On Selective Mourning

I've never been to France, but I know something about it. It figured prominently in the two world wars we fought in. It gave us the Statue of Liberty. It gave us Edith Piaf. It gave us Les Miz. The Mona Lisa hangs there in the Louvre. Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli birthed "le jazz hot" there. Josephine Baker got naked there. Rick and Ilsa will always have it. The Beatles' recording of "All You Need Is Love" began with a few bars of La Marseillaise. It's one of the Western hemisphere's major cultural centers, and I relate to it on that level. I always dreamed of being an expatriate there in the 1930s, discussing philosophy and smoking French cigarettes. It's an affinity I don't have for Lebanon, Kenya, or the South Pole. When Paris was attacked, I reacted. In writing. On Facebook. I don't do that every time something horrid takes place in the world, but tragedy hurts more when it strikes people and places we know. It's personal. End of rant.

17 November 2015