A Cult Leader?…#168

 

When President Donald Trump suggested the possibility of an “injection” of disinfectant into a person infected with the corona virus as a deterrent to the virus. My thoughts immediately went to one person Jim Jones, his rise to “cult leader” and his getting all of his followers to take poisoned Kool-aid. I am not certain that some of Trump followers will try the injection method. It would be a shame, I do know about the rest of the country but I know that “southerners” know what affect that bleach or disinfectant would have on the body, ultimate death.

Trump made the remark a presentation was displayed on research his team has conducted that shows that the virus does not live as long in warmer and more humid temperatures. It was said “The virus dies quickest in sunlight,” leaving Trump to wonder whether you could bring the light “inside the body.” He went on to state, “So supposing we hit the body with a tremendous ultraviolet or just a very powerful light”, he went on to say, “Supposing you brought the light inside the body, which you can do either through the skin or some other way.” He added, “I see the disinfectant that knocks it out in a minute, one minute. In addition, is there a way we can do something like that by injection inside or almost a cleaning? As you see, it gets in the lungs; it does a tremendous number on the lungs.”

 
Jim Jones, a charismatic founder of The Peoples Temple of the Disciples of Christ amassed a loyal following, how did Jim Jones keep his followers under his control. Jim Jones appeared to be a great person, and he convinced so many people that he was doing great things in the community. He was a political animal, ego-driven and very successful. His followers saw this as the change in their lives, which made the improvement. Jim Jones was a very desirable man to many women, and a role model to the men he was extremely charismatic.

I believe that some leaders are defined by their use of money, power, greed, sex, lies, charisma and violence to control their followers and empower themselves; in 2016, these were the traits of Donald Trump. While many have remained in denial about the existential threat posed by Donald Trump and his movement, Trump’s followers were not swayed from supporting their leader for any reason. With the corona virus pandemic, Trump’s power over his followers is on full display, as he and his spokespeople are now suggesting that older and other vulnerable Americans should be willing to risk their lives in order to “save the economy” and of course to aid Trump’s victory in the 2020 presidential election.

Trump resembles the cult leader Jim Jones and why… Trump’s followers remain in love with him even as his decisions are literally making them sick. I also believe that Trump’s followers are capable of committing acts of great violence against their fellow Americans, should their leader command it.

Donald Trump continues to make ridiculous statements, such as claiming he was the first person to call the corona virus a “pandemic,” or that there will be a mysterious light and all will be well. It is clear he is mentally unwell. How do you make sense of his behavior?
Trump grew up in the church of Norman Vincent Peale. Peale taught magical thinking and that if a person just believed enough, that God will magically make it come true. Trump was trained to be a magical thinker as a child. Trump defines his own world and what is real or not. That is a type of thinking which is very common to cults. In this way of thinking, if Trump says the corona virus pandemic is just going to somehow get better then it is going to happen. And when that does not happen, then Trump can deny ever saying such a thing, blame the Chinese, the Democrats or anyone else, instead of just saying he was wrong.

Donald Trump fits the stereotypical profile of all vicious cult leaders. These traits include malignant narcissism. Trump can easily be compared to Jim Jones, and other cult leaders. Trump always had a cult of personality around him in terms of his businesses and his social interactions with people. Nevertheless, once Trump attained the presidency, he took over the Republican Party and instituted an atmosphere where he rewards loyalty and punishes anyone that defies him.

 

 

EAJM

Of Course…this is just my opinion!

mom

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Generations of Secrets and Lies – Part 3 – #151

Generations of Secrets and Lies
by
Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree
Part 3
Story told by Great Grandmother-Mary Jane Overton – “Ma”
    “My grandparents and those of my mother had been friends since their childhood years; they shared the same nightly fire on the trail that seems to have no end. They spoke often among themselves about what was happening in the strange land they were being taken too”. Ma swore many times that she would never be the captive of any white man.
Around many fires were Indian tribes from all of the Five Civilized Tribes, the greatest numbers being the Cherokee. Proud spirits of once great tribes were now faltering under degrading conditions. Soon, they had arrived in Arkansas; Sipsee would hear her mother speak about what was going to happen to them. Many people were contracting diseases that had no cure and the weather was becoming frigid, clothing worn was inadequate for the time of year and many elders’, young children and babies had already died.
The younger men talked of escaping. It was Hawk’s decision to be among those who would attempt return to their homeland in Alabama. The warriors, the men, their wives and children would escape. Hawk set with his family and the family of Sipsee around the fire on what would be their last night. He revealed to his family that he would leave after everyone had bedded down for the night, his mother feared for his life, yet his father understood of what his young son had to do.
“Being dead had to be better than living like animals herded into circles with soldiers guarding them”. Hawk said leaning close toward the families.

 

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In secret, he had sought out Sipsee and questioned her about her feelings for him. It was too late for courting rituals, or for Sipsee to be prepared by her mother to become a part of Hawks soul. The giving of gifts and of the special blessings of the elders would not take place.
Earlier when Fosee found Sipsee her thoughts was the same as his; he spoke to Sipsee’s father immediately. He wanted Sipsee to return to the homelands with him; both families agreed they should be together. Without ceremony, Sipsee and Hawk’s father blessed the merging of hearts. During the night when the fires were low, when the soldier were sleeping except for a few guards, a small band of men, women and children in the darkness of a moonless sky slipped away. They would never know if their families had paid for their freedom with their own lives.
A few families stayed together, many others ventured off to find their own place, maybe a new land. Hawk and Sipsee were among those going into Alabama. They hid among the tall bushes they passed along their way through the woods, always staying away from the open fields if possible. Finally, they made their home deep within the forest on the eastern edge of Alabama; living among a few Indians who was not forced to leave because of their decisions to live white gave them privilege to stay. Hawk and other warriors decided they must conform to some ways to remain free but in their hearts, the hate for the white people grew stronger.

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They built log cabins and were soon moving freely among the white settlers without consequence. Sipsee learn the English language from a nearby settler who hired her to clean and wash their clothes. Hawk learn the language from Sipsee but refused to speak it unless necessary to talk to a white person. Sipsee knew that times were changing and had the foresight to know it would become a white man’s world. Hawk did not approve of many things she would say, he would only look at her and try to keep his own dreams of the future alive within his spirit.

 

 

Author’s Note:
This facts of this story has two aspects, one is the presumed facts written from the annals of history; and second by the verbal history confident from the memory of Mary Jane Overton, proud Chickasaw.

Author’s Note: To be continued in Generations of Secrets and Lies – Part 4

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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The Chickasaw Farmer…#126

 

30. Women in cottonfield

Art by Author

The Chickasaw Farmer…

“A tribute to my Daddy”

Rickety ole man stood on the cotton
Wagon a tin of yellow salve in his
Hand.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

A hot southern sun hides behind the
Willows on muddy Flint Creek, cotton
Pickers sweat falling on parched lips
Taste like salty brine while they wait
For the ole man to call “quitting time”.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Young, old, children, women and men
Bloody fingers cut by the barbs of the
Cotton boll dig into the old yellow salve
Tin.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Tar bottom sacks filled with soft white
Gold weary feet follow two old sway
Back mules down a rutted road.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

 
Crimson clouds from wagon wheels
Whirl around tired bodies and drained
Minds; feels like pickers been
Working in the cotton fields since the
Beginning of time.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the
Cotton pickers walked into the dark of the
Night the Ole man’s heart filled with
Appreciation; cause he’s just an old
Chickasaw farmer trying to
Survive inside a “White Nation”.

Rickety ole wagon
Rickety ole man

 
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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41+X2DEZIpL._AC_US218_

As a Child I Prayed it was the Way…#119

 

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As a Child I Prayed, it was the Way…

Knarred pines below the mountain where we lived were living gravestones on the
land we called home high above them was the kudzu-shrouded caves where I played with constant skinned knees, Hoarfrost eyes and long black braids. Below this mountain was hallowed ground and beneath decaying pine needles the bleached bones of my ancestors lay hidden in the mounds.

My Great-grandmother whom we all call “Ma” said the mountain was like a cathedral, a place where she took me every morning to pray, she told me that it was our way. As the night shadows disappeared in the mornings golden rays, we raised our palms toward the sky to bless another day.

Ma’s voice strong and clear begin to chant in her native tongue the words robust and bold; it came from deep within her as if orchestrated by her Soul. Floating across the mountains scarred face her mantra rose to the Great Mystery – her God, she said that I must always honor this sacred place.

She told me that the sounds of a waking earth should reminded us of how the world came to be, her prayers spoke of rebirth and how our Souls would someday be free. We walked through emerald grass damp with morning dew, the unseen breeze kissed our face, and she believed that with the beginning of each morning our life was once again renewed.

We hurried to the creek behind our tarpaper shanty to wash away all of Yesterday’s sorrows. I held her hand wishing that this were how our lives would always be, that I would never grow up and she would never grow old, and it would always be Ma and me. Yes when I was a child my Great-grandmother taught me many lessons about life, it was the way.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Old Age…#106

“In something called the Pew Study, the responses were clearly that old age begins at 68. However, those older, 65, considered old age to begin at 74. As for me, at 80, old age may be 90.” Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree.

Old Age…

Therefore, there are more older people than ever before, most are not working forty hours a week and many are unsure of what they are going to do with their time. Life changes at advanced ages are both physical and emotional. I have struggled with the loss of loved ones and a share of my independence; almost everyone who has reached that magic number that declares we are old age shares this. I have tried to maintain a healthy life style, yet, as the body ages like any vehicle or vessel, its parts wear out. We have to maintain the highest quality of life possible, a fulfilling life and we must find ways to live our life. If you are mindful of changes in your life the ones that restrict you will not come as a surprise, it is known that exercising will contribute to a long life and it is never too late to start.

Exercise can help prevent memory loss; it provides you with “feel-good hormones known as endorphins. It helps reduce chronic pain, improves metabolism and it can improve your quality of sleep. Keep your brain active, you can feed your creativity now that you are no longer working, it is important to keep the brain strong.

It is said that older people living alone are lonely, unhappy and isolated; a study revealed that older people living alone are often poor and desperate. LET ME DISPEL THIS STATEMENT AS A MYTH! I have lived alone in the old age timeframe for ten years, I am not lonely, unhappy, nor do I feel isolated; and I am far from desperate. I am not poor, I am rich in family and the world around me; I have all that I need and want. Family, living in the moment and creativity is my chosen lifestyle, one that fulfills me in every way.

How do I maintain this outlook on life? I keep up with technology and modern culture while embracing my past and what it held for me, I do not disrespect that of others. I try to exercise within the limits of my current abilities; it is less than ten years ago, but every step counts. I try to keep my aches and pains to myself as well as my mental state at any given moment. As we, I have aged, I go through a gamut of emotions, and I do not believe that people change in old age. I do believe that their personalities and health cause unhappiness if they were unhappy as younger people, and they are happy if they have always tried to look as the glass half full instead of half empty. I consider above physical health that mental is the most important, without a good outlook on life the physical health does not have a chance. Family and social ties are a plus; I have to work on social ties.

I try to “practice what I preach”, I still have work to do on myself and probably always will, yet nothing stops me from trying. I have embraced my age, I have adopted a healthy lifestyle and I set goals. Yes, goals, I intend to continue to make myself as healthy as possible and I intend to continue to “write”, on anything and everything, to expand my world and move beyond that small bubble that is my life.

Want you come with me?

 

 
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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Death, a Saving Grace…#100

Violence against women is clearly not solved, not at all solved, and the reasons for it, which are controlling women’s bodies in order to control reproduction, are definitely not solved.   Gloria Steinem

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Death, a Saving Grace…

At dawn, the life light went out of the

woman’s abused body, it laid in front

of her the children she tried to protect…

she was a mother, she was a woman,

and she was a wife.

A coal oil lantern glowed against rustic

rough boards, shadowing the fragile

souls left behind in the damp shanty

where, she was a mother, she was a

woman, and she was a wife.

Laid to rest in a shallow grave in the

Louisiana heat, dug by a man with

moonshine seeping from his body; the

moon glowed upon soft damp earth

holding, what was once a mother, a

woman, a wife.

Tears burn hot upon the dirt-streaked

faces of her six children as relatives

who heard the shots from the long arm

barrel of hate ring out into the night

took them to their homes, she was

their mother, she was a woman, and

she was wife.

Drunk with evil spewing from his

tobacco-laced mouth the skeleton of

a father had shot his wife, because

she was pregnant again; she was a

mother, she was a woman, and she

was a wife.

No one will ever know beyond the

borders of Bayou Gauche, that mother,

woman, and wife will never return,

her death for her, a saving grace.

 
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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There are Choices…#99

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There are Choices…

A roar of thunder melds with the coming storm, the man standing with his hands to his side now wonders if his heart is stone; he knows that because he feels nothing. Crimson liquid spreads across the floor from the body below him. Doors locked, a decision has to be made and quickly. His life ended when he would not let her leave. The police and ambulance sirens filter into the house. He sat on the bed asking, “God, will I go to Heaven if I choose to take my life?” Many would ask is that really the question.

• Over half of the killings of American women are related to intimate partner violence, with the vast majority of the victims dying at the hands of a current or former romantic partner.
• Women’s shelters are available in more than forty-five countries, this will not be enough until every city, town and small burg offers a safe house for abused women.

elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Big Willie…#96

Many of my poems, stories are created from my childhood days, I try to do them justice and portray them with love.  It is with honor that I share this poem.  E.

plowing-cotton

 

Big Willie…
When days get bad within my mind,
I travel back to another time. The
fog clears and memory sends, a
gentle soul, a man among men.

As a child whose friendship I won,
The child of a slave woman, the
Masters son. Everyone called him
Big Willie, though when I knew him
he had shriveled with old age, a
religious man, he could recite the
bible without ever turning a page.

Big Willie looked upon life steadily, he
felt alive and whole, he rode an old
rusty bicycle wherever he would go.
He lived in a little house on my daddy’s
land, they respected each other, man
to man.

We buried Big Willie one cold gloomy
day, I did not understand why my best
friend had to go away. Daddy placed a
marker upon his grave, when he bought
it he looked at me asking besides his
name what should it say.
say.

An invented child even in those days, of
my childhood friend I knew exactly what I
wanted the marker to display.

“IN HIS YOUTH HE WAS NEITHER DULL NOR WILD, HE WAS KNOW AS BIG WILLIE THE MASTERS CHILD.”

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…#92

 

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Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…
“Dedicated to one of my mother’s, my Great-Grandmother”

When I was born, you were young ninety-years old,
your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still
black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before
you went to bed, it fell to the floor; at first I would watch
in silence from a crack in the door.

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the
room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick.
I quickly plucked it from mother’s only broom, and rushed
back into the dimly lit room. You showed me how to break
it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile
accented all of your dark wrinkles and creases.

It was then that my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right
through the lob of your ears, its magic I thought; but this is my
great-grandmother I have nothing to fear. As a child, I did not
realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the
bangles on her ear, she would quickly scold.

Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up
shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on
shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have
guessed. Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many
hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.

I never tire of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together
and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she
called it “hell”. Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud
and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong.

She help raise me and she taught me the way, and her mind was still
sharp as it was when I was a child, I use to wander in those later years,
I was sad when she would tell her stories because when she got older,
she only remembered the bad. This grand old woman dressed in bangles
and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair and the nap of her
neck she was a great-grandmother like no other.

She died only days before her birthday, she would have been one-hundred
and five, my father said, Ma would have scolded you saying,
don’t you ever cry. I was fifteen-year old and the world was bright and
colorful with the artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury this beautiful and
proud Chickasaw.

 

©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Another spring for Aunt Francis…#90

 

 

18.Aunt Frances

The picture painted by the Author the image  that that  lives on in her imagination.

 

Aunt Francis played a great part in my younger years. She came to live with us when I was about six-years old. One Saturday morning I saw daddy coming down the road with his two old mules pulling the old cotton wagon. In the wagon sat a very large black lady in an old rocking chair, a beat-up black trunk next to her. Daddy called to me and I ran to the wagon, he told me that the lady was Aunt Francis and that she would be living with us. He unloaded her stuff into a one room, one window shack; it was already furnished with bed and old cook stove. It was clean and it was a fine place to live according to Aunt Francis. She lived with us until we left the farm moving into the city of Decatur, Alabama when I was twelve-years old. She loved me from the day she arrived as if she were my mother, she played games with me, she prayed over me and she taught me how to be a proper southern lady.

 

Another spring for Aunt Francis…

Her knees bent forward away from the worn

out rocker, her legs getting their bearings she

made a puckered brow while looking out the

window at the garden. Everything dies she

thought; soon the fragrance of spring will be

gone.

 
She narrows her eyes looking into the

hedgerow at the end of her flowerbed to see

if the sparrow hawks have returned, slowly

she turns keeping contact with the old rocking

chair, holding onto its worn arms. After

one-hundred listless summers, her soul still

feeds on the emotions of the stillness, the

sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around

her porch.

 
Holding her breath she falls back into the chair,

it shudders under her weight. She knows not to

take her being able to stand for granted. Closing

her eyes to rest, bible in hand, and her thoughts

were none other than that she could get back up

another time to fill her heart with the wonders of

the old flower garden, would there be another spring.

Maybe!

©2019elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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51aCYsKcWCL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_A Passage into Madness

Poetry from A Passage into Madness

Feathered Angels…

I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My unstinted memory will not bury them so deep that I cannot bring them to the surface in a moment’s notice.

In the deep recesses of my mind, I see a small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field. All memories from my early days.

I see death, going down the road moving away from the weathered house of worship, a wagon that carried my beloved Aunt Francis; I envisioned it being followed by feathered angels. No longer will the little branch of water beneath the Birch taste fresh and cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks in the pasture embrace warm flesh.

I relive a sad memory, my great-grandmother’s heart has been silenced, and the rocker on the porch stilled, no hand wave’s goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the room where she slept, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby cracked mirror. Everyone we love soon leaves us. Sitting on the steps of that old weathered church, I have but one memory it is that childhood is dead.