If you read it here and it makes you sulk, by all means sulk to heart's content.
Helen Ikua's posts
Helen Ikua: Usually. :-D
Thus sayeth the spirit [of Robert Jeffress] to Donald Trump,"Ye shall rain down bombs on the already traumatized and impoverished population of North Korea, for this is your divinely appointed mission according to Romans 13."
Why Kim Jong-un thinks that it's a good idea to taunt an emotionally incontinent man-child, who together with his Russian handler Putin, has got well over 90% of the world's nuclear arsenal at his disposal, well, that's a question which only Kim Jong-un is in a ready position to answer. And if Kim the kindergarten kiddie weren't too busy playing at tin soldiers out in the backyard where he tests his missiles, perhaps he might know better than to trifle with a Donald Trump who's recently acquired himself some Romans 13 authority to kick evil's butt, which is to say the same Romans 13 that says,"Render therefore to all their due, taxes to whom taxes are due," but which scripture chapter then adds a considerate addendum just for the benefit of Donald JTrump to let him know that unlike other American citizens, he, Donald J Trump is divinely exempt from the lawfully necessary citizen's requirement of submitting one's tax returns in a voluntary and timely fashion. And since Donald J Trump frolicks in the numerous company of evangelical sororities like the one headed by Robert Jeffress, that is to say Robert Jeffress the Texan shepherd of the flock who reckons that Donald J Trump is a latter day Nehemiah who's been divinely anointed to build the Great Wall of America just to keep out any and all invading Mongols, Sanballats, Geshems, Tobiahs, and Mexicans of course, well, one can see why Americans ought to go to bed with a warm glow each night, especially at the contemplation of the thought that hungry and oppressed North Koreans might get themsleves reduced to smithereens of rabble, and just because Donald Trump's ego doesn't know how to, or can't, or won't ignore the taunts of the rotund prankster who rules North Korea. And unlike Barack Obama who was known to titillate America's enemies with imaginary red lines in the sand which he then cautiously skirted around like he was afraid of his own shadow, Robert Jeffress reckons that with Donald J Trump, a threat to bomb the poor and hungry of North Korea whilst Kim Jong-un takes shelter in a fortified bunker, is exactly the kind of unmistakable bluster that should let every American who voted for Mr Trump know that they're getting their money's worth. In between times of course, before Donny gives the Robert Jeffress crowd something to really pop the champagne cork about, Kim Jong-un has responded to Donny's counter-tirade to his own unhinged tirade, by promising to carefully consider and perhaps even to move up plans to attack Guam.
Operation sovereign borders and Christmas Island not so Christmasy.
Apparently, nothing sets an Australian prime minister's heart pounding and skipping a beat in fullness of trepidation, much like the awe-inspiring sight of refugee boats bobbing over the horizon and headed for Australia's shores, and with a full intent on the part of such wandering refugees to eat Australians out of house, home, roos, koalas, and not forgetting juicy wild berries. And this phobia for all things foreign-refugee that seems to flow so effortlessly natural out of the Australian body politic, is a phobia that could very well have kicked off sometimes back in the mid 70s when a handful of Vietnamese fled the rhubarb of a proxy war, you know, just before they'd made straight for the vast plains of the Great Outback where they hoped to put down stakes so they could peacefully flick off pesky flies from their knotted brows for the rest of their mortal days. But alas, it wasn't but a full minute after these war weary souls had disembarked from their rickety refugee boats and had planted both feet firmly on Australian soil, that a certain element within the Australian political class, soon set about stirring the rabble by telling them how these handful of Vietnamese refugees were liable to whisk away Australian jobs, Australian brumbies, Australian jellyfish, not to mention Australian Great White sharks to boot. And so, given such inclement anti-nationalistic dynamics brought ashore under the guise of refugees packed like sardines on crowded boats, then how could any full-blooded Cherokee Aussie, I ask ya, now be expected to tolerate these ingrate foreigners whose sole aim in life if one were paying close attention that is, appeared to be one of hogging Aussie homegrown treasures for themselves, and with a nary care in the world for every authentically blue-eyed Australian who traces his lineage all the way back to the first convicts who'd settled Australia. And by 1992, and with sternly pursed lips that brooked no argument from such driftwood as bore along with it any drifting boat refugees, the government of Australia now had in hand a nifty piece of legislation that allowed for asylum seekers from places as far away as Afghanistan, to promptly if not summarily be detained upon arrival on Australia's shores, until such a time as such asylum seekers could be furnished with residency papers or could be persuaded to row or indeed to swim back to the havens of peace that they'd fled in pursuit of frivolous holidaymaking in any one of Australia's five star immigration detention centres, much like the sprawling facility of joie de vivre that's to be found nestled comfortably amongst the phosphate mines of Christmas Island. And while Australians can now sleep peacefully at night, secure in the knowledge that any errant Afghan refugee children are safely stowed away behind the high meshed wire of an Australian immigration detention centre, Australia's prime minister just the same wanted to make doubly certain that Donald Trump would not be reneging on America's long standing tradition of taking Australia's boat refugees off Australia's hands for good. And even though Malcolm Turnbull shall not soon be experiencing any glitches when it comes to palming off his boat refugees on America, and even though Australia's "stop the boats" policy should easily have found a natural ally in Donald Trump's famously xenophobic personality, still, the recent awkward telephone conversation that took place between Donald Trump and Malcolm Turnbull so they could haggle and bargain about the going rate for refugees these days, remains as a conversation that couldn't have come at a worse time for Donald Trump, who as you know is already gearing for his 2020 presidential bid, and is therefore in no mood to upset all those "build that wall" diehard patriots who form the central plank of his voting bloc.
People say the darndest things, don't they?
Funny thing the gospel, it being a double-edged sword and all, coz sometimes it might cut you and sometimes it might heal you. Well, what I actually meant to say is that those who come in the name of the Lord, sometimes they might cut you and sometimes they might heal you, but as for the substance of the gospel it remains changelessly consistent, whether yesterday, today, or forever more. And when a devastating earthquake struck Haiti in January of 2010 leaving much destruction in its wake, many were they who trooped off and who swooped down to lend prompt help to the displaced, the suffering, as well as the injured of Haiti. And thrown in amongst this helpful horde who'd come to Haiti's aid in her hour of direst need, was none other than man of uncommon faith, proud Republican, established broadcasting guru, not to mention seasoned televangelist, the one, the only Pat Robertson. And whilst Pat Robertson's 700 club mob were disembarking there in Port-au-Prince, and just before they had started to pass around whatever care packages that they'd brought with them to Haiti, you can rest assured that Pat wasn't about to miss a witnessing opportunity and made sure to remind Haitians that were it not for a certain deal that they'd made with the Devil way back in the 1800s, Haiti would now be a healthy island of peace filled with resorts running all up and down her coastline and with nary a seismic tremor in sight. Because you see dear reader, in their hasty bid to throw off Napoleon's shackles and in an ill advised attempt to come out from underneath Napoleon's heel for a well deserved breather, it seems that Haitian slaves had made the catastrophic mistake of gathering by their numbers perhaps to offer up an animal sacrifice, and had then probably dipped their nibs in the beast's blood before taking a grim oath to cut off French buttons from French shirts wherever they might be found wandering about on the island of Haiti. But of course in his Napoleonic revisionism of Haitian history, and in his haste to get to the meaty subject of how one Dutty Boukman had led Haitian slaves in an oathing ceremony whose main aim was to device means by which Haitian slaves might rid themselves of French occupation, Pat Robertson appeared to ever so nonchalantly choose to gloss over the beastly tortures that were routinely meted out on Haitian slaves by their insatiable plantation masters. And though not even the first Napoleon had yet come to power by the time of this slave oathing ceremony in August of 1791, still, that did not stop Pat Roberston from declaring that Dutty Boukman and those poor misguided Devil worshipping slaves were doing their damndest best as of 1791 to come out from underneath the steel tipped heel of Napoleon's nephew's boot. In the event, Dutty Boukman, the slave who'd instigated this Haitian oathing ceremony that was geared at uniting slaves against a dread master, would unfortunately himself be dead by the end of that very same oathing year 1791, and it would not be until 1804 having continually been inspired by the French revolution's ideals of liberté, egalité, and fraternité, and having successfully resisted the French, that Haiti would finally fully declare her freedom from France and become the first independent black majority nation in the world. And whilst it's truly admirable how the likes of Pat Robertson would so desperately love to trace Haiti's present day poverty to a "Devil's deal" that was made way back in the 1800s, perhaps Pat might also desire to mention, in a strictly non-revisionist role of course, how that Haiti got off to a terrible start early on in the years after her independence when the French extorted outrageous sums of money to compensate themselves for sufferings endured due to loss of profitable slave colony. And whilst it's entirely possible that God loves to make sport of Haiti and enjoys nothing more than to take Haiti by the scruff of her neck and to give Haiti a good shaking every now and then, Dr Robertson might also want to explore the possibility that were God to judge nations according to how prominently they feature Devil worship in their highest rungs of leadership or indeed were God to judge nations according to what type diabolical deals they've recently made with the Devil, even then, it might not necessarily be Haiti that should bear the greatest brunt of the Lord's towering wrath, poverty, earthquakes, plagues, and all.
Really, General, Trump's White House? So not a command to be recommended.
Whether as an infantry man, or whether as a weapons tactician, or whether as a seaman, or whether as an administrator, or whether as a commanding officer, or even whilst he was deployed in Iraq, chances are exceedingly good that General Kelly is used to the pristine neatness of chain of command. Which begs the question then, why a guy who's used to doing things a certain way would be so eager to wade swamp deep into the imprecision of Trump's White House, which is to say a White House that's choc criss-crossing with tripwires of unprofessionalism, a place where the next door you open could be your last coz it just might be booby trapped with mines of nepotism, a place filled with hidden snipers lurking in wait for a scoop that's worthy of whispering into the Breitbart grapevine, and most of all a place where the chain of command is totally wrecked since the buck stops with no one not even the commander-in-chief.
Holy laughter season comes to the White House; America, get ready for revival!
There's nothing particularly unusual about presidential occupants of the White House hobnobbing with men and women of the cloth, and hence no one in the United States of America, a place where matters of faith are widely acknowledged to have some bearing upon and to wield considerable influence on prevailing political discourse, no American as such would find it peculiarly strange to hear that a brood of clergymen had descended on the Oval Office in full german mission to lay hands on and to anoint the president with the oil of wisdom. And quite frankly, there's nothing particularly eyebrow-raising in the news that Donald J Trump continues to keep in touch with the leadership of the mostly white, evangelical, charismatic cabal that bought him his ticket to the White House in the first place. After all, it's entirely to be expected that this ecumenical brood have every intention of keeping tabs on their man in the White House, you know, just to make doubly certain that their man in the White House is still plodding on with such conservative agenda as making sure that rich folk get their tax breaks and poor folk get their healthcare taken away from them just as soon as the GOP can manage that divinely appointed mission. And in times of trouble such as these are, what a humongous help Donald J Trump is proving to be for the evangelical/charismatic fraternity who now no longer have to look to the hills from whence cometh their help, but can reliably look to their man in the White House for his very present and trustworthily partisan help in their day of trouble. And when it comes to religious, social, political, or economic issues that are near and dear to evangelical/charismatic hearts and minds, one can see why the help of their man in the White House is decidedly preferable, to say, the help of an incorruptible God who does not or will not prostrate himself before the cacophonous altar of the religious denominations of men, and as such remains to be a God whose loyalties can't quite be vouched for on the off chance that he might love even Muslims and all other kinds of heathen riff raff who are fast proving to be the irreversible ruination of America's pilgrim roots. But hallelujah! Thank the mega church God who just the other day this July, finally appeared to take it upon himself to dispatch some of his choicest evangelical/charismatic footsoldiers to the Oval Office, from which agreeably plush environs, said footsoldiers then proceeded to anoint Donny with the oil of gladness above all his fellows because Donny has loved righteousness and hated wickedness. And just like Caleb and Joshua scouted the lay of the land back in their day before reporting back to Moses, so too did Paula White, and Rodney Howard Browne, et al, et al, all scout the lay of the Oval Office before reporting back to Facebook and to instagram, that indeed in spite of the giant Russians looming over the White House like the sword of Damocles, the current presidential occupant of the White House continues to revel in unusually high spirits and to be possessed both of sound mind and of remarkably good Muscovite judgement. And as the designated prayer group leader on this auspicious occasion, Rodney Howard Browne, he of the holy laughter movement, a spiritual movement wherein faith devotees break out into spontaneous gales of roaring laughter whilst rolling around on the floor, well, tis' that very same figure of jocular jocundity, guffawing Rodney that is, who appeared to be more excited about the prospects of meeting Donny, than say, old man Simeon must've been giddy with delight when at last the promised day came that the Lord finally allowed him to set eyes on the child who was born Messiah. And following on from the ceremonial sombreness of laying hands on and of praying for Donald J Trump, and judging by his enthused reportage of the event on social media, it almost seemed like Rodney Howard Browne, foremost authority on holy laughter don't you know, was asking a most rhetorical question of Donny,"Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?" to which rhetorical question Donny replied simply,"Don't you know me Philip?". And never mind that uncontrolled spiritual laughter can sometimes be mixed in with hints of lionized roaring, owlish hooting, not to mention dog-like barking as was observed at the Azusa Street meetings, the fact remains that this kind of supernaturally gregarious hilarity is usually followed by great outpouring of revival even as curious onlookers lured by their own itching ears come to see for themselves what the fuss is all about. Which is why with their duty done as evidenced by signs, miracles, and laughter following, the ecumenical brood who'd come to lay hands on and to pray for Donny, soon left the White House in jolly good spirits and cluck clucking about a coming revival in America. And what a revival it's going to be that's projected to surpass Azusa and every other awakening before that, and what a stirring of the American spirit there's gonna be especially for any Americans who'll have lost their healthcare according to God's perfect will, and you know it that such Americans shall gather joyfully together in their droves and pack huge stadiums all across the nation from where they'll tarry in one accord for the promised outpouring of spontaneously unconstrained gales of holy laughter. And just as a side note for extras, anyone who thinks that barking, roaring, howling, or even levitating humans are a phenomenon that's got anything to do with the Holy Spirit, really ought to re-read the HOLY scriptures once again to meet the demoniac of Gerasene/Gadarene and also to find out about that time that God turned a hifalutin' Nebuchadnezzar more or less into a mooing cow.
It's Donald Trump who should be Donald Trump's own spokesperson.
Notwithstanding the fact that White House press secretary Sean Spicer didn't necessarily quit his lofty perch out of some great falling out with Donald Trump that was based purely on point of principle, and one can certainly entertain the wishful thought that the White House press secretary quit an indecorous position because it finally dawned on him that he'd become the public face of an incurably fatuous buffoon, and even bearing in mind that the former White House press secretary only quit his job after he'd became utterly miffed at Donald Trump for foisting upon and over him some former hedge fund manager disguised as new communications director, still, one thing remains as clear as it's always been right from that especial moment when a brand new Sean Spicer, floating as he was inside of an ill fitting suit, was first introduced to the world in a press secretary's maiden mission of airbrushing and of inflating the crowd sizes at Mr Trump's historic inauguration, and do let's face it shall we, and it's the poignant realization, that none of Mr Trump's minions in all their rank and file, were ever going to be so well equipped as to stand unflinchingly in front of the press in vain duty of articulating the incoherence that seems to dwell so comfortably within Donald Trump's complexly uncomplex mind. And apparently the job description of press secretary under Donald J Trump is indeed a vast one, and it's a job description that's been fine tuned to include the needful but impossible task of making Donald Trump, wait for it, look good. And such a miracle working press secretary is supposed to make Donald Trump look good [whatever the hell, make me look good means] in spite of the fact that Mr Trump has no intention of finessing anything in his personality, or of modifying some of his more interesting utterances, or of amending any one of his bullish Executive Orders that have led to one of the lowest approval ratings for an American president coming so early on in this president's term. And for the cautionary benefit of anyone who cares so little about their own personal repute as to take on the job of press secretary under Donald J Trump, may such a brave or indeed heedless soul, always remember that only one constant holds fast within the discombobulated milieu of a Trump White House, and that's that Donald J Trump who obviously equates being president to the intrigue of hosting a mildly entertaining TV show and all for the sake of raking in ratings, will continue to establish yet more and more disparate not to mention disconnected power centres inside of the White House, and with the guaranteed result, intentional or otherwise, of playing off every last one of his minions one against the other.
Sure thing they gonna, Donny ... sure thing!
According to remarks made by one Donald J Trump in a recent prime time tête à tête with grizzled evangelical doyen Pat Robertson, no one bar none, not even Hillary Rodham Clinton could ever prove to be as shrewd and as tough a military tactician as Donny himself is proving to be these days. Which is why, irregardless of perennially proven domestic Arab sensitivities of being seen to be American lap dogs overly much, Donald Trump remains remarkably certain that Arab nations are queuing up around the block because they're simply falling over themselves in their eager anticipation to gift Donny with brand spanking new military bases, which bases shall be paid for by the Arabs themselves, naturally. But this welcome change of venue from such falling apart haunts as America's air base in Qatar, would only ensue in the supremely unlikely event that any ill advised remarks spewing out of Donny's mouth ever led to the closing down of the sprawling Al Udeid air base in Qatar. And we all know that Donny's not overly enamoured of Qatar, what with Donny making no secret of the fact that Donny has no intention of being beholden to and does not need those terror-group funding Qataris and their out-of-date air base, not even to keep eyes on and to launch easy and cheap surveillance of the gulf region, not even to launch America's campaign against AQAP, or even to launch America's aerial campaign against ISIS in Syria, or even to launch America's campaign against terrorist nests in Iraq or in Afghanistan. For after all, Donny has so many friends amongst the Arabs to choose from anyways, and he can and would at a moment's notice find a new date to the prom, snap, just like that. But tell you what, perhaps Donny should inquire of his new found friends the Saudis, as to whether, in their considered opinion of course, it's perfectly apt for America to seek unfettered operational access against her terror targets, out of, say, the Prince Sultan Air base, coz if memory serves, that relationship went so stonkingly well the first time around. And if one can forget the small matter of the Saudi-based Khobar Towers sticking out like a sore thumb waiting to be targeted easy peasy by terror groups, and if one should find it within oneself to brush aside every piece of innuendo that's ever been sown by ne'er-do-well dissemblers with a view to imputing a Saudi role in 911, then by jove, who needs those Qataris and their falling apart air base? And so I say, get ready Saudi Arabia, here comes America, and I know, just know, that Americans will be so well received when they come to occupy their brand spanking new operational air base that Saudi Arabia is so gallantly with its own money going to construct for Donny.
Peter Norman; the little known tale of a man who was worthy of honour.
It's long been noted that the 1968 summer Olympics were held against a backdrop of uncommon global political upheaval, what with the grim news coming out of Mexico at the time which revealed that Mexican security forces who were wallowing knee deep in their dirty war against oppositionist elements had massacred hundreds of protesting students just days before the opening of the Mexico games, concurrently, the news back in the States was no cheerier than this Mexican death scene that had served as a curtain raiser for the nineteenth Olympiad of the modern games. And as fate would have it, Bobby Kennedy and Dr King had both been killed in cold blood whilst at the very peak of their lives of political activism. But as it turned out, all these shocking and historic events were soon to be eclipsed in their potence by what was to come in the men's 200m race. For whilst the two American sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos were both expected to perform marvellously well, especially judging by their form coming into the games as well as the times that they'd posted in qualifying rounds, the little and little known Australian sprinter Peter Norman on the other hand, though running well and even managing to momentarily hold on to the Olympic record during qualifying rounds, was not at all expected to stage an upset against either Tommie Smith or John Carlos. But stage an upset he did, for in running the race of his life at the1968 Mexico Olympic games, Peter Norman not only managed to set a time that still stands today as the Australian national record for 200m, but he also managed to pip John Carlos as well as to grab a silver medal along the way to running glory. And following on from the high jinks of this astonishing race, the medal ceremony was not expected to be any more low key than the historic race itself which had been won by Tommie Smith in the fastest time ever of 19.83s. For soon, the iconic photos that came out of this notorious medal ceremony showing Tommie Smith and John Carlos standing in their stockinged feet and raising gloved fists were to be received with mixed reviews, naturally, there were the shrill voices including those of Avery Brundage the IOC chair at the time and unmistakable Nazi sympathizer who seemed to think that John Carlos and Tommie Smith had somehow both betrayed America and the Olympic spirit by letting the whole world know of that nation's political and economic oppression of black people, but yet others, including Peter Norman the little white guy in that picture, dared to stand with Tommie Smith and with John Carlos and to understand that the two Americans had chosen to sacrifice repute, career, not to mention monetary gain, just so they could make a point which they felt must be urgently articulated even at the expense of their own moment of Olympic glory. As a devout Christian and as a principled human being, Peter Norman strongly believed in the equality of all men and thus showed no hesitance when the time came that he chose to share in Tommie's and Carlos's moment of protest against racially motivated inequality. Peter Norman wasn't just the aloof white guy standing passively in that famous picture that shows Tommie Smith and John Carlos punching the air in their renowned protest against oppression, for by voluntarily choosing to wear an "Olympic Project for Human Rights" badge that he had borrowed from American rower and anti-racism activist Paul Hoffman, Peter Norman made clear that he was as determined as Tommie and Carlos to see to it that his own moment of Olympic glory did not eclipse what he perceived to be a great cause as espoused in the liberation sentiments of his two fellow runners who also became his lifelong friends. And just as Tommie Smith and John Carlos were ostracised and harassed by the powers that be upon their return home, no doubt for this their very public political stance which they chose to take in disavowal of an overarching status quo that seemed to dog-whistle at racism, so too was Peter Norman ostracised when he got back home to Australia, particulary seeing as how Australia's political establishment at the time happily embraced such apartheid-like tendencies as were designed to adversely target Australia's native peoples. And it wasn't until 2012, when the day came that Australia's parliament finally and altogether belatedly posthumously apologized to Peter Norman, especially for that naton's appalling treatment of a man whose only crime had been to stay true to himself and true to the values that his faith had inculcated in him, and which values he counted to be of far greater significance than anything that could be accorded for his own comfort. And though Australia's sporting authorities vigorously deny that Peter Norman was begrudged a place on Australia's 1972 Munich bound Olympics team for no concrete reason but for his role in the Mexico podium protest, and though Australia's sporting authorities deny that they ever predicated Peter Norman's inclusion in the 2000 Sydney Olympics festivities upon any demands for Peter Norman to distance himself from his two American pals, still, Peter Norman was not entirely unrecognized in this lifetime, what with the gifted American sprinter Michael Johnson even describing Norman as one of his all time heroes. As for Tommie Smith, John Carlos, and Peter Norman, theirs remained to be a steadfast and enduring friendship, and when Peter Norman died in 2006, his two friends from the Mexico games were there to say goodbye and to pay tribute to a truly courageous man.
Murder in Mississippi and a historically pivotal moment for the modern civil rights movement.
In trying to determine the impact that any historical event had to its time and the outward ripple effects that that event brought to following times and to subsequent generations, historians will often lay down a timeline that acts as a plimsoll marker in establishing which personalities were purely incidental and which were directly and deliberately involved with a particular historical event. Dubbed as,"The first lady of civil rights," by no less an entity than the United States Congress, Rosa Parks has often been cited as the instigator of the modern civil rights movement in America, especially for her quiet defiance of bus driver James F Blake's order to vacate her seat for a white passenger and to move to the back of the bus. But it's important to note that Rosa herself, appears to have taken some pains to point to a specific event that had occurred just a few months prior to this her most famous act of civil disobedience on a Montgomery bus, as being the event that was foremost on her mind on that day when she wouldn't move to the back of the bus and give way to the established race politics of her day. In August of 1955, an event so ghastly and so shocking as the gruesome murder of a Chicago teenager who happened to be visting with relatives in Money Mississippi, finally fully galvanized a nation and drew worldwide attention to years of lynchings, rapes, beatings, murders, and the horrific oppression of African Americans particularly those living in the deep south. Young Emmett Till, perhaps as a Chicago native unfamiliar with the "etiquette" of the south is reported to have flirted with a white woman either verbally inside her grocery store or by wolf whistling at her outside the grocery store, and although years later Carolyn Bryant would recant her accusation that anything sinister had transpired between her and young Emmett Till, still, she did at the time positively finger Emmett Till as the cheeky negro who'd treated her with less than deserving decorum as befitted a white woman living in Jim Crow's south. Subsequently, Carolyn's husband Roy and his half brother Milam dragged Emmett Till from his bed in the middle of the night, thoroughly beat him up, gouged out his eye, shot him in the head, strung barbed wire around his neck, and then weighed him down with a 75 pound cotton gin fan before dumping Emmett's body into the murky depths of the Tallahatchie river. And it was this horrific image of Emmett's head swollen to many times its normal size, a picture of a child battered beyond recognition, it was such a memorable picture featured prominently in Jet Magazine that was published because Emmett's mother insisted that the world should see what "they'd" done to her baby. And though Rosa Parks was by no means the first black person to have defied ludicrous orders to move to the back of the bus, surely it was with images of mourners filing past a brutalized Emmett's glass-topped casket playing in her mind, that Rosa Parks who was by this time actively involved with her local chapter of the NAACP, took the action that would go on to have far reaching consequences in establishing a new groundswell of activism for the civil rights movement in America. Emmett's killers may have been acquitted by an all white male jury, the charges brought against Emmett by an accuser steeped in ignorance were later found to have been spurious at best, and his death was definitely unjustifiable under any circumstances, but by the single act of his death and through the singularly tireless efforts of Emmett's mother aimed at shedding light on the circumstances of that death, Emmett Till's death can be defined as a pivotal event, if not the pivotal event that finally shocked a nation enough to quicken the pace of civil rights reform in America's modern age.