Hope is Gone

I will preface this post by admitting honestly that some of this man's work was well done and interesting. He has a nice technique with most things and above all, he knows how to keep his name on the hit list. That being said, Shepard Fairey is a raging poser. He's a hack who uses the fickle liberal mob mentality to feather his nest and fuel his larger-than-life ego. His latest offering shows us that not only is he a shameless opportunist (something his audience should shun) but he's run out of ideas.

The Occupy Wall Street movement is no stranger to slogans and provocative imagery. Their crass posters, oftentimes confusing and nonsensical, are inescapable. They've adopted the Guy Fawkes mask from "V for Vendetta" as their stand against 'oppression' and trot it out as often as possible. Shepard Fairy saw an opening and he took it with this boring and predictable recycle of his insipid Obama 'Hope' poster.

This 'humble' street artist (as he continues to be called though he's no longer either) had done a different poster for OWS, something a little less forward, less recognizable. I suppose that's why the new one came about; the first one didn't get enough attention. In this article, he's called a 'west coast legend' and let's face it, a man with a head that big wasn't about to let the cash-cow and hero worship of OWS pass him by.

As I said before, he's not completely devoid of talent, but as a graphic artist myself, I know what goes into the things he does. I know what kind of work is involved and I know how easy it is to recycle. When the first poster (something predictable but not awful) didn't get the buzz he wanted, he opened an old file he had floating around on his expensive computer and did some editing. He kept the colors and the technique, just changed out a few things and added some words. He even kept the Obama 'O' in much the same fashion, just added some hackneyed 99% mumbo-jumbo. This Guy Fawkes incarnation of his easily and oft-imitated red and blue poster wasn't much work for him at all and yet the adoring art community and OWS roll out their tongues for him like a red carpet.

It's easy to think the road to artistic success lies on the open range of propaganda. Propaganda is a frightening mistress. The communists and socialists use art as a cog in the machine of oppression so it's not surprise Mr. Fairey seems eager to let himself be exploited. This piece from Big Hollywood in 2009 about former NEA Director of Communications Yosi Sergant sheds a light on just how far this administration and its champions are willing to go to get what they want. When you can't sway the people with facts and mere words, use an eye-catching image and slogan.

It's no sin to express your beliefs in any form at your disposal. It's fine to share those beliefs with others. But there's a fine line between expression and exploitation. Mr. Fairey isn't a victim and I would guess his desire for fame and fortune slightly outweighs his need to 'speak for the common man'. This latest move shows desperation. He, like many adamant Obama supporters, have seen their star brighten and fizzle. This revisit of his Hope poster is a return to a time of prosperity for him, a time when he was a hero. Fairey is a well-known 'art vigilante' and I suppose he always will be in some circles, but the 15 minutes of fame may be over and not a moment too soon.

Peace, Love, Selfishness

This is the time of hipster discontent. They've gone to college, gotten an obscure degree, accrued a mountain of debt, can't find their dream job, and they're happiness is your responsibility. Didn't you know, if you are a responsible person, you're on the line to make everyone else happy? Occupy Wall Street seems to have no coherent message, but the one thing they all seem to believe is their failures in life are the fault of someone else. They have a hate-on for those who have made something of themselves. Plain and simple, they're jealous.

This movement is less about 'fairness' in business and more about the bruised feelings of generations of Americans who feel the world revolves around them. It must be quite a shock to wake up and realize the sun rises and sets on lots of people, not just yourself. OWS can be blamed on decades of selfishness and thinly veiled egotism hidden behind equality jargon. The caring, hard-working attitude that made America so exceptional is now pushed behind a tidal wave of "me, me, me!"

Being successful isn't easy. One of the keys to being a self-obsessed jerk is believing hard work is for suckers. Why run the race yourself when you can ride on someone's back? This is why systems like socialism fail, the workhorses get tired of working for everyone but themselves. No amount of sitting in a urine-stained park, spewing anti-capitalist hate, and using 'twinkle' fingers can change the fact that to get rewarded you have to first put fourth an effort. That's how the world works.

The other reason their effort will fail is when you place all your hopes on the backs of legislation and regulation, you give up any kind of control over your own life. To regulate business the way they want, to force companies to abide by their demands, would be to relinquish any promise of future successes. Capitalism is a vital link in the chain of our culture and economy. If that link is weakened or compromised, the rest of the chain is compromised. This is something the protesters don't seem to understand. It's tough to see the implications of your decisions when you believe all your ideas are perfect and you're above fault.

Our country needs to be healed, but not with a vegan smoothie and a drum circle. We need the solace of hard work and great achievement. We need the strength of knowing we've done something epic with our lives. As I've written before, we need to return to the exceptionalism that made us great. Whimpering on the street, being violently selfish; that's not exceptional. Exceptionalism isn't a costume you can wear, it isn't the size of your bank account (no matter how the riches are gained), exceptionalism is the strength of your spirit and the integrity of your soul. OWS needs to understand their future is in their own hands. If they want to be successful, it's up to them. They need to put down the signs and start at the start. That's the only sure-fire way of running a winning race.

10 Years

In August of 2001, I took a trip to New York City. I had just returned from two weeks in Italy and I was exhausted. I got one day of rest before I hopped back on a plane with my mother, aunt, cousin, and niece to visit the Big Apple. Before then, I'd only seen the city in passing, having flown in and out of Newark for Europe. We were visiting to take in a concert at Carnegie Hall, the music of 'Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?'.

We crammed ourselves in a small hotel room a few blocks from the Hall. We attended the concert, had a wonderful night, and set out the next morning to see the city. We visited Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. FAO Schwarz was lots of fun and Tiffany's was beautiful (from the outside). We had a deli sandwich near Soho that was second to none and a cannoli in Little Italy. I loved Rockefeller Center and the breathtaking St. Patrick's Cathedral. Times Square was so bustling and bright and I finally got to see the Macy's. We hiked to the first bastion on the Brooklyn Bridge and back and as we stopped to rest near a hot dog cart, I saw the Twin Towers jutting into the sky and knew I had to get closer. I begged my party to walk just a bit further and reluctantly, they agreed. It was hot, our feet were sore, but we pressed on.

As we approached the center, my chin tilted higher and higher. Until then, I'd restrained myself from looking up. I thought it kept me from seeming like a tourist. But those towers were just so impossibly tall! My family was impressed too, but not as much as I was. I loved buildings and architecture. I stopped in between the towers and took a slow spin. I was dizzy with admiration. Paying no mind now to who saw me be a 'tourist', I got down on the stones of the Center and took a photo. The top 15 or so floors of both buildings were all that would fit in the frame.

We took the subway from the Center station and left the city behind. I remained amazed for some time, remembering the unearthly monoliths of glass and steel. On that morning, weeks later, I was at college walking back from my first class of the day when I saw one of the school maintenance workers stalking across the courtyard cursing. He wasn't normally the type to show such emotion. I asked him what was wrong and he told me. He yelled it, his fuming, trembling voice bouncing off of every surface. I stood there for a few moments, not knowing what to think. As I rushed to my dorm room, I shook my head. This couldn't be right. I remember standing in front of my television watching it all unfold. I had just been there. I had just seen those towers. I had just felt the cool stones on my tired back, surrounded by workers and other tourists. We were smiling.

September 11th, 2001 was a day that knows no equal. There will always be gaping hole in Manhattan, no matter how things may change. The skyline would never be the same; America would never be the same. I thank God for the opportunity I had to see the city as it should still be. I thank God for the lives that were spared, for the courage of America that day and the strength in the days afterward. I pray to God now to protect our nation from feeling that kind of pain again. God bless America and God keep us.

Insult and Injury

Billy says he loves dogs. He tells people to be nice to dogs, advocates for the animals' humane treatment. In turn, people see Billy as a good person. Good people are on the side of kindness after all. You see, however, Billy has a bit of a temper. He seems to get into arguments almost daily, usually about politics. When Billy gets mad, his automatic response is to call his opponent a dog. He does this with malice in his voice, as if being a dog is the lowest thing on earth. This makes Billy look rather hypocritical doesn't it?

The above is a sampling of something I find especially troubling about the 'progressive' mentality. Many times, I have witnessed a scorned progressive use verbal abuse and name-calling as an acceptable debate tactic. While the childish and inappropriate behavior is troubling in itself, something stands out to me as being worse than petty name-calling. Many of these warriors on the left use one particular jibe to pry at their enemies; they call them gay. Now do you see what I was getting at with Billy and the dogs?

Progressives love to trumpet how accepting and loving they appear to be. They wear social causes on their sleeves like bright neon ribbons. Somehow, the self-serving belief that everyone should be allowed their individuality is cause enough to deem someone a saint these days. Progressives make a point to tinge everything with a social hue. I won't say everyone left of the center is a hypocrite and everyone to the right is not, but why use something like 'gay' to deliver a childish blow in a political discussion if being gay is nothing to be ashamed of? Why use an ivory bastion of the progressive agenda to bludgeon an enemy you clearly despise? Do these people associate fondly with their homosexual friends and proceed to hunker down in front of a keyboard to hurtle 'gay' as a curse without blinking?

Dogs know when someone isn't right. They can sense all sorts of things. People aren't always so astute. I know I would never call someone a friend who used an aspect of my individuality as an insult when they became angry. As a matter of fact, I can't imagine why using any kind of insult is appropriate for an adult. Behavior like theirs, those two-faced vigilantes, is in no way respectful. All creatures deserve respect until they do something that justifies revoking that respect. I don't care what color you are, what gender, what age, or what orientation; human is human. Wouldn't it be nice if everyone gave such respect openly and truthfully?

Arnold's Fall: A Different Perspective

Do you have scars? I'm sure we all do. Maybe we burned ourselves cooking or skinned our knee one too many times. What about a scar that when you see it, you're reminded of a horrible mistake you made. Perhaps you catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and think, "Wow, why did I do that?" Now, imagine please that you are that scar, a constant reminder of a mistake. You're only in this world because of something that shouldn't have happened. This is how it feels to be a love child.

The news of Arnold Schwarzenegger's dissolving marriage was, to some, shocking enough. When the world learned what could be called the main reason for this split, the shock was amped up a few notches. The former governor of California had fathered a child with a staffer. This staffer continued to work in the home and Arnold had been monetarily supporting the child for 10 years. Arnold's wife, Maria Shriver, had no knowledge of this and when her husband came clean, she had simply had enough. The marriage is over, the family is hurt, and the admissions are being made, complete with shame and regret. Most would say this is the least that could be done for such infidelity, but there's more to the story.

People make mistakes all the time. Whether it be a simple one like forgetting to put the cap back on milk or a big one like choosing to have an extramarital tryst, mistakes happen. Humans aren't infallible and sometimes, even the most unassuming of people can surprise you. A few years after the death of my father, I learned the truth of who I was. I think I'd always known deep down, but that didn't make the news any easier to swallow. My mother had had a short-lived affair and had become pregnant. Both of my parents were older and my father (the man I knew as my father) had feared for their ability to support a baby at their age. He had suggested termination, but my mother refused.

The man I called Dad was truly my father. He raised me and loved me. It's possible he knew I didn't belong to him, but he never let on. He passed away when I was a senior in high school and that's when the phone calls started. A man I'd known only in small doses started calling my mother weekly, sometimes more. I searched my memory and came to the conclusion when I was to start my second year in college. I asked if this man was my real father and my mother said nothing. Sometimes silence is an answer.

I had never known a pain like that. It was like my entire life had been a lie. After the initial shock wore off, I began to think of how this must feel for my family, for the family of the man who was genetically my father. They had their affair, but broke it off, returning to their spouses and families. I was the only proof of what had happened, a scar to remind them of the mistake they made. I thought of the looks my mother had given me sometimes and how I never quite understood why they were different than the looks she gave my siblings. I remembered the sudden 'surprise' stashes of cash we would have when we needed money and finally knew where they'd come from. This man had been sending us money from the day I was born. I thought of the books I'd read, movies I'd seen, where a wayward couple had conceived a child, the shame they felt. I was that shame; I was a walking mistake.

A long time has passed since the day I learned the truth. I've come to terms with what I am. The man I always knew as my father will always be my father. I have cordial dealings with my biological, but it can never be much more. My siblings were understandably hurt when they were told and some kept a distance from me for a while, but they don't seem to mind now. Most of my extended family and acquaintances are unaware of the situation. I genuinely fear for what they'd think of my mother. I love my mother in spite of what she did and I can't stomach the thought of someone calling her the things I've seen people call Arnold and his accomplice in this transgression.

In the heat of the moment, when a story is at its peak in this society, it's easy to make snap judgements and play superior. What Arnold did was wrong, we know that. But it's important to remember there are others at play here. That child not only had guilt on its shoulders, but it is the human embodiment of guilt. Believe me, that's not easy to live with. And to hear everyone from news anchors to bloggers decry this child's existence as something of a crime, call its mother names, and God forbid, refer to it as a 'bastard', well, that's just a bridge too far. I was stepping into my 20s when I learned what I was and I can't imagine how horrible this must be for a child that young. Yes, this was a huge mistake, but remember in your criticisms there is an innocent kid out there bearing the brunt of all these missiles. I doubt even the child of Mr. Universe can long withstand that kind of barrage.

The Gravitation of Atlas

"A creative man is motivated by the desire to achieve, not the desire to beat others." -Ayn Rand

With the advent of the Tea Party, there's been a lot of talk about Ayn Rand's work and Atlas Shrugged in particular. The first in a presumed three-part film series opens in theaters, appropriately on April 15th. With all the conservative and Tea Party buzz around Atlas and Rand, it stands to reason that some would be defensive of what they see as a co-opting of ideas they believe aren't rooted in conservatism. They site Rand's atheist beliefs and her focus on objectivism. Some call her a Libertarian, some say she was simply an individual. Others will readily tell you she had more in common with Margaret Sanger than she did with Sarah Palin. These people aren't wrong, they just fail to see the truth behind the conservative connection to individuality and works like Atlas.

The tax day opening of the film is an allusion to the theme that so many equate with the Tea Party; the belief that one should be able to keep their reward for hard work. So many Americans who see more and more of their tax dollars going to fund the comfort of those who simply refuse to work find solace in this theme. Many see it as glorification of selfishness, which taken on it's own, could certainly cause one to negate the importance of others. But this, like other sub-themes of Atlas, should not be the main focus. Respect for self and desire to be rewarded are outcomes of respect for the individual and must be kept in check.

No, individuality and flourishing potential is the true balm for the conservative heart, not the much maligned self-centered haughtiness, or the hand-over-fist monetary gain, or even the defiance of fat-cat government foes. Conservatives are drawn to and support the individual because they believe in exceptional innovation and drive. This is the fuel of the trail-blazing American spirit. These things lead to personal success, an idea that strikes terror into the liberal 'everyone is equal' mind. But what liberals fail to see is that personal success naturally leads to broad, culture-wide success. Without personal success and innovation, we wouldn't have any of the things that make us comfortable, happy, and safe today.

I don't believe Ayn Rand was anything other than what people say she was. I don't see her as a conservative and I don't see her work and beliefs as infallible. To do so would be to acknowledge her as some sort of deity, which would be foolish and illogical. Every story and every self-developed belief system is colored and poisoned by that person's life experiences. No one will ever have a life like Rand's, therefor her beliefs can never truly be shared fully by anyone else, not in a healthy way at least. Rand's abilities to paint success seem to have stopped at domination, selfish power grabs, and amassing of fortunes. This is unfortunate as it causes some to be instantly turned off from her work. But when approached with a level, objective mind, this can be put aside as a product of the writer's emotion.

A story, no matter how epic and sprawling, must be used only as a supplement to an ideal, not the complete framework for it. To believe everything someone writes or says to the letter is to completely negate one's individuality. Somehow, I don't think Ayn Rand would have liked that to happen. I don't know how she would feel to know her work is a rallying cry for the Tea Party and that being said, no one else can know for sure either. But as we individuals set our eyes on the horizon, we see the light of potential; knowing that in each of us is the power to make America exceptional once more. Denying the individual is what has quelled our pioneering fire. Imagine what we can do when we are allowed to flourish and do so together.

Artful Dodging

I have a close friend who is a career classical musician and teacher. She is, as many would expect, a professed liberal. She learned quickly upon meeting me as a student that I was conservative. In spite of this difference, we manage to have a great relationship. I credit some amazing folks I've met online with that fact. They taught me the correct way to handle political conversations; keeping it civil, staying calm and logical, and ending conversations when personal attacks begin. I'm thankful for their guidance, but that is a topic for another time.

My friend and I were discussing, as we do a lot lately, the state of arts in our city. The orchestra is yet again struggling with bankruptcy and the harsh possibility of job cuts. They seem to do this periodically. With donations down and interest in classical performances at a low, it's almost certain the orchestra will be changing, perhaps for the worse.

I sympathize with my friend and her sister, who is a full-time musician with the orchestra. I feel sorry for those who love what they do, have a passion for music, who now await what is likely a termination of their position. I've been there, I know how that feels. But our conversation soon turned to the happenings with NPR. We didn't go deeply into the subject, which was likely a good thing, but she mentioned a stereotype that I quickly had to refute; the belief that conservatives don't care about the arts.

It is a vast liberal stronghold, the thought they hold a monopoly on compassion, acceptance, and mercy. This monopoly consumed the arts in the 60's, when free expression and abstract thought became the norm. Art wasn't truly art unless it was difficult to understand and grotesquely provocative. Liberals fed on that resistance to 'the man' like a leech on the lifeblood of the creative. They manipulated artists and musicians into believing conservatives wished them squashed in the fiscal wheels of progress by donning condescending smiles and offering bribery in the form of government funds. The National Endowment for the Arts started in 1965, a way for Big Brother to subsidize what it saw fit for the insipid public to appreciate as art. A firm grasp on the reigns of expression would ensure the proper message came through. Politically backed art is one thing and one thing only: propaganda.

NPR and PBS are like the NEA. Their acceptance of public funds, no matter the percentage, make them susceptible to all kinds of whispered influence from D.C.. There are always strings attached, no matter what you're told. My friend seemed to believe the call for ceasing funds to NPR and PBS was an attack on the arts themselves and liberals want people to believe such rubbish. I had to set her straight by explaining this 'devil on their shoulder' concept. I also suggested she look deeply into the contributions made by private citizens and companies when it comes to the arts. I believe she would be surprised to find just how many conservatives there are on those lists.

I don't think conservatives hate the arts. Conservatives believe in things self-sustaining, work done the proper way. What better testament to freedom and ingenuity than an artist or arts organization succeeding on their own two feet? The truth may be that the arts have grown to hate conservatives. The lies have gone from backroom gossip to art-scene gospel. Conservatives love and support the arts as much as any self-righteous liberal. Stereotypes have trumped reality and it's time we started setting things straight. When opportunities arise, and they will, we must speak our minds, tell the truth, and be artists of grace. Only then will a more beautiful picture develop.

We Are All Socialists Now

"We Are All Socialists Now"
graphite on paper

"Do you know how it worked, that plan, and what it did to people? Try pouring water into a tank where there's a pipe at the bottom draining it out faster than you pour it, and each bucket you bring breaks that pipe an inch wider, and the harder you work the more is demanded of you, and you stand slinging buckets forty hours a week, then forty-eight, then fifty-six - for your neighbor's supper - for his wife's operation - for his child's measles - for his mother's wheel chair - for his uncle's shirt - for his nephew's schooling - for the baby next door - for the baby to be born - for anyone anywhere around you - it's theirs to receive, from diapers to dentures - and yours to work, from sunup to sundown, month after month, year after year, with nothing to show for it but your sweat, with nothing in sight for you but their pleasure, for the whole of your life, without rest, without hope, without end ... From each according to his ability, to each according to his need ..." - Chapter 10 'Sign of the Dollar' from Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

Last week, I read an article at Big Government about an art student at Pratt named Steve DeQuattro. This student is experiencing the huge double-standard in the arts world. Artist, musician, actor, dancer, it doesn't matter. If you hold conservative beliefs, you could be the next Michaelangelo and the 'elites' would treat you like dirt. The arts are awash with prejudices. There is plenty of room for art for art's sake, as long as it's the sake of liberal propaganda. A work can be positively confounding and devoid of all skill and still be hailed as a masterpiece if it's making a 'statement' the art community condones.

As an artist, I know the culture can be tough. A few years ago, I began doing some political pieces, but I didn't publicize them. Most of them don't even feature my real name. Now, I find I am doubly careful. I've been an unemployed graphic designer for almost a year through no fault of my own. I'm desperate to find work in a town drowning in recession and graphic design over-saturation. Though I feel compelled to share my emotions through my art, I'm scared that a potential employer may find it. There is simply very little respect for creative dissent when it falls to the right of the middle.

Perhaps that feeling of being trapped helped inspire this piece. Two people, bodies strong, but faces gaunt, are chained together. They're blindfolded because it's so easy to lead the blind. He holds a hammer; she carries a sickle. They both drag a broken and beaten Liberty by a metal noose. Everything is lit from underneath, as if they tread on a bridge above a river of flame. I returned to my non-digital roots for this piece because the graphite is so visceral.

As someone who struggles with the dichotomy of belief and need for employment in a field that rarely shares my belief, I know what it's like to work in chains. I spent years wearing a blindfold, simply participating in the daily grind, hoping to make it another day. I'm inspired by Mr. DeQuattro's courage. It's not easy to defy something that seems so insurmountable. And if I manage to find employment again, I hope I can continue to express myself in pieces like this and not fear for my livelihood. I do not have the courage quite yet to spread this around under my real name. It will never be in my portfolio. I share it now in cautious solidarity. If I'm found out, which is distinctly possible, I suppose it will be for the best. But you're not alone Steve. You were never alone.

Return to Exceptionalism

The new frontier, that's what we were. At a time in history, we were known as the New World, a strange and wonderful place of untold beauty and treasure. America used to be exceptional. We used to explore possibilities. We used to give credit where it was due. We used to create and innovate. We used to be an exceptional place; can we be exceptional again?

It appears we have agreed to be mediocre at best. We allow our skin color, social standing, and possessions to speak for us. We have a split-second attention span that only allows for split-second fulfillment. We work for the wrong reasons, we compete for the wrong reasons, we vote for the wrong reasons. The only possibilities we are ready to explore are the ones that lead us to a quick buck or an easy way out. We don't seem to tilt our bright faces to the indigo heavens quite as much anymore. We don't ask how something works, only if it will work faster and cheaper than it should. We believe in fairy tales, expect something for nothing, and never take the road less traveled.

Credit and praise aren't given for talent or hard work, they're given to the loudest voice of complaint. We have decided that entitlement can be justified by something as detached as the plight of ones ancestors. Those who truly deserve reward and praise are oftentimes overlooked because they don't fill a politically correct quota. Our stone-strong defiance of British oppressors has given way to quicksand resolve. The harder we fight the decline of civility and logic, the quicker we sink in the mire because no one offers a rope of sanity to pull us to safety. It is no longer the singularity of ones talents, mind, or content of character that brings acclaim. Who you know is now far more important than what you know.

Innovation is a slave to regulation. Our creativity is sanctioned by higher powers; powers who, many times, know nothing of that which they manage. Those who still strive to create and innovate are kept securely under the thumb of bureaucracy in order to secure the future of the entitled culture. Those willing to work have become a slave to those who live with their hands out. Meanwhile, our 'anything you can do, I can do better' mentality has clipped the wings of real exceptionalism. Good intentions of telling children they can do and be anything they wish has paved the road to a purgatory where everything is merely adequate. We no longer carefully cultivate the individual greatness we all possess. Instead, we strive to selfishly be we think we want to be, eschewing our genuine talents, because we're entitled to our every desire, no matter how narrow-minded.

Being exceptional isn't about who gets there first or who does so with the most flash or cash. Being exceptional is about the race, carefully plotted and traveled. Hard work, our backs to the wind of political correctness, will set us right again. In the novel Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, a single innovator set out to derail the country's suicidal run to failure. Art imitates life, or perhaps the other way around. Those of us who have the strength of character to say enough is enough, we must speak up. We must stop the engine of the world and start it again on our return to exceptionalism.

Memorialized

When I was a senior in high school band, we lost one of our flute players in a tragic car accident. Our director came out of his office, pale as snow, to tell us the news. He broke down in a way I'd never seen from a grown person. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, sobbing. My heart went out to the girl's family and to him, this troubled man with whom I'd recently had some disagreements. An hour or so later, though I'm not sure what was motivating my steps, I walked up to him and put my hand firmly on his shoulder. I'd lost my dad to cancer not long before. I looked this man in the eyes and said nothing. He knew I understood how he was feeling.

We suited up in our band uniforms and filed into an annexed room of the funeral home. We listened to the service over the p.a., sniffs and sobs to punctuate the solemn event. When the service concluded, we headed outside and lined either side of the drive. We were called to attention and we stood there, winter wind chilling our cheeks, as the family drove through followed by the hearse. I was the leader of the low brass section, a girl to corral the rough and rude boys. I was never more proud of their composure as I was that day.

When I look back on it now, I can't imagine a more fitting tribute. This girl was one of us and no one at that service was there for any other reason than to remember her. The stark black pavement flanked by regal band members in white-legged uniforms must have been almost military, giving her the sendoff she deserved.

The 'memorial' service that occurred last night in Tucson, Arizona was nothing like this. The crowd was unruly and loud, the roster of speakers a bit confounding, and they even passed out t-shirts for the event. Though President Obama's speech was something that pleased a number of people, it was nothing more than a seasoned speaker doing what he does best: reading. I felt no emotion from him, no connection whatsoever to what had happened. And why was that? Well, because he wasn't connected.

A memorial is just that, an event to remember something or someone who was dear to you. Though a great number of people didn't know the six victims personally, they could find ways to identify with them enough to properly memorialize them. A parent could immediately understand the grief of losing a young child. A grandchild could understand how painful it must be to say goodbye to a grandparent. A person with a close friend would know the separation of never seeing their friend again. But politics, there is no place for politics in this situation. I'm sure Obama has friends and I know he's a grandchild and parent, but he has an unnatural aura of politics that never leaves him. Politics knows no emotion save the use of it for manipulation.

Presidents have always made speeches in times of triumph and tragedy; that's nothing new. But in both triumph and tragedy, the attitude must not be one of personal gain or desire for the spotlight. In this case, I must say it was both of those things. This was no memorial, it was a political rally on the backs of the grieving. It was a show of support not for the families who had lost loved ones, but for a stumbling president. It was an excuse for a hollow orator to flex his speaking muscles; a trial-run for 2012.

In the aftermath of the Arizona shootings, one thing was clear: the left will stop at nothing, hold nothing sacred except the profane, to take down their enemies. In an ironic twist, Sarah Palin has seen an uptick in the death threats she receives. What better time to call for the murder of a political figure than immediately after the attempted murder of another. Strangely, the White House has been silent on these matters of accusation and 'blood libel'. Last night's shill held no relief.

After the burial of my bandmate, I visited the girl's home with my director. I had drawn a portrait of the girl, smiling and hopeful in her colorguard uniform. A local frame shop had mounted it in a stunning frame for free. I wasn't present when it was given to the family, but at the home, the girl's step-father (whom I had never met) walked up to me and hugged me tight. He thanked me through tears and I nodded with a comforting smile, happy to have brought a tiny bit of solace. I may not have known this girl as a close friend, but I knew the events of her memorial were about her, not me. I did what I could to comfort the family, to keep the focus on them as they grieved and attempted to heal. Had I not been able to do that, I would have removed myself from the situation. I feel this would have been the best route for Obama. He should have visited the grieving alone, said his peace, and left the circus for a more appropriate time and place.

My heart goes out to the victims and I hope they will heal from the pain. I hope they can eventually drown the echoes of whoops and yells from the rally last night with the memory of their loved ones laughter. God bless you Tucson, and God bless America.