I will admit that I voted for
Trump. I can hear all the hate speech
coming now, but in all honesty, I don’t care.
I’m not playing nice anymore and neither should you America.
I keep hearing excuses of why he’s
bad, and guess what, so is everyone else.
Is he a con man, yeah, he’s a New York business man, they pretty much
all are. Are any of the other candidates
con men, you bet your sweet ass they are and if you say they aren’t, you’re
lying to yourself.
He’s a racist because he wants to
build a wall on the border. How does
that make him a racist? That card gets
thrown around WAY too much and by people who claim not to be racist but deep
down really are. Why do I say that? Because deep down every person is a little
racist, its human nature.
“We gotta stop illegals.”
Nowhere did I see MEXICANS in that
statement. Illegals are illegals no
matter where they come from, but if you think that shoe fits you, feel free to
“He doesn’t talk like a president
should.” I’ve personally never
understood that statement. Why do people
think a President is supposed to be better than them? That’s kind of subject/master mentality. I’m am average American, working hard for my
money and to provide a good life for my family.
I help others where I can and I believe what I believe.
The ONLY perfect man to walk the
earth was Jesus, so why are people trying to make the president perfect? I trust someone who admits to their wrong
doings rather than try to cover them up and dance around them. “What difference
does it make?” It makes a lot of
difference… to me.
So the angry scared voters are
flocking to Trump blindly, well if that is true why not ask yourself why? What has had to happen that the American
people have said enough is enough? No
more of your smiling to my face, lying to me, while stabbing me in the back
before taking my wallet. What has made
the average American say, “Sorry, the con man scares me less than you do?”
The real reason why people do not
like Trump is because if you are truly honest, he’s making America deal with its
shit. Things that are said, “You can’t
say that,” or “You can’t talk about that,” or just flat out refuse to face the
problem, well now you have to.
Ted Cruz is my representative. In the end I voted for him as my Senator,
even though throughout the entire time he was campaigning I kept thinking to
myself, there is something about him I do not trust. He’s a great guy, he says the right things,
he does the right things and I have a great amount of respect for his values
and his resolve to do what he says he will do… but I don’t trust him.
Deep down in my gut, I could never
put my finger on it, but I don’t trust him.
I never had a good reason as to why, I just don’t trust him. I will follow him and vote for him again if
he is the candidate but I just don’t trust him.
I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop but I just can’t see said
shoe. It bugged me, tore me apart, my
gut screaming, not allowing me to trust him… until now.
There are times in your life where
you see or hear something and you are slammed with a true moment of clarity and
everything surrounding the subject come into focus. It no longer bugs you and you can move
forward with complete convection. On
March 10, 2016 I was listening to Clyde Lewis of Ground Zero and it was said
that Reptilians are trying to take over and that it’s rumored that Ted Cruz is
a Reptilian. When I heard that, WHAM, it
hit me. I don’t trust him because he’s a
Carpets are a funny thing. They come in many styles, textures, and
color. Some are so soft that we want to
curl our toes up in them, while others are rough, just shy of sandpaper.
They are used to wipe our feet,
cover the floors of our homes or vans, and to soak up our stains. Many things are done on carpet, but in my
family, it’s where we traveled the universe while reading our books.
You want to talk about low man on
the totem pole, the younger you were the lower on the furniture you were. Couches were for the older ones. Us younglings were stuck on the floor. We didn’t mind much because it was easier to
spread out a newspaper on the floor rather than folding it up in a chair.
Often times we would be laying
down, on our stomach with our feet up in the air, or on our backs, arms stretched
out, reading a book and being so engulfed in the story that we were lost to the
My grandmother gave us this thirst
for the written word. It was passed down
through her children and we in turn have passed it on to ours. It’s something we craved and something that
our parents made sure we had plenty of.
Certain things could be lived without but grandma always made sure books
was not one of them.
In Stockton, California there is a
little hole in the wall, most places in Stockton are actually hole in the
walls, called Genova Bakery. There is
very little parking on the street and the building is old and run down, built
in 1918, however, it’s always busy.
As a kid, every time we walked into
the bakery we were transported back in time.
The floor boards were old, creaking, and the many miles people have
walked over them showed. The air smelled
of Italian sausages, olive oil, and freshly baked bread.
During the summer the smells were
even stronger as the heat slowly released the aromas that have soaked into the
wood and walls over the years.
Not having a lot of money, we didn’t
go to the bakery often but when we did it was a special treat. Mostly it was on a Saturday morning and
someone was visiting from somewhere else.
A couple of links of hard salame
were brought, along with a small brick of sharp cheddar cheese. Both were cut into small pieces and served on the
white butcher paper it came wrapped in, in the middle of the table. The white tight wrapper that needed to be peeled
off kept us from devouring it all quickly.
The crunching sound of the paper
bag the bread came in was a welcomed sound.
It meant soon we would be holding that hot soft white fluffy French bread
in our hands. No plates were needed as
the bag was ripped open and laid flat.
A few loafs had to be spread
between at least a dozen people so we never got a big piece but if we were good
we would get the softest part, the middle, which to me was always the best
When I went home to Stockton for a
visit as an adult, I don’t know if absence made the heart grow fonder or if it
was strong memories from my childhood but all I did was talk about getting a
loaf of bread and a link of salame for myself.
Of course I bought extra for the rest of the family because I didn’t
want to get a whoopin, one of those that was claimed I never got as a child.
I visited Stockton twice more since
that first trip in 2001. The first stop
I made as I arrived and the last stop I made as I left the city was to Genova
bakery. I had to buy a loaf of French bread
and a link of salame, cut up into slices, so I could eat it while driving.
As I write this I am not an adult
man sitting at my computer, clicking away at the keys, but an eight year old
boy, sitting at the kitchen table, my back against the wall as the window A/C
unit worked hard to keep us cool on a hot Saturday morning.
My mom pouring the orange juice in
glasses for my siblings, my cousins, and myself. My aunts Irma and Debbie slicing the salame
and cheese as my grandma yells at my uncle Jess to stop tickling the kids
because if we pee the carpet she’s going to be very mad.
My cousins Chris and Ron try
reaching over and around my aunts to steal a slice or two, only to have the
knife blade pointed at them with a firm STOP IT filling the air.
Not a single sound of silence could
be found in that house but in my mind all I can see is my grandmother grabbing
the bread with her soft firm hands and pulling it apart into smaller pieces, the
smells of the hot bread filling my memories forever.