THE RETURN

Our return trip was long and uneventful, lacking the interesting stops that had marked the Missouri to Mexico leg.  I found myself lapsing into a reverie in which my mind was almost exclusively focused on Mexico and how different its culture was from my own.  Even at that young age, I was certain that what I had seen in Mexico was unique in terms of its contrast to the Anglo culture of which I was a part.

I also found myself wondering what forces in history were responsible for making Mexico such an incredibly interesting country and yet, at the same time, such a difficult place to understand..  Little did I know at the time that I was on the verge of a journey that would lead into decades of pondering the the dynamics of history and how various cultures are accordingly aligned and differentiated.  Could it be, I thought, that history is nothing more than blind chance that established the cultural parameters that I found so interesting?  But, somehow, that did not satisfy me,  as I concluded that there had to be much more to account for cultural differences and their consequences for nations, societies and civilizations.

Although I could not realize it at the time, I was in effect embarking on an effort to understand history as something much more profound than the rote memorization and recitation of names, battles, governments, dates and assorted events.  In reality, I was yearning to get at basic causes and effects.

The history classes I was required to take in secondary school were totally unsatisfying, although I was able to excel grade-wise.  My only consolation was my best friend, who today is an honored emeritus professor of history in a state university.  Our mutual interests enabled us to delve more deeply in the meaning of history than was possible through the prescribed syllabuses of the public schools.

Looking back, I see now that my curiosity would lead me to the smorgasbord of historical interpretations and explanations, eventually propelling me into undergraduate and graduate programs in history and compelling me to seek a career in higher education.  On the way, I attempted to apply a myriad of schools of thought to my understanding of history in general and of Mexico in particular.

By my second year of college, I thought I could best see history as the working out of a divine plan, that the prime mover was a source of will that determined what would be the outcome of human history and how mankind would be affected by what was basically inscrutable.

Later I would be impressed with the idea that history was an organic process,  a macrocosm of the life-force driving human beings through the endless challenges of existence.  But, then, I wondered about the effects of the talents, ambitions and drive of solitary individuals who were themselves engines in moving history.  Indeed, the power of individuals to affect the course of history is endlessly replicated to the point that some would say that those who have been seen as gods and goddesses on this earth may be accounted for as being humans who performed great deeds somewhere in the mists of time, ensuring their immortality and eventual deification.

In rhythm there is point and counterpoint.  The same principles could be said to hold sway in the  constant clashing of ideas, religions, ideologies and economic forces that have been present in the ongoing march of history.  In this regard, the essence of history could be seen as a universal cycle that repeats itself almost mechanically in multiple settings and times.

I considered, also, if explanation could not be forthcoming by a strict recounting of natural phenomena and how human beings and their undertakings might have been fundamentally affected by climatic changes and such natural occurrences as droughts, hurricanes, floods, ice ages, famines, glaciation, and desertification.  Indeed, history is full of the waxing and waning of human progress over thousands of years owing to such forces.

I would, in succeeding years, equate names with ideas and fill my mind with the likes of Burke, Braudel, Ortega, Ranke, Toynbee, Marx, Thucydides, Seneca, Lucretius, Carlyle, Kirk, Kant,  Diamond, Voltaire, Croece, Vico, Machiavelli and others.  However, in retrospect,I feel it is safe to say that  I would never had familiarity with such names and ideas if it had not been for a trip into Mexico that a twelve-year-old took with his father.

IV. A LONG-LIVED FASCINATION WITH MEXICO: THE CONSEQUENCES OF JOSE'S INSTRUCTION

To say that my brief time with our guide Jose was an eye-opener would be an understatement, for he set the wheels of my twelve-year-old brain turning as they had never turned before.  In effect, my very brief first visit to Mexico had turned out to be a cultural epiphany, opening up new ways of viewing people and their histories.  In the course of our dialog, it occurred to me that in order to understand people as they grouped themselves into nations and cultures, I had to know not only their chronological histories, but also their forms of expression, both physical and spiritual, and what the sum total of their various experiences produced in terms of shared identities.

As for the Virgin of Guadalupe, she came to occupy a substantial portion of my imagination, for even them I was drawn toward mystery and how the imagination might reveal areas of truth untouched by what I would later learn to call empirical inquiry.  For the time being, the Lady of Guadalupe became my passport for initial entry into the Mexican psyche, affording me a glimpse into what it meant to be "Mexican."

I would find my boundaries greatly expanded a year and a half later, when I was fortunate to encounter a young fellow history traveler who would prove to be my best friend through high school and college.  After spending his initial school years at Sacred Heart School in Poplar Bluff, my friend made the transition to the public junior high school, where his inquiring mind and efforts to probe more deeply beyond the cursory teaching of history that passed as education at that time enabled me to quickly identify him as a kindred spirit.  It was through my friendship with him that I would learn of other Marian apparitions that had occurred in scattered venues across the globe. Being consequently somewhat better informed, I began the process of of placing the Virgin of Guadalupe in historical context, an ongoing process which continues to this day.

It is for certain that my friend and I were seen as being somewhat odd for that time in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.  What especially set us apart from our contemporaries, I think, were our lunchtime discussions on such topics as the toppling of the Mohamed Mossadegh government in Iran, the CIA-backed coup against the Arbenz government in Guatemala, the 1956 Hungarian Revolution and the progress of the Cuban fighters in the Sierra Madre against the Batista regime.  Our junior high acquaintances  who habitually had lunch with us at Nick's Steel Grill in downtown Poplar Bluff never tired of referring to us as "eggheads." 

Our final full day in Monterrey would be a Sunday.  Ever the stickler for regular church attendance, my father located a Protestant chapel nearby our hotel.  Although the language of the service was, of course, Spanish,  I very much enjoyed the choir and the congregational singing of hymns.  I also recall that we were warmly greeted by the pastor and members of the congregation.

Since the next day would be a long day of driving,  Dad decided that the remainder of Sunday would be devoted to rest and relaxation.  In that spirit, we had an early dinner and by 7 PM, my father had retired to his bed.  It was then that I engaged in an act of filial disobedience that I would not admit of for nearly twenty years.

At the onset of my father's snoring, I quietly slipped out of our room and made for the nearby main plaza.  It was soon dark and, as I sat by myself, I became a keen observer of what was transpiring. There was a musical group of students performing,  but what most drew my attention were ongoing processions around the plaza, one of young men and the other of young women, each going in opposite directions.  It did not take me long to discern that those doing the processing were ogling each other, while older ladies seated on the sidelines were serving as chaperones. I would later learn that the older ladies were called "duenas" and that what I had observed was a courting ritual called the "paseo."

By 10 PM I had returned to the Ancira and, as unobtrusively as possible, managed to get into my bed without waking my father, who never expected that his son had been out and about.  I did not fall asleep immediately.  Instead I mulled over my experience of the last three days.  Finally, concluding that Mexico was a far different place than Poplar Bluff, I fell into a deep sleep from which I awoke at 7 AM the next morning.

In all the years that have gone by, I have never wavered from my youthful conclusion.  Mexico is, indeed, a very different place.  In fact, I would be hard-pressed to name two countries sharing common borders that are as different as Mexico and the United States.  It is that dissimilarity that was observed by a twelve-year-old boy some sixty years ago that has continued to account for my fascination with the land that lies to the south of the Rio Grande.

A LONG-LIVED FASCINATION WITH MEXICO

III.  THE TRIP:  MONTERREY

Saturday dawned bright and beautiful. By 8:30, we had been served our breakfast; and, despite my father's entreaties, I had demolished a plate full of huevos rancheros in record time. Shortly thereafter, Jose arrived at the Ancira.  Despite the prospect of an exciting itinerary, which included visits to the Cuautemoc-Moctezuma Brewery and the Government Palace, I immediately let lose a volley of questions concerning the woman in the cloak. Thankfully, I was promised by Jose that he would satisfy my curiosity during the course of the day.

At that particular stage of my life, breweries had not yet captured my fancy.  Nevertheless, I did enjoy hearing how German immigrants had arrived at the end of the 19th century and how their presence had been crucial in establishing a thriving beer industry in Monterrey.

The government palace was indeed beautiful, bespeaking well of Nuevo Leon in an architectural style that I would later learn was French-classical.  Later, in taking my knowledge of Mexican history to another level, I would understand that more than a few Mexican political exiles in the mid-19th century passed their banishments in France, where they were imbued with appreciation for French culture, including French architecture, which they tended to copy after their return to Mexico.

Finally, after leaving the Government Palace, I was able to impress upon Jose my keenness to commence learning about the lady whose likenesses I had seen throughout Monterrey.  Thus began my introduction to the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Jose proved to be a patient teacher who enlightened me on the Spanish conquest, emphasizing how indigenous cultures and religions had been devastated by the Conquistadors.  With my father's approval, we stopped at one of Monterrey's beautiful parks and spent at least an hour and a half listening to Jose's interpretation of early colonial Mexican history.  I was especially intrigued by his ability to explain how Mesoamerican practices had been interwoven into the Mexican expression of Spanish Catholicism and had survived in a unique syncretic form of Christianity. Moving on, Jose next led me into a biblical description of the lady whose likeness had made such a decided impression on me.

Following up on my interest of the previous day, Jose had brought with him a Spanish Bible, within which he directed my attention to the Book of Revelation and a passage which described a young woman cloaked with stars, surrounded by the rays of the sun and standing on the moon.  This was the apocalyptic description of the Holy Mother, the Mother of Christ.

Although having a passing acquaintance with the Conquest, I was not totally familiar with its chronology.  With a quick rundown, Jose took me from the fall of Tenochtitlan in 1521 up to 1531, the traditional date of the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe.  He had my total attention, as he told the story of Juan Diego, an Indian peasant who had converted to Christianity, and how he had been passing Tepeyac Hill, outside the city now called Mexico, which had been erected on the ruins of Tenochtitlan.  Juan Diego, according to the story, had been on his way to mass, but heard a voice summoning him to the crest of the hill on a Saturday during the month of December.

Climbing the hill, Juan Diego encountered a beautiful young woman, before whom he bowed down in adoration.  Dressed in raiment such as that described in Revelation, the Virgin implored him to convey to Juan de Zumarraga, the Franciscan bishop of Mexico, her desire to have a chapel on the hill as a means of showing her love for her people.  Juan Diego did indeed manage to see the bishop but was turned away for having no visible proof of his story.

On the following day, Juan Diego was once again traveling in the vicinity of Tepeyac Hill, this time in search of a priest to administer last rites to his uncle.  Despite his best efforts to avoid the hill, he again heard the sweet, melodic voice of the Virgin, who told him that all would be well with his uncle and that she was not finished with the chore which she had commanded Juan Diego to undertake.

This time, the Virgin indicated that she would send Juan Diego to the bishop with a sign. Following her instructions, Juan Diego removed his "tilma," or cloak, within which the Virgin placed a bouquet of Castilian roses, a miracle in itself, as roses would not ordinarily be growing in such surroundings, especially in December.  For the second time, Juan Diego went before the bishop.  This time he unfolded his cloak and not only did the garment contain roses, but upon it there was emblazoned the image of the Virgin.  Significantly, the image presented was that of a Virgin with brown skin, very much like the complexions of the Indian populations of Mexico.

Subsequently, according to Jose, chapels were built on the hillside which came to be called Guadalupe.  The dark-skinned Virgin became the patroness of Mexico, and pilgrimages would be undertaken to honor her there, as the Virgin of Guadalupe would draw the dark-skinned masses of Mexico to a mass conversion to Catholicism.

TO BE CONTINUED

II. THE TRIP: MEXICO AND ARRIVAL IN MONTERREY

For a twelve-year-old, crossing into Mexico at Reynosa was an exciting experience.  The Aduana (customs) officers were impressively uniformed and exuded old-world courtesy.  One of the officers was looking for a ride to the next checkpoint, south of Reynosa; however, my father, always exercising the utmost in caution, expressed his regrets, and we continued on our way to Monterrey.

Lunch time rolled around as we reached the halfway point to Monterrey.  Always an aficionado  of tamales since sampling some in the home of a Mexican lady in Poplar Bluff, my father was craving real Mexican food and pulled off the road at a small restaurant.  The menu was a virtual compendium of dishes, from which my father found his tamales, while I settled on enchiladas.  From a window by our table, I heard a distinctive noise of "slap, slap, slap."  Peering out the window, I saw a griddle over an open fire, above which two ladies were molding a corn mixture into tortillas, which would be grilled into the fresh, corn-based ovals accompanying our meal.  Although I did not, of course, realize it at the time, I had glimpsed an important part of the Mexican culture and the significant niche held by corn throughout virtually all the Mexican past.  In due course, as I surveyed Mesoamerican religion and mythology, I would find that corn had a very special connection with the Mexican people for almost four millennia.

Entering Monterrey late in the afternoon on a Thursday, we found the business district to be a bustling place.  My father explained to me that Monterrey was an industrial center, well known for the production of iron and steel, and also for its breweries.  As such, he said, Monterrey had been deemed the "Pittsburg of Mexico."

Our lodging for the next three nights would be at the Hotel Ancira, a classic old hotel, where it was reputed that Pancho Villa had once ridden his mount up the hotel's beautiful marble staircase. That evening, we dined nearby in a picturesque restaurant, the Louisiana, where, for the first time in my young life, I saw crepe suzettes prepared tableside by tuxedo-clad waiters.

Friday saw my father obtaining the services of a guide, a student from Monterrey Tech, who escorted us to the waterfall of Cola de Caballo, as well as to the historic seat of the Archbishop of Monterrey, and to a glass factory.

The waterfall was the highlight of my day.  It was a narrow chute, tumbling from a great height and did, indeed, remind me of a horse's tail.  The force of the water's drop was greatly magnified by a trek to the base of the falls on the back of a burro.

After a full day, punctuated by lunch at the falls, my father concluded that, since there was much more to be seen, our guide should meet us again early Saturday morning at the Ancira, and we would resume our tour of the city.

During various stops on Friday, I had seen several representations of a woman clad in a cloak, covered by what appeared to be stars and standing on top of a crescent moon.  At two locations, there seemed to be shrines to the mysterious lady.  When I questioned my father about what I had seen, he replied that, as far as he knew, they were depictions of the Virgin Mary.  However, not being satisfied with that answer, I resolved to take up the matter on the following morning with our guide.

After a quick meal in the hotel's restaurant, we retired early.  Saturday would prove to be another uncommon day for a twelve-year-old from Poplar Bluff.

A LONG-LIVED FASCINATION WITH MEXICO (CONTINUED)

I.  THE TRIP:  TEXAS

It was the day after Christmas. Presents had been opened, wrapping paper disposed of, and the house had been straightened up.  Some days earlier, my father had serviced his trusty Buick Roadmaster sedan.  By 6:00 AM, we had loaded our luggage, locked up and were on Highway 67 South, heading toward Little Rock and points south.

I was no stranger to long-distance travel, having accompanied my father on trips throughout the U.S. and even into French Canada.  My father was a widower who tried to make up for my being motherless by providing me with exposure to as many learning experiences as possible.  His efforts to compensate for the loss of my mother were compounded by the fact that I had witnessed her death in a tragic car crash two years earlier. He was also possessed of abundant wanderlust, and this meant that I naturally assumed that life was one exciting trip after another.  And, as a seasoned traveler and a bookworm, I made certain to carry along plenty of books and snacks. Although several weeks had transpired since the radio history contest, my cranium was still crammed, thanks to Mrs. Corbett, with such a staggering load of historical trivia that - had I known of her at the time - would surely have qualified me as a dedicated servant of Clio, the muse of history.

I recall that our first night's stop was at Eldorado, Arkansas.  I also remember that there was nothing in Eldorado that stirred my imagination.  It was Texas, that land of awe-inspiring history and heroes of epic proportions that I wanted to experience.

Our second day on the road saw us finally entering Texas.  I had no idea of the distances involved in traveling from one Texas town to another.  However, Texas did not disappoint me, largely I think, because my father had planned most capably, with well thought-out stops at Austin and San Antonio.

One entire afternoon was spent inside and on the grounds of the Texas state capitol.  As I wandered the premises, history literally walloped me at every turn.  Not only was the capitol building larger than its national counterpart, there were monuments galore, each one of which eulogized Texas martyrs, revolutionaries, rangers and assorted icons from the 19th and 20th centuries.

After a night in a downtown Austin hotel and breakfast in a restaurant on Congress Avenue, Dad headed the car south.  In no time at all, we had cleared the Austin city limits and were moving on toward San Antonio and the Alamo.  Austin in 1954, although impressive because of its history and monuments, was nothing like the burgeoning  metropolis of 2014, which is rapidly filling up with economic refugees from California and the Rust Belt, resulting in some of the worst traffic jams in the country.

Keeping my eyes focused on the landscape slipping by as our southern progress continued, my imagination turned to what it must have been like in February of 1836, as Santa Anna and his forces marched northward through similar terrain on their way to a dusty little outpost  called San Antonio and the Alamo.

Arriving in San Antonio around noon, I was so excited that I could barely get through my lunch, anticipating what lay ahead in the afternoon at the Alamo.  By early afternoon, we were finally inside the Alamo.  Very quickly,  I found a solitary corner in the vicinity of the Long Barracks and allowed my imagination to run wild.  In my reverie, it was if I were witnessing the final Mexican assault in the early morning hours of March 6, 1836.  Travis, Bowie, Crockett and the martyrs were gallantly facing overwhelming odds, as the sights and sounds of battle filled my head.  Two hours later, my father cut short my daydream, informing me that it was time to move on.

Before leaving San Antonio, however, I was able to view the martyrs' monument in Monument Square.  I distinctly recall the Spanish surname of "Guerrero" somehow standing out among the long list of the fallen.  Implausibly, that would be the family name of the woman I was destined to marry some decades later.  It also made me aware that an independent Texas was not brought into being as a purely Anglo undertaking.  Eventually, I would learn that names such as Ruiz, Navarro and Zavala would  be numbered among the signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the Republic of Texas.

Not far south of San Antonio, we crossed a bridge over a trickle of water that somehow had been dubbed the "Medina River."   Fom behind the steering wheel, my father remarked that such a "river" would not even qualify for gully status back home.  Nevertheless, I dimly recalled that I had come across a reference to the Medina River in the Encyclopedia, during the many hours I had been segregated by Mrs. Corbett in the library of Kinyon Elementary School.

Further reflection led to my concluding that we were near where the bloodiest day  in the history of Texas had taken place in 1813, when forces led by Bernardo Gutierrez, the self-proclaimed president of the "Republica del Norte" and the leader of a movement which had sought independence for Texas, had been crushed by a crack Spanish army.  During that battle, fully 1,800 Texas partisans - a motley bunch of American frontiersmen, descendants of Tejanos and Indians - fell near the Medina River.  A member of the Spanish officer corps at the battle was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant named Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.  The military engagement came to be known as the Battle of the Medina and represented a temporary setback in the inevitable advance toward independence, which would be realized twenty-three years later, in 1836.

After an uneventful overnight stop in Corpus Christi, we continued southward toward our next destination, Brownsville.  What made an impression was  the temperature hovering around 80. Once again, my mind wandered, this time to March of 1846, when General Zachary "Old Rough and Ready" Taylor, following the orders of President James K. Polk, crossed the Nueces River and made for the Rio Grande to press for that River being the southern boundary of Texas, which had finally been admitted to the Union in 1845.  Thus was the conflict known as the Mexican-American War initiated; however, I was more engrossed in pondering how American forces, clothed in heavy woolen uniforms, would have held up over a march of 160 miles to the Rio Grande in humid, 80-degree weather.

The long stretch of highway south of Sarita must have lulled me into an extended nap, as I have no memory at all of our having passed through the inhospitable surroundings that typify that great expanse of south Texas known as the King Ranch.  The next thing I knew my father was driving into Brownsville.  

Brownsville in 1954 was a far different place than it has become sixty years later.  At that time, it stood out as a pleasant town of 35,000, with wide, palm-shaded streets and graceful old homes.  I definitely recall that the town had an aura of spotlessness, in direct contrast to the refuse and littler that one encounters on its streets today.  The downtown was a lively place, with attractive shops, movie theatres and elegant hotels.  In any case, Brownsville made a decided impression on me, and that decision figured prominently in my decision, some thirty years later, to make the city my home.

For the next two days, my father and his twelve-year-old son took special delight in the sub-tropical, early January weather.  A drive to Port Isabel on a day marked by blue skies and pleasant breezes was unforgettable.  And we also had a look at South Padre Island.  Definitely, one of my fondest experiences was being able to spend a couple of hours in a motel swimming pool, thinking that my friends back home would be truly envious.

After two days in Brownsville and with Monterrey beckoning as our next destination, we moved on to McAllen, from which we would proceed to Reynosa and the Republic of Mexico.  As we neared the bridge and the crossing point into Mexico, I felt a surge of excitement, something quite unknown from anything I had previously experienced.  Somehow I must have known that Mexico would enthrall me.  And, despite travels which have taken me throughout the world since that time in 1954, the fascination has persisted and, with it, a long-running attempt to comprehend the vast cultural differences that have marked the often trouble history between the United States and Mexico.

A LONG-LIVED FASCINATION WITH MEXICO: A MEMOIR

PREFACE

It was the year in which I was rapidly moving from eleven to twelve years of age. Mrs.Corbett, my sixth-grade teacher, was astonished when I emerged victorious in our elementary school's sixth-grade history bee.  My success meant that I was eligible to compete in a city-wide radio history contest, which would pit me against the sixth-grade winners from five other elementary schools.  The prospect of being on Poplar Bluff's only radio station at the time made for even more anticipation on my part.

Mrs. Corbett was eager for a win for Kinyon Elementary School.  Her enthusiasm, in fact, exceeded my own; and, consequently, she sequestered me for the next several weeks to pour over history books in Kinyon's small library, while my classmates continued to labor on in math, science and English.  As I much preferred history to other subjects, my isolation in the library was not an unwelcome development.

Finally, the day of reckoning arrived.  I nervously presented myself, along with five other sixth-grade winners, in the studios of radio station KWOC.  To my history-saturated mind, the preliminary questions fired at us by announcer and moderator Jerry Higley seemed fairly undemanding, and my nerves quickly settled down.

Midway in the hour-long contest, however, the complexity of the questions began to increase.  My heart sank when I saw a girl from Mark Twain Elementary, whom I thought was one of the brightest contestants, bow out on a question concerning John Quincy Adams' drafting of the Monroe Doctrine.  Immediately following her departure, I was queried about President Theodore Roosevelt's role in the building of the Panama Canal and somehow uttered the correct answer.  At that point, I began to sense the possibility of going the distance.

At the five-minute mark, it had come down to the representative of the sixth-graders of Williamson-Kennedy Elementary School and myself.  Finally, as onlookers and the radio audience were caught up in the tenseness of the moment, the entire contest hinged on the person of John Rolfe and the cultivation of tobacco.  My adversary drew a blank.  There it was.  The championship was mine for the taking.

Happily, from a trip into Arkansas, I recalled one of my father's employees there pulling from his shirt pocket a pack of cigarettes which carried the John Rolfe label.  And that was all I needed to come up with the prize-winning answer.  I had won and, in doing so, had fulfilled Mrs. Corbett's hope for a victory for good old Kinyon Elementary School!

With no little parental pride, my father came to the conclusion that I should be rewarded with a family trip that would expose me to various and sundry historical sites.  Since our family's American origins lay in Virginia, he suggested a trek to the East Coast, with stopovers at Williamsburg and Richmond, as well as visits to battlefields which had been frequented by our Confederate ancestors.  However, because during the previous summer a good friend's cousin from Texas had been visiting Poplar Bluff and could not desist from constantly extolling the praises of Travis, Bowie, Crockett, the Alamo and innumerable Texas Rangers, I interjected that perhaps we should travel instead to Texas and also see a bit of Mexico.  My father acquiesced, and we began making plans to make tracks for the Lone Star State and the Republic of Mexico during my next Christmas vacation.  Little did I know then that our trip would permanently alter my view of the world and of history in general.

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS SUCH A THING AS SHARIAH LAW!

The Johnnies-come-lately in Hollywood have apparently just recently come to the realization that there is something called Shariah law;  hence, their attention grabbing demonstrations against the Sultan of Brunei and his comfy little hotel in California.

Certainly, attention directed against the ruling family in oil-rich Brunei is fully warranted, for the group of hypocritical  libertines who rule there is known for personally contravening  many of the rigid Islamic strictures prescribed by Shariah Law for the Muslim faithful, while forcing its authoritarianism on the common folk.  But, hey, let's don't stop with the playboy sultan and his Hollywood hostelry!  There are much bigger fish to fry, and many of them have dug deep burrows in the American economy.

Prince Waleed bin-Talal from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, for example, is a high-roller of some renown, and his stakes in the United States are worth billions.  Yet, he represents a nation where the Koran is the constitution and Shariah is the code of law.  Maybe Prince Wally is worth a demonstration or two as well.

Having lived under Shariah law in Saudi Arabia for more than six years, I am more than a little familiar with its provisions.  Those of what formerly would have been considered of unorthodox sexual proclivities are officially subject to the death penalty.  Adultery is punishable by death, and apostates under Shariah may also experience the ultimate punishment.  Blaspheming Islam may result in severe lashing, as may indulging in the consumption of alcoholic beverages. For those Americans still believing in the pablum that Islam is just another "religion of peace," I dare them to try to find a church or synagogue functioning in a country with a Shariah-based law code.

Unfortunately, too many Americans have been nurtured with myths about Islam.  And many are so intellectually lazy that most knowledge outside their popular-culture-drenched lives totally escapes them.  Incredibly, too many souls still believe that Ben-Ghazi is a mafioso.

At last count, there were about 9 million Muslims residing in the United States.  I often ask myself how many of those when they first reached the shores of America kissed the ground and shouted,"Thank Allah, we have finally arrived in the land of separation of powers and the First Amendment!"  Not many, I would presume.  No, their numbers indubitably include excessive numbers who dream of a Shariah paradise and who have no appreciation for our Constitution.

When living in Saudi Arabia, I had no idea of asserting my own American values emphasizing freedom of expression and religion.  I tried to be a model expatriate, respecting as best I could the prevailing culture. As a Christian, I worshiped secretly with others so as not to openly offend Islam By the same token, as an American, I expect those coming to my country to honor its founding principles. 

Hopefully, those Hollywood hustlers who have finally discovered something called Shariah will continue to let the word go out that Shariah law is violently opposed to American values!  Don't you think it's about time?

Deo Vindice!

God bless America and Texas!