caring for a baby born that way, and she tried to turn the young mother away. Then she walked into the next room to make a call and figure out what in the world to do. When she came back, the mother had vanished. The baby was still there. And so, at sixty-four, in an apartment she had only just gotten quiet, Clara Hale started over with a stranger's two-month-old in her arms. A child born to a mother using heroin does not enter the world like other children. The body arrives already needing the drug, and when the drug is gone, the newborn shakes and stiffens and cries in a high, raw pitch that nothing seems to quiet. The accepted medical approach of that era was to wean these babies off slowly, with smaller and smaller doses of the very drug they were born needing. Clara refused. She would not put any of it into a baby's body. So she did the only other thing she knew how to do. She picked the child up and held on. She walked the floor of that apartment all night long, the tiny body trembling against her chest, and she spoke low into the dark. She told the baby it was good. She told it that it was wonderful, that it was wanted, that it was going to be all right. The hours went the way those hours go. The baby would quiet for a stretch, then seize up again, and Clara would start the slow walk over. She did not put the child down, and she did not call it somebody else's problem. She wore a path across that floor until the windows went gray with morning. The method never changed for the rest of her life. "We hold them and rock them," she said years later. "They love you to tell them how great they are, how good they are, and somehow, even that young, they understand." It would become thousands of nights like that first one. Word traveled through Harlem faster than she could have guessed. "Before I knew it," she told a reporter, "every pregnant addict in Harlem knew about the crazy lady who would give her baby a home." They came one after another, mothers with nowhere safe to put a sick newborn and no one else willing to take one in. Within a few months, there were twenty-two infants in her apartment, every single one of them coming down off something. Her three grown children took on extra jobs to keep the lights on and the formula coming. For a year and a half, the family carried the entire cost on their own, before the city would put up a dime. It was Percy Sutton, the Manhattan borough president, who finally stepped in to help. He located a vacant five-story brownstone at 154 West 122nd Street, and with a federal grant it was gutted and rebuilt from the inside out. They named it Hale House. One floor held a nursery for the babies who had come through the worst of it, and another held the new arrivals still coming down. The frailest ones never left Clara's own bedroom, where she could keep them within arm's reach all night. The plan was never to keep the children for good. The plan was always to give them back. A mother could come and reclaim her baby once she had finished a drug program and shown she was ready to be a parent again. Most of them did exactly that. Hale House returned its children to their own families roughly nine times out of ten. "It wasn't their fault they were born addicted," Clara said. "Love them. Help one another." Then a different sickness moved through the same blocks in the 1980s. Babies began arriving not only dependent on drugs but born carrying the virus that causes AIDS, and a frightened city had no idea what to do with them. Clara took those babies in too. She did not handle a child born with the virus any differently from a child born trembling, because in her eyes there was no difference between them. On the night of February 6, 1985, Clara Hale sat in the gallery of the United States Capitol, seated beside the First Lady. Partway through his State of the Union address, President Reagan turned the entire country's attention toward the small woman from Harlem. He told the chamber to imagine going to her house some night and finding her silhouette in the window, walking the floor and soothing a child in her arms. "Mother Hale of Harlem," he said, "and she, too, is an American hero." The whole room rose and applauded a woman who had spent thirty years awake in the dark with other people's children. She accepted the ovation the way she accepted most things, quietly. But she would not accept the word itself. "I'm not an American hero," she said afterward. "I'm a person that loves children." A President had handed her the grandest title the nation had to offer, and she set it down and picked her babies back up. By then, the famous had begun finding their way to her doorstep. John Lennon spent two years trying to track her down because no one he knew could tell him her name, and when he finally found her he sent ten thousand dollars and came to sit awhile with the children. After he died, Yoko Ono kept a check coming every year. Clara accepted that money the way she accepted all of it, and poured every cent back into the kids. Clara Hale kept working until just a few months before the end, with at least one child still sleeping in her room. She died on a Friday night in December of 1992, at the age of eighty-seven, having cared for close to a thousand children by her own count. At her funeral, the pastor of Harlem's Abyssinian Baptist Church said she had walked with kings and queens and never once lost her common touch. She had asked, near the end, to be remembered for just one thing. That she taught her children to be proud Black American citizens, and that they learned they could do anything, and do it for themselves. She did not give birth to the nearly thousand children who called her Mommy. She chose them, one shaking newborn at a time, in the dark, in a Harlem walk-up, with nothing to offer but her own two arms and a low voice telling each one it was already enough. The babies grew up. Some of them are grandparents now, rocking children of their own to sleep in rooms she will never get to see. Source: Everything Mother Hale says here, she really said. Her words come from her own 1986 interview in Ebony and a 1984 profile in Parade, with the rest drawn from the news coverage of her life and President Reagan's 1985 State of the Union tribute. I pour real time and heart into Black History Print, because these names and these lives deserve to be remembered fully. If you'd like to support the work: https://ko-fi.com/blackhistoryprint Every coffee helps keep this page alive.
When Harry S. Truman left office in 1953, former presidents did not receive government pensions. Unlike many modern political figures, Truman returned to private life with limited personal wealth. He rejected offers from corporations and organizations that might have earned him substantial income because he felt it would be inappropriate to profit from the presidency. As a result, much of his income came from a modest military pension. His financial situation drew national attention and helped spark a debate about how former presidents should be supported after leaving office. In 1958, Congress passed the Former Presidents Act, establishing pensions and other benefits for future former presidents
“they” threatened me with my leg below the knee a long time ago if i did not join them let them they can go fuck themselves fucken losers and femmes that give into their illustrious threats maybe if I had a transvestite or toilet fetish I would join them...what exactly would u do? would you give in or if they allow you to keep ur soul at the expense of ur leg are you man enough to say fuck off freaks?
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