Poor Justin. If it helps, I am NOT offended. I am actually honored. I want more white honkies to know what it is like to live through life with a brown face — especially a brown face like mine. Man, it is hard. A daily struggle.
OK. I admit it. I am not sensitive. Nah. That is not 100% true. There is still a bit of I that is way too sensitive even in my dotage.
I just felt that somebody needs to stand in solidarity with Justin.
The New Series ‘Jennie’, About Winston Churchill’s American Mother, On ‘Acorn’ TV, Is Quite The Story.
I saw it being advertised on the banner of ‘Acorn‘ for the last week or so — but, I think it only became available today. We watched Episode 1 and it was GOOD.
Alas, though new to Acorn, it is NOT new. Appears it was shown on Thames in 2009 — so, 10-years ago. So, the quality, alack, is not that of ‘Victoria‘ on PBS. But, it is not dreadful. It is better than what you will find of YouTube.
I knew a bit about her suitor and husband Lord Randolph Churchill given that he is my hero Winston’s father. So, I learnt a fair amount about both of them in this first episode — how they met, their whirlwind romance and ahead-of-schedule marriage. I am looking forward to watching the rest of the series.
Looks very promising and I know that Lord Randolph’s story gets more colorful, though sad.
So Good To See ‘Alzarri Joseph’ The 22-Year Old West Indian Doing Great Guns In The Vivo IPL — On Debut.
Click to ENLARGE.
It was beyond a dream start. A wicket with his 1st ball in IPL! Wow. Doesn’t get any better and it was David Warner’s wicket. Impressive.
Then break the record for the BEST BOWLING figures in the IPL — on debut.
And his mother died less than two months ago. Talk about the ups and downs.
Nice unassuming kid. Looks like a great prospect.
His bowling got some stick in the 2nd match and he didn’t take a wicket. But, then he shone with a bat, getting the winning runs in a mammoth runrace. His team seems to adore him. This is all good.
I am pleased. I like him. Something about him. Reminds me of the young, brooding Andy Roberts — who I knew from his days in Hampshire.
The huge 381-run victory, against England, in the 1st Test match, at Brisbane, was special. But, I have seen enough disappointments, of late, to have got to excited and get my hopes up.
And then this … even with the death of Alzarri Joesph’s Mother on the morning of the 3rd Day. They played just like they used to play. It was a pleasure and to see my ol’ buddy Viv, in the stands, standing and applauding, made my day.
Wow. Have we finally turned the page? About time, I may add. But, cricket is a funny ol’ game. We still have another match and I see that Captain Jason Holder will have to miss it because of poor over rate. Shame. Very frustrating.
So for the second Test in a row the players are wearing black armbands. This time for poor, 22-year old Alzarri Joesph’s mother who died ahead of the 3rd day of the 2nd Test between the West Indies and England. I do not know the details. I assume she must have been ill. But, Alzarri did not, from what I saw, show any signs of distress the day before. He bowled quite. I like him. He has potential. This will be a setback. It is a great testament to his character that he continued to play. Him dropping out would have been a bitter blow to the West Indies. I am very proud of him ad this will be remembered for years to come. I wish him well.
Yet Another Hospital Mix-Up At Birth (In Italy) — Same As What Happened To Me In Ceylon (Sri Lanka), 62 Years Ago.
by Anura Guruge
>> I Too Am “The Other Son”.
++++ Check Category ‘Sri Lanka’ or search ‘Ceylon’ for other posts >>>>
This what happened to Lorena Cobuzzi and Antonella Zenga, in Puglia, Italy, 26 years ago was also, exactly, what happened to me — 62 years ago, in Colombo, Ceylon, at the “Private General Hospital“. Except 62 years ago they, I am sure, didn’t use bracelets — and to exacerbate matters, 90% of the babies born at that hospital would have been uniformly brown, with black hair and black eyes.
I explained my story in June of this year in this post.
I was told of this, nearly daily, since I was around 5. I guess that is why I grew up used to the idea. I was a hospital mix-up and the folks I called my parents were NOT my real parents. We could NOT have been any different. It was like a black couple having a lily white son. Chalk and cheese. That is how my adoptive parents worked out, quite early on, that I was not their son. There was no way I was related to them. C’est la vie.
Yes, I would like to meet the ‘other’ me. My kids, who still can’t quite work out the implications, calls ‘him’ the real me!
I am trying to make some inquiries. The hospital is no longer in existence. There were NO computers in 1953. The births would have been entered into a ledger. So we are looking for another brown boy, born between September 2 to September 5, 1953 at the “Private General Hospital”, Colombo 7, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka).
by Anura Guruge
++++ Check Category ‘Sri Lanka’ or search ‘Ceylon’ for other posts >>>>
People get confused as to why I call myself adopted and make references to my adoptive-father and adoptive-mother. It is because I too was “The Other Son“, the Ceylon version; “The Other Son” a very powerful Israeli movie about babies accidentally swapped (i.e., mixed up) in a hospital shortly after birth.
So that is what I am, a hospital mix up.
How do I know?
Because ever since I can remember, say around age five onwards, I would be told AT LEAST once a day, usually many times more, that I was a ‘mix up at the hospital‘ and that my REAL FATHER was a ‘GAMBLER’. Wow. Doesn’t that explain it all? I later worked out that ‘gambler’ in 1950, still very Victorian, Ceylon meant that my real father, my biological father, was a rake (in the British sense). A playboy. Yes, Yes, YES. It all adds up. The very boring, teetotal, academic, with zero interest in sports, who was afraid of dogs, could NOT have been my father. It all made sense. Yes, it would be my adoptive-father who told me, daily, that I was ‘mix up at the hospital’ and how much he regretted that he never got his real child. But, my adoptive mother would also tell me the same thing, as did other relatives, and sometimes even the servants. I was the MISTAKE. And I am proud of it.
Why they did NOT fix it when they discovered the mistake — which was pretty obvious since I was nothing like my adoptive parents — is a mystery. I never asked. I guess I thought it was outside my control. Plus, I guess, deep down I did NOT want to be taken away from my “Ambili Amma” — Moon Mother — my adoptive mother’s mother, the person who brought me up.
My adoptive parents did NOT have much to do with me when I was growing up in Ceylon, 1953 – 1967. It was very Victorian. But rather than a nanny, I had my Ambili Amma. She is the one who brought me up from the time I came home. She is the one who made sure I had food, clothing, care and some amount of love. My adoptive parents were very busy. My father was a hot shot with multiple VIP jobs — Assistant Secretary of Education, Vice-Chancellor of a Buddhist university, a famous author etc. etc. My mother taught Pali at a Baptist Girls School. But they had a beyond hectic social life. They had engagements every evening, every day. They were part of the creme de la creme of Colombo society. So every day around 4pm my adoptive mother would start getting ready to go out. My father would arrive from one of his many jobs around 6pm and then they would be gone. Did not matter. Ambili Amma was always there. The house, a BIG house, was never empty. My adoptive mother’s youngest sister lived with us, as did a female cousin whose father had died. Plus we had servants and on top of that, at any given time, we might have another distant relative, usually male, living with us.
I saw my adoptive parents on a strict schedule. They would take me to school. That was when I mainly saw my adoptive father. 75% of the time we would pick me up, at 1pm, from Ananda College. We would then pick up my adoptive mother and her sister and come home for lunch. Those two car trips was when I mainly had interactions with my adoptive father. The rest of the time he was gone or working. Between 2 and 4 my mother, a teacher, would TEACH me. It was formal. That was basically the time I spent with her. The rest of the time she was gone or getting ready — and ‘getting ready’ was an elaborate process with lots of make up, getting hair put up etc. Think Victorian Britain and the Lady of the house. That was our house.
Then, when I was about 18 my adoptive father came up with a new line. He would tell people, most people, referring to me: “the devil looks after his own”. Nice. He was making it very clear that he was NOT my father — not that anybody needed to be told that. He, a very religious man (though 40% was for show because it helped with his politics), was disowning me and assigning my parentage to ‘the devil’. Yes, remember that gambler? I was always confused as to which devil was my real father — whether it was the rather ineffective Buddhist devil or the more, potent and interesting Christian devil. I was just glad that it just wasn’t the real devil that made my life a daily hell, i.e., my adoptive father.
So that is the story. I am a hospital mix up.
I should have done this earlier BUT I am now going to try and find out who my biological family was. It would be neat to meet the ‘real’ me! I assume he must still be alive, if not my biological parents. If they are alive I would love to meet them. Thank them for making me what I am. My real father has to be a character. I owe so much to him. He gave me the DNA that in the end, despite all the hardships I endured at the hands of my adoptive father, allowed me to lead a life where 99% I had a grin on my face.
Yes, one of my four kids, as is somewhat plain to see, is adopted and I made sure that I would try and be a good father to her because I knew, at first hand, the misery of being brought up by a father who hated you because you were not his — a hospital mix up.
I, Anura Guruge, the very proud and grateful son of a gambler that, alas, I have yet to meet.
Braxton: What The Name Means; It Is Really A Last Name As Opposed To A First, But I Am Sure The Puppy Won’t Know The Difference.
Names have always intrigued me, more so now that ever before after I wrote my groundbreaking book on pope names: “Popes and the Tales of Their Names“.
I was not familiar with ‘Braxton‘. So I had to check. Got pretty good at tracking down names when I was researching the pope names, I had no choice. So didn’t take me long.
Interesting. No famous ‘Braxtons’ so the puppy could make a name for himself.
When I was at University in the early 1970s it was all the rage to come up with pretentious names for dogs. So that is why I have had: Rousseau (after the Swiss philosopher, after coming back from a holiday in Geneva where my hotel was opposite Rousseau’s island), Winston (Churchill), Maggie (Thatcher), Ulysses (Grant) & Monty (Montgomery as in the brilliant British WW II general). In between I also had: Bonzo, Peanut and Shamrock (the shelter given name for this huge, magnificent Golden who also answered to ‘Badger’ a name from a prior shelter).
Now it is Maya (after the ‘people’, and Deanna picked that) and Braxton — also picked by Deanna. I was given ‘heck’ by a Buddhist about ‘Maya’! I was asked whether I had forgotten who ‘Maya’ was. I obviously had. I could not remember. The Buddha’s mother was ‘Maya’. Yes, it came back when I was reminded. I did NOT see the big deal. To me naming a dog after a person is NEVER an insult, always a compliment. I assume that people name dogs ‘Mary’. Not that I really cared whether I offended Buddhists or not. If they want to get upset that I have a dog called ‘Maya’ they really have major issues.
. by Anura Guruge
Simply stated an ‘oxymoron‘ is a combination of words that don’t really go together in one sentence. Some classic examples include: ‘army intelligence‘, ‘almost pregnant‘, ‘demilitarized zone‘ etc. You can find a fairly large list here.
Well, I think even his mother (whose picture (honest) has pride of place in our house (but maybe because whose sitting on her lap) would admit that a library is not something that you would normally associate with the ‘Shrub’ — though, of course, I know that his long suffering wife trained to be a librarian. Conan O’Brien, speaking at the ‘White House Correspondents’ Dinner‘ on Saturday night, had this to say: “the new facility has hundreds of documents from the Bush-era, and if you go you can be the first to read them“. Boom, boom. Letterman was more blunt: “The Bush Presidential Library is beautiful, and they have a huge section devoted to weapons of mass destruction, but nobody can find it”.
The sad thing is and I often cringe about this, is that I used to be a staunch supporter of him. I desperately wanted him to win in 2000 and sat in front of my TV, day in and day out, sacrificing my then very lucrative high-tech consulting practice, rooting for him to beat Gore — by any means, legal or otherwise.
I have to grant that he did wrought a miracle when it came to me. I used to be a rabid, ‘to-the-right-of-Margaret-Thatcher‘, ‘Reagan-worshipping‘, conservative. Bush turned me into the Obamaite democrat that I now am. Just for that I am grateful to the ‘shrub’.
It is interesting that the family also realized that it would be embarrassing to have a library associated with the man best described as ‘lacking any intellectual curiosity’. So, they actually do NOT call it a library. Notice, no mention of the word library or books! I rest my case.