Remembering 9/11: Twenty-four Years Later

Twenty-four years have passed since that September morning when the sky was impossibly blue, and then turned to smoke and ash. In the days and weeks that followed, we were broken, but we were together. Neighbors reached across fences, strangers held one another in crowded vigils, firefighters became our heroes, and compassion rose like a second flag over ground zero. Our grief was immense, but so was our unity.

Today, that spirit feels far away. We are no longer a people who instinctively lean toward one another in times of pain, but a nation divided against itself—sharpened by anger, weaponized by politics. Violence has become routine, and each new act of bloodshed is not met with collective resolve but with polarization. Gun violence, once unthinkable at this scale, has been politicized into endless arguments, and the blame is always placed elsewhere—never on us, never on our unwillingness to act.

America was once known, however imperfectly, for its compassion, its courage, and its sense of social justice. On 9/11, the world watched a nation gather its wounded heart and hold it tenderly, refusing to be defined only by tragedy. Now, we seem defined by division. The ashes of ground zero remind us not only of lives lost but of a unity that has itself turned to ash.

If this anniversary means anything, it must be to remember that in our darkest hour we found one another—and to ask if we are still capable of that kind of grace.

The Thin Edge of Freedom

It never happens all at once. Democracies rarely fall with a single catastrophic blow; they wither, slowly, under the weight of small, “reasonable” compromises — the kind that seem harmless until, suddenly, they are not.

The recent decision by the United States Supreme Court to lift the ban on removing people from the streets based on “profiling” has been defended as a matter of “public safety” and “order.” But behind the sterile legal language lies something older and far more dangerous — the sanctioned power to define who belongs and who does not. Once we give government bodies the authority to decide, based on appearance, behavior, or circumstance, which human beings are worthy of dignity and which are not, we step onto a road we should know by heart.

Poland, 1939, is often remembered for its devastating end. But before the gas chambers and ghettos, before mass deportations and camps, there were ordinances. Small ones. Laws that allowed authorities to “remove undesirables” from public spaces. A subtle shift in language: “public safety,” “social order,” “economic burden.” These justifications opened the door for exclusion — first social, then legal, and finally existential. It began with people being pushed from streets, squares, and markets, labeled as “problems” rather than neighbors, citizens, and human beings.

We tell ourselves that America is different, that our institutions are stronger, that our democracy is permanent. But history warns otherwise. The most dangerous erosion of freedom comes not with sirens but with silence — when we accept incremental cruelty in exchange for the illusion of control.

This Supreme Court decision is not about homelessness alone, nor about urban safety, nor about the aesthetic order of our cities. It is about power — who wields it, and over whom. When our highest court grants legal permission to strip rights from the most vulnerable, we are participating in a reshaping of our national character. Each decision like this redraws the moral boundaries of our democracy.

The parallels to pre-WWII Poland are not exact, nor should they be overstated. But they are haunting enough to demand our attention. Back then, profiling didn’t start with religion or ethnicity alone — it began with poverty, vagrancy, and “unwanted” populations. The system learned, step by step, who it could erase without resistance.

The warning signs are here. A government emboldened to control public space by removing certain bodies. A judiciary increasingly aligned with ideological power rather than constitutional principle. A populace numbed by exhaustion, partisanship, and fear.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s history, repeating in whispers before it ever shouts.

Democracy does not collapse in grand gestures — it crumbles under the weight of ordinary decisions made in the shadows of extraordinary consequences. The question before us is whether we will recognize these quiet tremors for what they are or wait, as so many once did, until the ground beneath us gives way.

For those who believe in freedom, equality, and the dignity of every human being, silence is no longer neutral. It is complicity.

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

There were prayers still hanging in the air
when the sound broke through the hymn—
metal splitting silence,
bodies folding like fragile paper
in a place meant to hold them safe.

Another church.
Another town whose name
we will remember
only because of the blood on its floor.

Somewhere,
in the dim rooms of Washington,
they sit with folded hands,
offering thoughts,
sending prayers
like flowers tossed into a river
while the current drags us under.

The children are gone.
The mothers,
the fathers,
the soft elders who built these walls
now lie in the quiet the gunman left behind.

And still,
nothing.

Nothing
but the sound of lobbyists
counting their victories,
nothing but the rustle of checks
signed in back rooms,
nothing but the silence of a government
that looks away
because power has its price
and our dead
cannot afford the bid.

We were promised sanctuary.
Instead,
we have built an altar
to the weapon,
kneeling before it
while our children are buried beneath it.

How many more?
How many hymns must end mid-breath
before the halls of power
hear the echoes
screaming through the pews?

The candles still burn tonight.
The names will be read tomorrow.
And somewhere,
someone is already
loading the next round.

Woodstock – August 16

Woodstock

We came barefoot into the fields,
the sky dripping music and rain,
our bodies pressed close in the mud,
hearts warm as the campfires
we believed could burn away
the old world.

We thought love was a weapon
that could dismantle empires,
that every guitar chord
was a law rewritten,
that every sunrise
was the first day of the new earth.

We shouted peace until our throats bled,
until the flags frayed in our hands.
We thought we would inherit
the halls of Congress,
reshape the courts,
turn power into a public trust
for everyone,
not just for a fortunate few.

But the years are long and merciless.
We have lived to see
the gap between mansion and shelter
widen until it swallows the horizon.
Social justice is a banner
faded by wind and rain,
while politics is wielded
for grift,
for empire,
for the quiet corruption
of men in robes and women in power suits
who bow only to the wealthiest one percent.

I still hear the music sometimes,
faint, behind the static.
It smells of wet grass and patchouli,
of hope before the fever broke.
We were so young.
We were so certain.
And now,
the mud has dried to dust.

To The Ones Who Make The Room Glow

Volunteer Appreciation Celebration – The Arctic Playhouse – July 18, 2025 

You arrive before the music, before the first note is coaxed 
from the keys, before the hush of anticipation settles in the air.
You are already there—with table lights warmed just right,
with places set like quiet invitations, with the kind of presence
that makes strangers feel like they’ve come home. 

You do not ask for applause, yet you shape the stage in ways no  
spotlight could ever capture. The ambiance breathes because of you—
soft and certain, like a memory we didn’t know we were missing
until we stepped through the door. 

Your welcome is not loud, but it is unwavering. It lives in every
poured glass, every offered chair, every thoughtful gesture that
says: “You matter here. We see you. Stay awhile.”

And so, when the music begins—when voices rise and hearts
unfold in songs and stories—know this: what the audience hears
is only part of the performance. The rest of it—the warmth,
the ease, the joy that lingers like candlelight—is your inspiration.

Finally, when the night closes—when sound of the The Rainbow 
Connection begins and you all join in, binding every heart in 
the room with its quiet truth—it is your kindness that makes
the moment feel less like an ending and more like a promise.
A promise we’ll find each other again, under these lights,
held by this music, in the intimacy you so effortlessly create. 

You are the ones who give more than time. You give care.
You give soul. You give The Cabaret Club the magic of being
more than a room. Thank you for making this place not just
somewhere we come to listen, but somewhere we come to
feel known.

Ode to the Stage Manager, Vicki Yates – The Arctic Playhouse, West Warwick, RI

She enters the theater before it can yawn,
 With coffee in hand and the ghost light still on.
 While actors are stretching or lost in a line,
 She’s taping the stage with a grid so divine.

She wrangles the chaos with headset and charm,
 Says, “Places!” and suddenly—calm.
 She knows every line, every glitch, every cue,
 And the prop you forgot way back in Act 2.

She speaks fluent panic, and patience as well,
 Can call cues in blackout or handle a yell.
 If the set starts to crumble or someone forgets,
 She patches it up with dry wit and no sweat.

Her script is a journal, a map, a memoir,
 With scribbles and notes like theatrical war.
 She’s the first one to laugh, the last one to leave,
 The magician who ensures the audience believes.

No spotlight will catch her, with no curtain bow,
 But everyone knows she’s the queen of the now.
 For the cast and the crew, she’s the heart and the glue,
 And the show goes on nightly thanks to what she can do.

For the Hands That Sing

On the 65th Birthday of Jim Rice –  Beloved Friend and Maestro 7/11/25

Today, the keys pause for a moment— mid-phrase, mid-feeling—
to tip their hats to the hands that guide them. Today, the
spotlight bends not toward center stage, but to the soul in
the shadows, who lifts every note like a prayer.

You, Jim, the quiet architect of song, the steady breath
beneath the singer’s storm, have given your heart to
hundreds of voices— and in return, we give you ours.

At Club Café, where laughter lingers in chords, and in
The Cabaret Club, at The Arctic Playhouse where warmth
meets your artistic wisdom, you are the spine of every
ballad, the unseen pulse of every encore.

We have watched your fingers teach courage, watched them
sculpt self-doubt into composure. You have accompanied more
than melodies—you have accompanied us, through tears and triumph,
with grace that never asks to be named.

Kindness is your key signature, generosity your tempo. And in a
world too often off-pitch, your presence keeps us in tune.

So on this day—your day, Jim— we celebrate not just your talent,
but your spirit, which plays in us long after the final note fades.

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend. You are the heartbeat of every 
performance. You are the thread that weaves the music into magic.

 

When Silence Screams: The Hubris and Apathy of a Broken Leadership

In the aftermath of the tragic shootings that claimed the lives of members of the Hortman and Hoffman families, what should have been a solemn moment of collective grief and unity was instead met with a telling void—no statement, no gesture, no condolences from the White House. Not even the minimal decency of recognizing innocent lives lost. In place of empathy, there was deflection. From the GOP, we witnessed what has become a familiar routine: politicized finger-pointing and bad-faith rhetoric that serve only to deepen divides and avoid responsibility.

This absence of compassion, this gross indifference, is not just morally staggering—it’s emblematic of the rot that has metastasized in our political leadership. Under Donald Trump’s influence, cruelty has not only become policy—it has become performance. Hubris has eclipsed humility, and political gain has all but extinguished our national conscience. The failure to even pretend to care speaks volumes about how desensitized and broken this administration is, and how far we’ve drifted from any recognizable moral compass.

We are watching, in real time, the normalization of violence—not merely as a societal ill, but as a partisan tool. When the lives of American citizens are reduced to narrative pawns in a culture war, when leaders refuse to grieve with their people because it doesn’t serve their agenda, we lose more than just lives. We lose a piece of our shared humanity. And when silence is all that comes from the top, it becomes deafeningly clear: the message is that some lives are unworthy of acknowledgment, depending on whose grief is politically convenient.

What kind of country have we become when our government cannot deliver even the most basic human response—sympathy? How is it possible that in the face of senseless violence, our leaders offer not unity, but opportunism? It is grossly, dangerously unacceptable.

This isn’t just a failure of leadership. It is a deliberate choice—a choice to divide, to deflect, and to harden the national heart. That choice diminishes us all.

I am deeply saddened—though no longer surprised—that this country has once again reached an all-time low. Under this administration, “lowest” has become a consistent signature, an evolving standard by which tragedy is not mourned but manipulated. We must not accept this as normal. We must not allow apathy to replace accountability, or arrogance to replace empathy. Because if we do, the silence will only grow louder, and the violence more routine.

We are better than this. We must demand better than this.

To Fathers — Just As They Are

To Fathers — Just as They Are

On this Father’s Day, we celebrate not only the fathers who stood tall with unwavering strength, but also those who stumbled, struggled, and tried in their own imperfect ways. Fatherhood is not a role marked by flawlessness—it is a deeply human journey, often layered with silence, pride, and quiet love.

Some fathers show their love in embraces and bedtime stories. Others reveal it in fixed cars, paid bills, or in the long hours they worked without complaint. Some may not have always known how to say the right words, or how to be emotionally present, but still hoped to be seen for the person behind the silence.

We honor the fathers who were gentle, who listened, and who offered protection like a shelter in a storm. And we also honor those who were broken in their own ways, who loved imperfectly but loved nonetheless. Their humanity does not diminish their worth—it invites understanding, forgiveness, and a deeper kind of love.

To all fathers, present and absent, praised and misunderstood—you have shaped our stories in ways we are still learning to understand. And today, we thank you. Not for being perfect, but for being real. For showing up however you could. For being part of the complicated, beautiful fabric of who we are.

Happy Father’s Day. – Ida Zecco 6/15/25

Pride Month

Pride Month was not born of a need to celebrate being gay, but the right for our sisters and brothers to exist without persecution. It is a vital celebration of visibility, resilience, and the ongoing fight for LGBTQ+ rights. It honors the courage of those who have challenged discrimination, from the Stonewall uprising to present-day advocacy, reminding us that equality is neither inevitable nor complete. Pride Month is a statement: that every person deserves to live openly, authentically, and without fear. In recognizing Pride, we affirm the dignity of LGBTQ+ individuals and renew our collective commitment to justice, inclusion, and love.

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