Pro-Hamas Takeover at Cornell University

Students belonging to a pro-Palestinian coalition at Cornell University occupied two buildings on campus over the course of this past weekend, demanding, among other things, that the university revise its definition of antisemitism. I find it hard to believe that these well-educated students actually believe that anti-Zionism is not anti-Jews.

They proudly taped posters on the hallowed walls of Willard Straight, Cornell’s Student Union, which is supposed to be available to all students, that said, “From the river to the sea,” which, as Ivy League students, they know full well that the phrase calls for the genocidal elimination of the Jewish state. But their callous racist selves could care less.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the stately 98-year-old building was the stench of rotting food and body odor.

The posters stunned and crushed my heart. But what hurt the most was that I noticed many people of a particular minority group that I truly believed cared about the Jews, primarily because the Jews always had their backs. But the only feeling I got as I walked around snapping photos was willful and ignorant hatred of everyone and everything Jewish.

I guess Jewish lives don’t matter.

Poster after poster, these occupiers displayed frightening and hateful words about Jews, with not one negative thing to say about Hamas.

Not one.

I can only come to one conclusion to explain their actions and lack of clarity: They are Pro-Hamas.

Moreover, free speech is a two-way street. And when does Free Speech cross over into Hate Speech? School administrators are responsible for protecting their students and should loudly and forcefully condemn and counter all hatred. But where are they?

F the IDF police? What about Hamas terrorists raping young girls to death? Gang rape is not resistance. It’s animalistic torture perpetrated by sick and twisted sexual deviants. Some of the women were raped so brutally that their pelvic bones were broken.

I guess the Me Too movement doesn’t apply to Jewish women.

The hate speech I saw scrawled on every piece of paper on those hallowed walls made me want to tear down the posters or, at the very least, yell out something in defense of Jews, but I forced myself to exercise restraint. Only because my husband asked me to.

The word “Intifada” constitutes the call for violence against Jews, and is associated with suicide bombings, and the wonton murder of innocent Jewish lives.

Violence and murder of Jews from Ithaca to Gaza? This is what you’re calling for?

Where was your outcry when innocent Palestinians were beheaded by Hamas because they were gay?

Where was your “intifada” outcry when more than 4,000 Palestinians were slaughtered by the Syrian regime forces?

Where were your posters when 39 health Centers were destroyed in Yemen by Saudi-led rebels?

And where were your Palestinian flags when the Russians targeted hospitals and schools in Syria killing scores of patients, medical staff, teachers, and young children?

I can only presume that when Arabs kill Arabs, including Palestinians, that’s okay with you.

Yesterday, when I checked the internet to see what Cornell was going to do about this outrageous takeover of a public building, I noticed that the coalition’s demand to protect academic speech in support of “Palestinian self-determination and criticizing the state of Israel” as described on the coalition’s Instagram story, was “100% met.”

It seems to me that Cornell has enabled and allowed anti-semites to shamefully, and yet successfully, exploit the schools’ commitment to free speech, cloaking their hateful and despicable propaganda in the guise of academic freedom.

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 26: The Tony Show

CHAPTER 26

 THE TONY SHOW

 March 20, 1966

Well, I met Roberto’s family today, and let’s just say that the Tony show was full of drama.

His older sister refused to attend the Tony reveal, so as soon as we arrived, Roberto made a huge stink about Babs not showing up—loudly yelling at his mother and father and making quite a scene.

Mom was trying to calm him down, and I was awkwardly standing in the hallway with Mem and Mere Germaine, not knowing what to do. Mem had her hand on my shoulder, and Mere Germaine held me tightly at my waist so I felt safe and protected.

Roberto’s mom was nothing like I had imagined. Bella was a tiny little thing, her mouth perfectly lined with bright red lipstick, wearing way too much caked-on makeup, overly high heels, and white hair dramatically piled high on her head in an elaborate braided updo.

Between her hair and her sky-high shoes, she added at least four to five inches to her height. I was still way taller than her, although I made sure to pull my shoulders back and stand as straight as possible to loom over her even higher. I wanted her to have to look up at me.

After Roberto’s hysterical fit, Bella walked over to us and, without introducing herself, went into an uncomfortable speech about how the Russo family was against divorce, which is why Babs would not be coming.

Then, to make matters worse—while still in the hallway—Bella went on to say that the Russo family never knew any other Catholic whom the church excommunicated and that it would take quite some time for them to come to terms with all the associated issues.

I assumed that one of the “associated issues” was me.  I also assumed Roberto told Bella that Mom was excommunicated but not Mem—another lie.

Once Bella finally led us away from the front door, things got better—for Mem and Mere Germaine, anyway. The three of them had cooking in common, so, thank God, they had something to talk about besides me, divorce, and Mom’s excommunication.

I also met Roberto’s sister, Gia, who lives next door to Bella. She was loud and boisterous but hilarious and went out of her way to make me feel comfortable and accepted. Her daughter Patrice, who was incredibly beautiful, with her long, silky, straight chestnut brown hair and tiny nose, helped to relieve some of my anxiety with her kindness.

While Patrice and Gia helped to reduce my uneasiness, I couldn’t help but feel highly self-conscious because everyone kept staring at me.

Roberto’s father, Carlo, who was short and fat, barely spoke English, so he didn’t have much to say, although I thought his leering at me was creepy and uncalled for. When I mentioned it to Patrice, she told me not to take it personally, that “Poppy” leers at all the family girls. Ew.

At the end of the dinner, I was feeling a lot better about the Tony Show until Bella walked up to me and told me that whatever happens between Mom and her “only son,” I was to call her “Aunt Bella” and not Nonna like her grandchildren because our relationship would not be like that.

I’m not going to lie; even though I have no intention of calling her anything at this point, her words stung.

Before dessert, Patrice took me to the house next door to show me her room. She opened her bedroom window, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one.

I shook my head no, but she convinced me to take a few drags. The first two times I inhaled, I choked like crazy, but then I got used to it.

As we shared our second Marlboro, Patrice told me not to be bothered by anything Nonna had to say because “She’s always sticking her spiked-heel foot into her big red lipstick mouth.”

The two of us laughed, but I was thinking that in a million years, I would never say anything mean like that about Mem.

Then Patrice gave me some mouthwash to gargle with, followed by a long hug. I got a little misty-eyed and broke the awkward silence by saying, “I hope we can be good friends. I need someone in this family to like me.”

Patrice tenderly wiped the tear slipping down my left cheek. “Friends? Oh, Tony, we will be so much more than that, you’ll see.”

Then she lovingly wrapped her arm through my arm, laid her head on my shoulder, and together we walked back to “Aunt Bella’s” house.

Click here for Chapter 27: A Gift From Heaven

My Delta Wings

The sunset was before me, the airport runway to the left.

The wind blew through my tightly coiffed bun as I drove with the top down in my electric blue Karmann Ghia.

I adored the car, but I hated that it was his absolution payoff.

A recompense ensuring that I would keep my mouth shut.

At twenty, it was the happiest day of my life.

Free from all that weighed me down.

Emancipated.     Liberated.      Extricated.

Free from him at long last.

Thanksgivings Past


[Grammy Nadeau, Mammy, and Terry]

The Wednesday nights
before Thanksgiving
were glorious
and full of some
of the most
memorable and
happy moments
I’ve ever known.

We were always so
frantically but
ecstatically happy
preparing for
our day of thanks.

My grandmother
Mammy would be
baking pies like
mincemeat,
rhubarb, cherry
and pumpkin.

My great grandmother
Grammy Nadeau
would rest quietly
in an old armchair
while I sat next to
her, reading the
newspaper aloud.

Mommy would play
records, and there
was always dancing.

And then came
the day of.

I would wake up
to the smell of
sauteed vegetables
and garlic.

We would roast
chestnuts in the
oven, and eat them
all day.

We cracked walnuts
and filberts with the
lobster cracker.

And no Thanksgiving
was complete without
Mammy’s famous
deviled eggs.

The turkey was
always the
crowned jewel.

Packed to capacity
with the most
heavenly stuffing.

But it was the love.

That big humongous
love that stretched
from Wednesday
through Thursday.

A love that I will
forever cherish
and recall.