When the debate is lost,
slander becomes the tool of the loser.
Admirably/dauntingly skilled WordPress blogger Joann Chateau published this Socrates’ quote a while ago [https://joannchateau.com/2017/07/11/ancient-greeks-socrates-on-debate-and-slander/].
According to my life experiences, including research on frame-ups, it bears revision, at least for a modern day U.S.A.:
When the debate is lost,
slander becomes the tool of the loser,
which quite often lets him be an ersatz winner in a U.S. court of law
Despite the slanderous (or libelous) claims of my many foes over the years, there’s no such thing as adult onset birth defects. My birth defects were present at my premature birth; I haven’t had surgery to correct any of them.
I refer to myself as Wobbly because my limb lengths don’t match and my light sensitive epilepsy is volatile. They’re just two of many flaws present at birth. I’ve a single kidney that has always liked to make stones, and every once in a while, try to klunk out. My bladder likes to make stones, too, courtesy of another defect. I’ve got leaky heart valves, thankfully not leaky enough to require surgery. And there’s much more.
At age 19, I only knew that my limbs were mismatched by an inch and that my tail bone was deformed. That’s when the lovely woman I’d thought was my birth mother died (DNA tests) of cancer at home, with me as her primary caregiver. I’d specifically asked mom if there was anything she wanted to tell me – we both knew she was dying – and all she said was “be happy.” Apparently she figured the locket she’d given me after one of her surgeries was all the additional information I needed. It holds a picture of my dad – who really is my dad (DNA tests) – and a picture of one of my three half sisters, mom’s only child from her first marriage, 14 years my senior. My insistence that it should be given to that sister was met with mom’s yet more adamant insistence that I should be its new owner, despite my (well known to her) lifelong preference for silver over gold, and despite the locket holding my sister’s picture instead of mine. Mom glared when I asked for an explanation. She instructed me to keep it, no matter what. I did. DNA tests say I’m very closely related to mom, the locket may say the rest.
My kidney tried to kill me just a couple of months after mom’s death. I hadn’t remembered that I’d been hospitalized for renal distress while quite young … and I didn’t remember on my own. The Henry Ford Hospital doctors read it off my chart to me. They also told me about my scoliosis, but unfortunately didn’t read the rest of the lengthy list of defects to me. Dad pretended complete ignorance of there being anything wrong with me (he’d had to take me to the hospital because I was too far gone to drive, and somehow knew which specialists I needed to see). His I-know-nothing ruse would have been believable if he’d afterwards treated me as something other than a domestic servant, as he’d been doing since mom’s illnesses and surgeries. All I ever remember dad saying about my birth was that I looked like a hairy hot dog or a scrawny baby monkey. My weight was healthy, 6 lbs, but I was 22″ tall, and covered with lanugo hair. [Belated correction: when my kidney tried to clunk out after mom died, dad couldn’t pretend any longer that my back wasn’t as screwed up as mom’s, and hired a housekeeper to come once a week, as he had for her, once I’d recovered and found a job. As with mom, there was only a housekeeper for the main residence, not his other houses and cabins, and the housekeeper at the main residence didn’t do laundry, windows or clean the family room – too much work for one day. Her name was Ms Ruth, and I adored her.]
At 19, I knew quite a bit about dad’s character flaws, and not just from his almost daily disappearing acts during mom’s rapid decline that made being her primary caregiver almost seem like house arrest.
My Social Security records should show more four or more years of work history, and three or more were from my first job at my father’s insurance agency. Dad had his bookkeeper deduct employment taxes from my wages, but directed her not to submit payment to Michigan or the federal government for them. The bookkeeper told me that what she was doing under his orders was wrong, and told me to fight him. But I trusted dad when he told me that the bookkeeper was mistaken, up until a close friend got a tax refund, and said I ought to file, too.
So I tried to file. The forms required a Social Security number, so I called S.S. to see what my number was. They told me I didn’t have one. I went to one of their offices, thinking if I was there in person, they’d try harder, and find it. There wasn’t one, of course. I successfully filed for the first time for 1967, using the new number I was issued and the pay stubs I received showing that deductions were taken from my gross incomes. It was the second lie I’d caught my employer/father in.
One of my cousin’s friends worked at the agency for a very short time. Although still in school, I was in charge of a good part of her training – I’d been working there for many summers, weekends and holidays. She complained about her low wages, which turned out to be much higher than mine … dad had told me not to discuss wages because mine might make other employees jealous, even though I deserved high wages for the quality/quantity of work I put out.
Dad’s dirty tricks escalated over the years, including many slanders, including under oath. It may very well be that one of his children was under a psychiatrist’s care all they while they were in high school, as he swore I was under oath during an unemployment hearing. But it certainly wasn’t me: my schedule was too damn tight. I could have used a psychiatrist, for sure. If your dad routinely steals from you and one of his many violent acts knocks you unconscious and splits your head open when you’re a toddler, you’re going to have issues. And PTSD. And I do. I see a specialist intermittently, most often when my advocacy for incarcerated innocents takes an unusually bizarre turn.
Dad’s “under a psychiatrist’s care” slander was unsuccessful, but most of his other slanders under oath were very successful. And they shouldn’t have been. Triers of fact should stick to facts, not what they “feel” about what a father would or wouldn’t do to his very own daughter.
Right now, there’s a very large tree resting atop my very small house, which likely means that at least one of the many jarring tornado phone alerts during Irma was legit.
It’ll slow down my activism for others and pursuit of justice for myself, for sure. But it won’t stop me. I’ve been fighting slanderers, libelers, thieves and/or rogue public servants for fifty years. It was never my job, but it was always my responsibility … I’m an American, and obliged by birth to fight tyranny, including our wholly dysfunctional justice system – and the other two branches of government that ignore the dysfunction. If you’re an American, you are obliged to fight tyranny, too.
One can be happy while fighting. There’s nothing funnier than officers, prosecutors, judges, politicians, reporters, etc., who still take themselves seriously despite careers built on slandering and libeling and otherwise harming others for fun and profit … like still-doing-nothing-for-no-one-other-than-herself Hillary Clinton, and her incredible verbal assaults on Bernie Sanders. Funny as hell.
Less funny is how this judge “feels” about premeditated murder (by cop):
But if this judge is anything like Brevard County, Florida frame-up specialist prosecutor/Judge John Dean Moxley, a lot of the other stuff he’s said, done and “felt” is indeed laughable.
Even the very large tree atop my very small house will be funny someday. Be happy.