Ukraine and the Oval Office shakedown

I have never in my eight-plus decades on this Earth been more angry or embarrassed to be an American as I was watching the attempted mob-like shakedown of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy by Trump and Vance in the Oval Office. A setup. Absolutely mortified.

Adding to the anger and embarrassment were insulting questions put to Zelenskyy by someone posing as a journalist.

"Why don't you wear a suit? You're at the highest level in this country's office, and you refuse to wear a suit. Just want to see if -- do you own a suit? A lot of Americans have problems with you not respecting the office."

The questions came from Brian Glenn, who works for something called Real America's Voice, a right-wing cable channel that specializes in conspiracy theories. Glenn, who just coincidentally happens to be the boyfriend of Marjorie Taylor Greene, was there occupying the space that should've been filled by someone from the Associated Press, who are real journalists.

Never, in my six-plus decades of putting words to paper, have I been so embarrassed to call myself a journalist. Had I had the privilege of being there as a reporter I think I would've smacked him right in his smug little face. Respect my eye.

As you might tell, I'm still a bit agitated. To calm myself down, I went back to take a look at a column I wrote in 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine. It helped. I've re-posted it below just to get right-sized again.

***

I'm not Ukrainian. At least, I don't think I am. That slight doubt exists because I spent my formative years (I hesitate to say I grew up) in Bayonne, much of which was like someone scooped up boatloads of people from Eastern Europe and replanted them in Northern New Jersey.

Which, of course, is what happened.

Our next-door neighbors were Ukrainian. A family a few houses down was Ukrainian, as well as one across the street.

We were (are) Slovak. Or Czech. Or Russian. Or Polish. Or, most likely, some combination of the above or other Slavic nation. Amidst this polyglot of Eastern Europe a short bus ride from New York City, everyone seemed to speak the same language. It didn't seem to matter what the nationality of the person was, my grandparents, my parents, my aunts and uncles all seemed to be able to converse with them.

A stroll down Broadway with my grandmother on a chilly ("zimno" in Polish) fall day would produce a lot of smiling head nods and "dobre, dobre". Good, good.

It was all Russian to me.

So was the mass I served as an altar boy at St. John's Greek Catholic Church, which my father's family attended, and at Saints Peter and Paul Russian Orthodox Church, which the other half of my family ( and I) attended. In a city of churches, Eastern Europe was well represented. Including Ukrainians.

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