Niagara Gazette —
Current political and legal attacks on, and the potential reversals of some of the most fundamental advancements of the past fifty years is now beginning to resemble a game of Whack-A-Mole, the popular carnival arcade game from the 1970s.
The object of the game is to force the cute little moles back into their holes by hitting them directly on the head with a rubber mallet; the faster the player hits them, the higher the final score will be.
The term “Whack-A-Mole” has entered our colloquial vocabulary to describe “a repetitious and futile task: every time an adversary is “whacked” it just pops up again somewhere else.”
Use your own imagination to ascribe roles to the moles and the whackers ...
The announcement yesterday that the Supreme Court had effectively cut the heart out of the Voting Rights Act by punting the issue back to today’s much maligned and beleaguered Congress slammed me back into August 1963 and the day I excitedly begged my parents to “Please let me go to the March on Washington, please?”
Dad never talked much about the mess going on Down South, maybe because the hard reality of it was still under his fingernails. Maybe he was just trying to protect us from it. But he sure could not hide it.
“It” was all over television.
Not all that long ago, he had walked away from it, joining the greatest human migration in this young country’s history. He had already done all the marching he intended to do. Now he was all about building, “making something out of nothing,” as he’d say sometimes.
When I gathered the nerve to ask for his and my mother’s permission to go to the March on Washington, he just shook his head. Almost imperceptibly, he blew out a little air and sighed.