After five months away from the San Francisco Bay Area, we are back in what we call “The Country of Clouds,” aka Daly City. Azucena and I live on the border between San Francisco and Daly City.

That side of the street is “The City.” This side is “The Other City,” our perennially foggy DC.

We were in Mexico visiting relatives when the pandemic took over. We decided to take our chances in the port of Veracruz, on the Gulf of Mexico. Perennially sunny and hot.

As we left Mexico, the protocols for COVID-19 that Mexicans have in place seemed quite appropriate. The people in charge at the airports were efficient and relaxed. It made it easier to face the few airports that we needed to touch down before reaching San Francisco, after more than four months in a very strict quarantine.

Back to what we call home we were, once again, surrounded by the events that most concern—and alarm—the population of the United States.

For a while, the main event had been the furious outburst of the coronavirus pandemic.

 Nevertheless, that was suddenly pushed to the back row by other eternal events that hang like heavy weights from the neck of this country: unfair race relations, the socioeconomic exploitation of the “haves-not” by the “haves,” police abuse, among others.

An obvious and ongoing class struggle that many refuse to call by that name. They prefer things such as “a clash of ideas,” or “a natural vying for power in a democratic milieu.” Euphemisms all, in my opinion.

In recent years, with the advent of Obama’s first term, many even called this country “a post racial society.”

“It’s over!” they declared. “This proves that we are not a racist society. We chose a Black guy for President! We are post racist!”

This is a country that prefers not to call issues by their true name and nature and perpetuates some old myths about itself: “Ours is the best country in the world, we are the country of the American Dream (except for most Dreamers), we are the cradle of true democracy.”

Those myths get in the way of a necessary healing for this country.

With recent events, such as George Floyd’s murder by the police, or the way in which the reigning president dismisses or defends white supremacists and attempts to subvert the upcoming elections—and especially witnessing the massive protests taking place all over the country—we can safely put to sleep the obnoxiously untrue concept of the post racial society.

“Why can’t we all just get along?”

In 1992, Rodney King, a Black man from Southern California who became a famous victim of police brutality, said those words.

Today, they still resonate with a great deal of truth.

Why, oh why? Like the song by Bob Dylan and Tom Petty goes, “the answer it’s blowing in the wind.”

It might be true,  A couple of weeks ago as we were relaxing in our house, Azucena and I were listening to some wonderful Brazilian bossa-nova. It was a very warm summer day. From the open windows, blowing in the warm wind of summer, our Filipino neighbors spoke Tagalog, listening to some Motown music and laughing, as they enjoyed a barbecue.

From another backyard, two houses away, a Mexican family sang in Spanish and listened to some Banda music.

It was a wonderful soundtrack to the reality of the changing ethnic landscape of this country. It made me happy to hear the changes, blowing in the wind.

To counter that story, before we got back from Mexico, my son and a friend had a nasty experience. Same place, different situation.

They were working in our yard, cleaning it and planting some vegetables, as they listened to some loud Eddie Palmieri tunes. It was 2 pm.  Suddenly, a white European neighbor came out of her house and approached the fence that separates our houses.

“Why are you playing that loud, barbaric music? It is SO disrespectful! Turn it down!” she demanded.

Mind you, my son and his friend are both musicians. Good musicians. So, they proceeded to inform her that Rumba was not barbaric and that they would not stop playing. In fact, they would play the music louder. The woman, her tail between her legs, went back to her house, fuming.

So, as I heard that wonderful mix of languages and music blowing in the warm wind of that recent afternoon, I thought of that woman.

If she was home, she would not see or hear the beauty that everyone else heard and enjoyed that day. She was deprived. She was ignorant. She felt attacked. She was afraid. Maybe she felt alone.

Ignorance begets fear. Fear begets violence.

We need all of us to join in the change that might happen. Even that woman. She has indeed been deprived.  She has been fed lies and half-truths. The official history of the U.S. makes up the original fake news.

The answer might indeed be blowing in the wind. The trick is to learn to recognize it and appreciate it.