Traffic pwned!
Yeah, got me, I was ticketed for speeding in Seal Beach. This was a few months ago, mind, and I'll spare everyone the story of how the cop wrote the wrong posted speed limit on the ticket, which upped my fine by over 80 bucks and the freak circus that traffic court turned out to be and the numerous trips I had to make to and fro because no one is ever clear about who you need to see or where or when or how much it costs.
Long story short, I spent all day today in traffic school.
Quick crash-course for those who don't know: ticket fines are unbelievable here in California and so is car insurance. Points on your driver's license haunt you for years in horrifyingly expensive ways, but there is a way out of it: traffic school. Granted, it's often as expensive as a ticket, if not more, and you have to sacrifice a day of your life to sitting amongst other pitiful specimens who are in the same boat as you... but it wipes those points from your driving record, provided you haven't been to traffic school in the last 18 months.
So, okay. I'd been putting it off, but my traffic school certificate is due on October 5th, so it was time to find a school with a class today, the 30th, the only available day I had left to take the damn thing.
Long Beach offers several, but all were booked. (There's even one exclusively for gays and lesbians. Okay, I'll admit it, I tried to get into that one too. If nothing else, I thought it would make for a good blog post headline: Jeremy Bear - Gay For A Day In Traffic School. No dice, though, the next available class was on October 7th. Grr.) Eventually, I called Low Budget Traffic School in north Long Beach. Lucky me, they had an opening. An 8:00-3:30 class, which would fulfill the requirements.
Now, I can be a stingy bastard when I want to be, but any educational program with "Low Budget" in the title... I don't know. But, bleary-eyed, I trekked up to Paramount Blvd. near Lakewood.
The place was more or less a dump, but whatever. Bars on the windows, etc. I signed in and squeezed myself into the class with roughly 25 other tortured souls. My plan was pretty straightforward: I'd brought along a sketchbook and several drawing tools and I'd purposed to do sketches and comic strips for my own amusement the whole day. I can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday.
For roughly the first half our, we endured a lousy traffic video, circa 1991 or so. It was hosted by a gaggle of Hollywood legends: Craig T. Nelson, Paula Zahn, Scott Bakula, Rue McClanahan, Hammer, Annie Potts... a veritable Who's Who of entertainers no one cares about anymore. Eventually, the instructor walked to the front of the class, switched off the video and sized us up: "Good morning, lawbreakers."
We shifted and looked at each other. Again: "I said, GOOD MORNING LAWBREAKERS."
The class managed a weak "Good Morning" back. The instructor was Mr. Aaron Hernandez, a stocky, 60s-ish character with deep, distinct features and a moderate Mexican accent. "Sometimes the DMV asks me," he began, "'Mr. Hernandez, why do you kick so many students out of your class? You probably kick out more students than any traffic teacher in the state of California!' I tell them the same thing I'm going to tell you: I will only kick you out if I sense the devil in you."
Was this cat serious? The devil?
Without warning or hesitation, he launched into his philosophy on life and spirituality. Apparently, he's faced down the devil in many a classroom. "I've got joy, joy, joy in my heart," he reiterated many times throughout the day, "and I love you all. Oh, I look at you and you're so beautiful to me. Each one, so beautiful. But the devil has no place here."
It didn't take long before every one of us, to a man, realized we were about to spend the next 8 hours with a psycho.
First of all, there were the jokes. Awful, awful jokes that were so unfunny, we were often unsure as a class when the joke was over. Early on, a routine was established: Mr. Hernandez would tell some ridiculous, drawn-out joke and when he would fail to get a laugh, he would reach for a stack of Scantron driving quizzes and threaten to make us take tests all day. The only way to convince him otherwise was to laugh wildly and applaud. And that was how the day went.
1) Joke.
2) Threat.
3) Forced laughter and applause.
4) Repeat.
Might sound funny, but, let me tell you, it's hard to maintain the will to live after a few hours of that litany. It was Evening at the Improv with Josef Mengele.
And then there were the stories. Mr. Hernandez insisted on referring to himself as our "uncle" and would often begin a story with "let me tell you something that happened to your uncle." He would then unravel some lurid yarn from his days as an officer in the LAPD: The 6 year old girl who was raped and urinated on. The drunk mother who cooked her own baby on her kitchen stove. The man found burning to death in the middle of the street, begging Hernandez to shoot him in the head.
None of it really had anything to do with traffic, mind you. Just tale after tale designed to make us crap ourselves.
And with the stories always came tears. I began making hash marks in my sketchbook each time Uncle Aaron burst into a crying fit. (By the end of the day, I counted seven.)
And, of course, there were the humiliation exercises. He'd begin by dangling a carrot in front of us in the form of money or free drinks or snacks or time.
(Example: "Tell you what, I'll let the whole class out an hour early if someone answers this question right."
He drew a picture of an intersection on the marker board, illustrating crosswalk lines between two of the curbs.
"You, what's your name? Carlos? How many crosswalks do you see in this picture?"
"Uh... there's..."
"Come on! Quickly!"
"Whuh... four?"
"No, how many do you see? Right here! With your eyes."
"...Not four...?"
"Use your eyes!"
"Well, I guess... one, then."
"Incorrect! The right answer is four. See, stupid? Now everyone has to stay the full time! Should have stuck to your guns, mijo!")
It quickly became apparent that our punishment for speeding was 8 hours of humiliation.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hernandez would periodically snap and single out a student for torture or possible expulsion. One girl had the nerve to wrinkle her nose when Hernandez mentioned that we were all stealing food and rent money from our families by having to pay for traffic school because of our reckless behavior. He harassed her until she apologized to him. "'Sorry'," he said, with a madman's smile, "is the magic word. Your uncle loves to hear the magic word."
He would also advertise his school to us at every opportunity. At the end of a joke or a particularly clever comment, he would cock an eyebrow and proclaim, "Low Budget!" He did magic tricks and at the moment he made the colored hankies disappear: "Low Budget!" He pointed to a framed photograph of a horse on the right wall: "See that horse? That's my horse. The most beautiful horse in the world. Know what I named him?"
We all shrugged.
"Low Budget!"
He danced, he joked, he chided and embarrassed. He performed and wept and spun yarns to drive us insane. But it wasn't until he started singing and playing his piano at the front of the room that I made my fatal mistake.
Regard below:
Yeah, that's right. I have no idea what came over me. I happened to have my digital camera on me and I snapped a picture of him as he played.
He stopped immediately. Slowly, Uncle Aaron stood up and glared right at me, cold as ice. For a few seconds, nobody said a word.
"I'm fucked," I thought. "He sees the devil in me."
Eventually, he scanned the room and spoke: "Let me tell you about a student I had several years back..." It turned out to be a story about a student that reported him to the DMV for not being a good teacher. The student has accused him of spending the entire class talking about himself and telling stories and cracking wise instead of teaching about traffic safety. The tale went on for a good 10 or 15 minutes.
"The moral of the story," Hernandez concluded, "is if you have a problem with me or this class or the way I teach it... if you don't like the jokes or the lessons or the piano playing... have the courage to be a man and say it to my face. Don't go behind my back and complain to people that will try to take away my license to teach."
Loud and clear, buddy. I got it. 'Please don't rat out Uncle Aaron with your fancy digital camera.'
This was officially Traffic-School-On-Crack. Where was Becky Ferrell when I needed her?
Eventually, it was time for a lunch break. We had half an hour, so I jumped in my car and stared driving. I called Carey, desperate for a friendly, familiar voice. We only talked for a handful of minutes, but it was long enough for me to relate to her that I felt very frightened and alone. "Only to you," she said. "How do these things happen to you?"
The last half of the day was a mix between trying to stay under the radar and slowly getting pissed that, by law, I had to endure this nutcase. More jokes, more crying, more lurid tales of the LAPD. More lessons about respecting your elders and defeating the devil. More "Low Budget!" Very little traffic-related information.
He started doing Field Sobriety Tests, offering, once again, the opportunity for the class to get out as much as an hour and a half early if a volunteer could pass it. Courtney, the girl who sat beside me, was still living in hope, so she volunteered for her turn at being humiliated.
("Come on, guys," she pleaded with us as she walked to the front of the room, "don't you want to get out of here?! At least I'm giving it a shot!")
She completed the sobriety test flawlessly, but, of course, Hernandez refused to give her her victory. He made up some ridiculous reason on the spot for why she did it wrong. Something about not turning around at the exact moment she was supposed to as she stood with her eyes closed on one foot, fingers alternately touching to her nose. If it wasn't obvious before, it was painfully so now: no one passes the Sobriety Test.
"One more volunteer!" Hernandez offered. "Come on, if you pass it, the whole class gets out at 2:00! A baby could pass this! What are you all, stupid?"
Nobody moved. Everyone was on to this bastard.
"Boy, you must all really like sitting in those chairs all Saturday, huh? Can't even pass a little Sobriety Test when you're sober? I-yi-yi!"
Fed up, I raised my hand.
"Finally! Come on up!"
I stayed planted.
"I'm not volunteering," I said. "I have a question."
His eyes narrowed. "...Go ahead."
"I was just wondering... in all the years you've been teaching this class... have you ever ever let anyone out early?"
Holy guns, the look he gave me. Then he started stuttering.
"W-well, depends, you know... it's, uh... 'early' is... for some people... eh..."
He stopped. A pause. And, once again, it was Story Time. This go-around, it was all about him and his partner when he was a rookie cop and the debates they had about the Letter of the Law and the Spirit of the Law and blah blah blah.
10 minutes later: "...In answer to your question, young man... no. Never. The State of California requires 400 minutes of your time here, so you're going to be here for 400 minutes."
For the rest of the day, he referred to me as The Loudmouth That Blew It. As in, "I was going to say we could get out a half hour early if you get the next question right, but, thanks to The Loudmouth That Blew It, that's not going to work. So thanks, Loudmouth."
If it's not already obvious, I'd abandoned my plans of drawing in my sketchbook early in the day. Who knew when El Pollo Loco would turn on me for not concentrating on his chaotic rambles. I did manage to get one sketch in, though... a portrait of Uncle Aaron himself. I'm usually not too great with likenesses, but the dude was so distinct, it was almost hard to screw up.
Here it is:
Eventually, it was time for the last video of the day. A mid-80s ditty, hosted by a fully alive and upright Christopher Reeve. ("Mr. Reeve gave us a very special message before he went up to Heaven," Hernandez told us, "so pay attention.") During the video, Uncle Aaron went back to his office to fill out the certificates.
After a few minutes, he came back out the classroom. He pointed at me, gave me the "c'mere" finger, and disappeared into his office again.
This was it. Tell my wife I love her. Remember I'm an organ donor. Goodbye, cruel world.
I walked over to his desk, where he was filling out paperwork.
I did. Fortunately, I'd only missed a minute or two of Chris Reeve's brilliant, beyond-the-grave insights on stopping distances and cargo truck blind spots.
Eventually, the day was over. Everyone was spent. As Hernandez called out the names of everyone to hand out the certificates, I think we all felt a certain camaraderie, like war veterans. No one else in the world could ever know our Special Pain, but we knew. We remembered.
Finally, my name was called. The coveted object of my desire. It looks like this:
Whatever.
I wrote my John Hancock on it and figured, what the hell, why not one last Hail Mary before I head back to my regular routine? I asked Uncle Aaron: "how about a picture of you handing me the certificate?"
He cheerfully obliged.
While I was pushing my luck, I hit him up again: "And what do you say? How about taking a picture of me receiving the certificate?"
He did.
So that was my big, fat traffic school experience. I do not want to relive it. Uncle Aaron made sure to tell all of us to refer our friends to him if they need traffic school.
Yeah, here's a referral: don't get caught speeding. You'll never get those hours back.
Long story short, I spent all day today in traffic school.
Quick crash-course for those who don't know: ticket fines are unbelievable here in California and so is car insurance. Points on your driver's license haunt you for years in horrifyingly expensive ways, but there is a way out of it: traffic school. Granted, it's often as expensive as a ticket, if not more, and you have to sacrifice a day of your life to sitting amongst other pitiful specimens who are in the same boat as you... but it wipes those points from your driving record, provided you haven't been to traffic school in the last 18 months.
So, okay. I'd been putting it off, but my traffic school certificate is due on October 5th, so it was time to find a school with a class today, the 30th, the only available day I had left to take the damn thing.
Long Beach offers several, but all were booked. (There's even one exclusively for gays and lesbians. Okay, I'll admit it, I tried to get into that one too. If nothing else, I thought it would make for a good blog post headline: Jeremy Bear - Gay For A Day In Traffic School. No dice, though, the next available class was on October 7th. Grr.) Eventually, I called Low Budget Traffic School in north Long Beach. Lucky me, they had an opening. An 8:00-3:30 class, which would fulfill the requirements.
Now, I can be a stingy bastard when I want to be, but any educational program with "Low Budget" in the title... I don't know. But, bleary-eyed, I trekked up to Paramount Blvd. near Lakewood.The place was more or less a dump, but whatever. Bars on the windows, etc. I signed in and squeezed myself into the class with roughly 25 other tortured souls. My plan was pretty straightforward: I'd brought along a sketchbook and several drawing tools and I'd purposed to do sketches and comic strips for my own amusement the whole day. I can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday.
For roughly the first half our, we endured a lousy traffic video, circa 1991 or so. It was hosted by a gaggle of Hollywood legends: Craig T. Nelson, Paula Zahn, Scott Bakula, Rue McClanahan, Hammer, Annie Potts... a veritable Who's Who of entertainers no one cares about anymore. Eventually, the instructor walked to the front of the class, switched off the video and sized us up: "Good morning, lawbreakers."
We shifted and looked at each other. Again: "I said, GOOD MORNING LAWBREAKERS."
The class managed a weak "Good Morning" back. The instructor was Mr. Aaron Hernandez, a stocky, 60s-ish character with deep, distinct features and a moderate Mexican accent. "Sometimes the DMV asks me," he began, "'Mr. Hernandez, why do you kick so many students out of your class? You probably kick out more students than any traffic teacher in the state of California!' I tell them the same thing I'm going to tell you: I will only kick you out if I sense the devil in you."
Was this cat serious? The devil?
Without warning or hesitation, he launched into his philosophy on life and spirituality. Apparently, he's faced down the devil in many a classroom. "I've got joy, joy, joy in my heart," he reiterated many times throughout the day, "and I love you all. Oh, I look at you and you're so beautiful to me. Each one, so beautiful. But the devil has no place here."
It didn't take long before every one of us, to a man, realized we were about to spend the next 8 hours with a psycho.
First of all, there were the jokes. Awful, awful jokes that were so unfunny, we were often unsure as a class when the joke was over. Early on, a routine was established: Mr. Hernandez would tell some ridiculous, drawn-out joke and when he would fail to get a laugh, he would reach for a stack of Scantron driving quizzes and threaten to make us take tests all day. The only way to convince him otherwise was to laugh wildly and applaud. And that was how the day went.
1) Joke.
2) Threat.
3) Forced laughter and applause.
4) Repeat.
Might sound funny, but, let me tell you, it's hard to maintain the will to live after a few hours of that litany. It was Evening at the Improv with Josef Mengele.
And then there were the stories. Mr. Hernandez insisted on referring to himself as our "uncle" and would often begin a story with "let me tell you something that happened to your uncle." He would then unravel some lurid yarn from his days as an officer in the LAPD: The 6 year old girl who was raped and urinated on. The drunk mother who cooked her own baby on her kitchen stove. The man found burning to death in the middle of the street, begging Hernandez to shoot him in the head.
None of it really had anything to do with traffic, mind you. Just tale after tale designed to make us crap ourselves.
And with the stories always came tears. I began making hash marks in my sketchbook each time Uncle Aaron burst into a crying fit. (By the end of the day, I counted seven.)
And, of course, there were the humiliation exercises. He'd begin by dangling a carrot in front of us in the form of money or free drinks or snacks or time.
(Example: "Tell you what, I'll let the whole class out an hour early if someone answers this question right."
He drew a picture of an intersection on the marker board, illustrating crosswalk lines between two of the curbs.
"You, what's your name? Carlos? How many crosswalks do you see in this picture?"
"Uh... there's..."
"Come on! Quickly!"
"Whuh... four?"
"No, how many do you see? Right here! With your eyes."
"...Not four...?"
"Use your eyes!"
"Well, I guess... one, then."
"Incorrect! The right answer is four. See, stupid? Now everyone has to stay the full time! Should have stuck to your guns, mijo!")
It quickly became apparent that our punishment for speeding was 8 hours of humiliation.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hernandez would periodically snap and single out a student for torture or possible expulsion. One girl had the nerve to wrinkle her nose when Hernandez mentioned that we were all stealing food and rent money from our families by having to pay for traffic school because of our reckless behavior. He harassed her until she apologized to him. "'Sorry'," he said, with a madman's smile, "is the magic word. Your uncle loves to hear the magic word."
He would also advertise his school to us at every opportunity. At the end of a joke or a particularly clever comment, he would cock an eyebrow and proclaim, "Low Budget!" He did magic tricks and at the moment he made the colored hankies disappear: "Low Budget!" He pointed to a framed photograph of a horse on the right wall: "See that horse? That's my horse. The most beautiful horse in the world. Know what I named him?"
We all shrugged.
"Low Budget!"
He danced, he joked, he chided and embarrassed. He performed and wept and spun yarns to drive us insane. But it wasn't until he started singing and playing his piano at the front of the room that I made my fatal mistake.
Regard below:
Yeah, that's right. I have no idea what came over me. I happened to have my digital camera on me and I snapped a picture of him as he played.
He stopped immediately. Slowly, Uncle Aaron stood up and glared right at me, cold as ice. For a few seconds, nobody said a word.
"I'm fucked," I thought. "He sees the devil in me."
Eventually, he scanned the room and spoke: "Let me tell you about a student I had several years back..." It turned out to be a story about a student that reported him to the DMV for not being a good teacher. The student has accused him of spending the entire class talking about himself and telling stories and cracking wise instead of teaching about traffic safety. The tale went on for a good 10 or 15 minutes.
"The moral of the story," Hernandez concluded, "is if you have a problem with me or this class or the way I teach it... if you don't like the jokes or the lessons or the piano playing... have the courage to be a man and say it to my face. Don't go behind my back and complain to people that will try to take away my license to teach."
Loud and clear, buddy. I got it. 'Please don't rat out Uncle Aaron with your fancy digital camera.'
This was officially Traffic-School-On-Crack. Where was Becky Ferrell when I needed her?
Eventually, it was time for a lunch break. We had half an hour, so I jumped in my car and stared driving. I called Carey, desperate for a friendly, familiar voice. We only talked for a handful of minutes, but it was long enough for me to relate to her that I felt very frightened and alone. "Only to you," she said. "How do these things happen to you?"
The last half of the day was a mix between trying to stay under the radar and slowly getting pissed that, by law, I had to endure this nutcase. More jokes, more crying, more lurid tales of the LAPD. More lessons about respecting your elders and defeating the devil. More "Low Budget!" Very little traffic-related information.
He started doing Field Sobriety Tests, offering, once again, the opportunity for the class to get out as much as an hour and a half early if a volunteer could pass it. Courtney, the girl who sat beside me, was still living in hope, so she volunteered for her turn at being humiliated.
("Come on, guys," she pleaded with us as she walked to the front of the room, "don't you want to get out of here?! At least I'm giving it a shot!")
She completed the sobriety test flawlessly, but, of course, Hernandez refused to give her her victory. He made up some ridiculous reason on the spot for why she did it wrong. Something about not turning around at the exact moment she was supposed to as she stood with her eyes closed on one foot, fingers alternately touching to her nose. If it wasn't obvious before, it was painfully so now: no one passes the Sobriety Test.
"One more volunteer!" Hernandez offered. "Come on, if you pass it, the whole class gets out at 2:00! A baby could pass this! What are you all, stupid?"
Nobody moved. Everyone was on to this bastard.
"Boy, you must all really like sitting in those chairs all Saturday, huh? Can't even pass a little Sobriety Test when you're sober? I-yi-yi!"
Fed up, I raised my hand.
"Finally! Come on up!"
I stayed planted.
"I'm not volunteering," I said. "I have a question."
His eyes narrowed. "...Go ahead."
"I was just wondering... in all the years you've been teaching this class... have you ever ever let anyone out early?"
Holy guns, the look he gave me. Then he started stuttering.
"W-well, depends, you know... it's, uh... 'early' is... for some people... eh..."
He stopped. A pause. And, once again, it was Story Time. This go-around, it was all about him and his partner when he was a rookie cop and the debates they had about the Letter of the Law and the Spirit of the Law and blah blah blah.
10 minutes later: "...In answer to your question, young man... no. Never. The State of California requires 400 minutes of your time here, so you're going to be here for 400 minutes."
For the rest of the day, he referred to me as The Loudmouth That Blew It. As in, "I was going to say we could get out a half hour early if you get the next question right, but, thanks to The Loudmouth That Blew It, that's not going to work. So thanks, Loudmouth."
If it's not already obvious, I'd abandoned my plans of drawing in my sketchbook early in the day. Who knew when El Pollo Loco would turn on me for not concentrating on his chaotic rambles. I did manage to get one sketch in, though... a portrait of Uncle Aaron himself. I'm usually not too great with likenesses, but the dude was so distinct, it was almost hard to screw up.
Here it is:
Eventually, it was time for the last video of the day. A mid-80s ditty, hosted by a fully alive and upright Christopher Reeve. ("Mr. Reeve gave us a very special message before he went up to Heaven," Hernandez told us, "so pay attention.") During the video, Uncle Aaron went back to his office to fill out the certificates.
After a few minutes, he came back out the classroom. He pointed at me, gave me the "c'mere" finger, and disappeared into his office again.
This was it. Tell my wife I love her. Remember I'm an organ donor. Goodbye, cruel world.
I walked over to his desk, where he was filling out paperwork.
JER: You. Uh. Wanted to see me, sir?
HERNANDEZ: You didn't fill in your address on the sign-in sheet. "Jeremiah" is it?
JER: Oh. Yeah, "Jeremiah." Um, it looks like nobody put their address on the sign-in. It should be on the card I filled out, right?
HERNANDEZ: Yeah. I guess it is. Don't worry about it.
JER: ...O...kay...
HERNANDEZ: You like your name? "Jeremiah?" It's a beautiful name.
JER: ...Thanks. Yeah, it's... usually, I go by "Jeremy."
HERNANDEZ: "Jeremy."
JER: Yup.
HERNANDEZ: I love my name. "Aaron." Another beautiful name.
JER: Definitely.
HERNANDEZ: My brother, he hated his name. "Enoch." I'd say, "hey, where you goin', Enoch?" He'd say, "don't call me that!" I'd say, "why not, Enoch?" I had fun with him, you know?
JER: Mm.
HERNANDEZ: ...
JER: Well, all right...
HERNANDEZ: Tell me, Jeremiah... who referred you to my class?
JER: Um. Well, it was on the list, you know. Traffic court, they give you the list of traffic schools, and...
HERNANDEZ: So, you just picked our school off the list.
JER: Yeah.
HERNANDEZ: "Jeremiah Bear."
JER: ...
HERNANDEZ: I'm glad you're here.
JER: ...Thanks.
HERNANDEZ: Jeremiah, did you learn anything here today?
JER: Oh, all kinds.
HERNANDEZ: Good. That's what I like to hear. I learned something today too.
JER: What did you learn, Uncle Aaron?
HERNANDEZ: Ha ha ha. I love that. Love it. I learned that I need to have a little more patience, eh? A little more love. I got the joy, joy, joy in my heart, but sometimes I get a little pissed. I had a teacher talk back to me yesterday. One of my traffic teachers. I can't stand that. You want to teach at my school, you don't talk back to me, you know? But I remember my purpose. I remember why I'm here. And I say, I got to love. Love in every situation, you know?
JER: Yep.
HERNANDEZ: Okay, go watch the video.
I did. Fortunately, I'd only missed a minute or two of Chris Reeve's brilliant, beyond-the-grave insights on stopping distances and cargo truck blind spots.
Eventually, the day was over. Everyone was spent. As Hernandez called out the names of everyone to hand out the certificates, I think we all felt a certain camaraderie, like war veterans. No one else in the world could ever know our Special Pain, but we knew. We remembered.
Finally, my name was called. The coveted object of my desire. It looks like this:
Whatever.
I wrote my John Hancock on it and figured, what the hell, why not one last Hail Mary before I head back to my regular routine? I asked Uncle Aaron: "how about a picture of you handing me the certificate?"
He cheerfully obliged.
While I was pushing my luck, I hit him up again: "And what do you say? How about taking a picture of me receiving the certificate?"
He did.
So that was my big, fat traffic school experience. I do not want to relive it. Uncle Aaron made sure to tell all of us to refer our friends to him if they need traffic school.
Yeah, here's a referral: don't get caught speeding. You'll never get those hours back.
Labels: dialogue
posted by Jeremy Bear at
7:40 PM
0 Comments
I don't usually get involved in international controversies. But I am outraged by the refusal of the Polish government to return artwork belonging to a fellow-cartoonist and Auschwitz survivor, Mrs. Dina Babbitt. And I am writing to ask you to join me in protesting this injustice.
