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April 26, 2011
It’s not surprising that a significant percentage of the Ivy League isn’t friendly to me.
I don’t think I’m wrong to say that the Ivy League has been historically synonymous with the term “white male privilege.”
I know that I’m not the best-educated person around. I’ve never said anything but that, and I’ve said numerous times that people have a good reason to dislike my mistakes and obvious ignorance on some subjects.
I don’t like writing about most of the things I’ve written about for the past year. There are a million things that I’d rather be doing besides writing about the same, ugly degradation and corruption day after day. However, since I think that the issues are important, I write about them and I do the best I can with them.
One of the reasons that I sometimes get angry and sarcastic while writing about these issues is that I really would rather be doing something else. I also wonder, while the same gross and bad things happen day after day, endorsed by some of the most revered institutions in the country, why there are people who are better educated than I am who don’t agree with me on the issues. Women are human beings equal to men in all ways except one, which is physical strength, and even that is a generalization that isn’t true in all cases. Most of what I’ve said for the past year doesn’t ask people to do much more than recognize the fact that women are equal to men and to respect women according to that fact.
I don’t mean to rip off anybody’s good line, but I feel that it should be self-evident to everyone that women are equal to men.
The official Ivy League website seems to have a semi-permanent tribute to lacrosse on its front page. That’s interesting, because here’s the text of the most recent Google post about Crystal Mangum today, as of 9:30 a.m.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Only on the politically correct animal farms that are elite East Coast colleges could one woman’s lie lead a university president and 88 faculty members in 2006 to convict in the media three innocent white young men prior to trial - and even prior to the complete collection of evidence (“Where are Crystal Mangum’s liberal supporters now?” Web, Water Cooler, Friday).
Ms. Mangum’s long series of contacts with the law and Child Protective Services in the intervening years ended Monday when she was indicted for the first-degree murder of her boyfriend, Reginald Daye. Ms. Mangum is accused of murdering Daye by stabbing him in the chest with a kitchen knife.
Perhaps when the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) comes up for reauthorization and Vice President Joseph R. Biden yet again calls it his proudest political achievement and asks Congress to appropriate further billions of taxpayer dollars to it, we should think of Crystal Mangum.
GORDON E. FINLEY
Professor of psychology
Florida International University
Miami
© Copyright 2011 The Washington Times, LLC.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The article by Professor Finley seems to go beyond any one individual; Professor Finley seems to think that women ought to be victims of violence, and that it isn’t just a waste of money but a moral violation if the U.S. government or any government takes steps to protect women from becoming or staying victims of violence.
Professor Finley is listed by the article as a professor of psychology. Why is a professor of psychology endorsing violence against women?
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 10:00 a.m.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 26, 2011
When I got arrested on 11/21/10, the police brought me to the new police station in South Burlington. They put me in a holding cell in a room that also had a computer and some lockers, and the fingerprinting machine in a room off to the side.
The holding cell had bars, not glass, so I could hear the officers outside of the cell telling each other that I’d hit a Burlington police officer in 2007. That’s something that my parents must have said to the arresting officers, in addition to everything else that my parents wrote in their statements on 11/21/10.
One of the things that the police officer in question had done was to call me after he’d received the results of a phone trace that had been done on the multiple, blocked-caller-ID stalker calls that had been getting made to my phone for months. The officer left me a voicemail saying “I got the results of the phone trace and I don’t agree with them. I want you to come down to the station and talk to me about them tonight.” I didn’t go. I already knew that the police were on the side of the stalker, and that if the phone trace had given proof that the stalker or stalkers were who I had said they were, the officer would most likely try to intimidate me out of telling anyone about the results of the phone trace. Most of what that police officer did was similar to that voicemail. I don’t know what he was thinking.
As I've said when I've previously written on this blog about what happened on the night of 11/21/10, the entire time that my mother was on the phone to the police and my father had me pinned to the floor and was pushing my wrists together, I yelled “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!” over and over again. I meant for the police to hear me. I wonder if the police did hear me, and if the police subsequently asked my parents what had been going on.
The first thing that the police saw when they walked into the house on the night of 11/21/10 was me on the floor with my father lying sideways across me, holding onto both of my wrists, and since I’d kept yelling “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!” even when my mother had gotten off the phone, it’s likely that the police had heard me yelling when they got out of the police car and walked up to the house.
It seems to me that my parents had a motive for trying to put aside the fact that the police were both ear and eye witnesses to my being abused by my parents. The police heard me yelling repeatedly “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!”, first from the police station where they could hear me through the phone, a room and a set of stairs away from where my mother was making the call, and then as the police were walking toward the house. The first thing that the police saw when they got to the house was me pinned to the floor by my father, as I cried and continued to yell for help. I was then completely calm with the police the entire time that the police were there, from the second that they walked in the door, and I think that I thereby did a lot to refute without saying so in words what my parents claimed, which is that I had been suddenly violent for no reason and that I wasn’t being viciously attacked and betrayed by my parents after having been relentlessly provoked by them for months, but that I was correctly restrained by my 6-foot-tall father who weighs at least 250 pounds after I went crazy for no reason.
I didn’t make any statements about the incident, either written or verbal, to the police that night. I let my parents do the talking, which they did to at least one of the officers for an hour or more in another room while an officer stayed with me. I figured there was no point in my saying anything until I’d had a chance to talk to a lawyer, and that even getting arrested based on my parents’ statements was better than trying to make my own statement at that time about what happened on that night. I politely declined to discuss the incident with the police officer who stayed with me. He and I made some sporadic small talk about other things, which I punctuated with pauses for tears because I knew that my father, who is a lawyer himself, would know exactly what to say to get me arrested.
A few weeks after I got to the Vermont State Hospital, when I was able to read my chart, I saw that in addition to having gone to talk to the medical director of the local community mental health center in October, on November 21, 2010 my father had said something to the police such as “My daughter needs to be back in the mental health care system. Hopefully, (jail) will help her realize that.” I don’t remember if the quote I read said “jail,” or “a night in jail,” but I do know that the word “jail” was in the sentence.
I don’t think that my parents had any good reason to try to get me committed, whether by having spent months trying to provoke me and lying about it to me or by going to the medical director of the community mental health center and lying to her about me and about their actions toward me. For several months until a week or so before I got arrested, I had seen a therapist whom I had sought out on my own and was seeing voluntarily. Even though I never talked to her about my blog or the situation both in Vermont and outside of it, I got the feeling that she knew about it all. Every week when I walked into her office, there was another hint out that she would like to have me initiate a conversation with her about it, whether it was a magazine referring to the situation where I couldn’t miss it on the coffee table in the waiting room or her looking as if she could barely stop herself from flat out asking me about it once she’d asked a few leading if indirect questions. As time went on, it seemed more and more to me that she was getting scared about being my therapist. The threats toward me from the government/media/corporate/celebrity complex were getting worse all the time, and once she found something that she could say to get me to leave, she did. Technically, she wasn’t unprofessional; I would perhaps say that she wasn’t exceptionally brave and she found a way out.
As far as the night of November 21, 2010 went, once the police got there; it’s a nice thing for a police officer to do if he or she lets you cry when you can’t help it and neither talks to you while you’re doing it nor refers to it once you’ve regained control of yourself, nor tries to use the fact that you keep crying every few minutes to get you to talk about something that you don’t want to talk about. I would start crying, whatever conversation we were having would stop until I was able to stop crying, and then either we’d start making small talk again then or a few minutes later. I think that’s what’s called “The police respecting not only your rights but also your dignity.”
In addition to my unhappiness about what had happened between my parents and me that night, one of the reasons that I was crying was that I knew that if I were lucky I’d end up at the Vermont State Hospital for a while, and that if I were unlucky or not very careful while getting through the next few days, I would end up…
I can’t believe I’m laughing about this.
It’s been a government/media/corporate attack on my reputation for over a year. There was a chain restaurant (no pun intended) near my parents’ house for some months before I got arrested that had a banner outside advertising something that said “SLAMMER.”
@ 2:22 p.m.
So far, since I’ve been at the Department of Labor typing this, the following things have happened:
--a female staff member stood a few feet behind me, having a long and loud conversation with a male patron of the DOL who wanted to talk about “hazardous waste in Texas.” I finally turned around and asked him if he were a garbageman; I figured that was an appropriate question to ask about someone who was having a very long and loud conversation about garbage while at the Department of Labor. He said no, that he hadn’t been a garbageman, but that he’d “dealt with garbage” before.
--a male staff member having an audible conversation from the staff office adjacent to this room. There’s no door separating the two rooms; he decided to talk about “salt” to whomever he was talking to.
Are those people in favor of pedophilia? Do they object to the fact that I am against pedophilia? Is that what the problem that some of the people who work and who look for work at the Department of Labor in this town have with me?
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 2:30 p.m./some editing done @ 2:40 p.m.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 26, 2011
I just copied some job order numbers off the board in the hallway and a staff person from the DOL asked me into her office so that she could look up the jobs and print out their information. While I sat in the client chair, I noticed the following:
--A large poster in the center of her bulletin board that said:
“Tim Brick
BORDERLINE
The debut album from
Tim Brick
coming…..July 17th!!!”
July 17th is my birthday. Is this yet another art professional hopeful using me, my situation, a past non-relationship gone wrong, and my talks about Iran in order to get attention?
--A calendar saying :
“Best Wishes from APRIL”
with a cartoon of an old lady going over Niagra Falls in a barrel. The barrel has a label on it that says “Niagra or bust!”
The caption for the calendar says : “You’re never too old to really hurt yourself trying something new!”
--A big, unopened can of clam chowder sitting on her desk.
I’ve really had enough. I don’t show up at the DOL every day in order to be abused. I was in that office to get information about jobs that I could apply for; she had to know that if I were to get that kind of information from her, I’d be in her office and I’d see all of that.
What is the definition of “professional?” I don’t think that the definition of “professional” is: “Spend any time out of your day trying to think of things to say or do in order to try to upset, offend, humiliate or otherwise harm someone whom it’s your job to assist.”
The same woman just walked by me and coughed.
I wonder when people such as she are going to get the message that I couldn’t care less what they think of me; she’s here to help people. That’s her job.
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 5:34 p.m.
April 26, 2011
It’s not surprising that a significant percentage of the Ivy League isn’t friendly to me.
I don’t think I’m wrong to say that the Ivy League has been historically synonymous with the term “white male privilege.”
I know that I’m not the best-educated person around. I’ve never said anything but that, and I’ve said numerous times that people have a good reason to dislike my mistakes and obvious ignorance on some subjects.
I don’t like writing about most of the things I’ve written about for the past year. There are a million things that I’d rather be doing besides writing about the same, ugly degradation and corruption day after day. However, since I think that the issues are important, I write about them and I do the best I can with them.
One of the reasons that I sometimes get angry and sarcastic while writing about these issues is that I really would rather be doing something else. I also wonder, while the same gross and bad things happen day after day, endorsed by some of the most revered institutions in the country, why there are people who are better educated than I am who don’t agree with me on the issues. Women are human beings equal to men in all ways except one, which is physical strength, and even that is a generalization that isn’t true in all cases. Most of what I’ve said for the past year doesn’t ask people to do much more than recognize the fact that women are equal to men and to respect women according to that fact.
I don’t mean to rip off anybody’s good line, but I feel that it should be self-evident to everyone that women are equal to men.
The official Ivy League website seems to have a semi-permanent tribute to lacrosse on its front page. That’s interesting, because here’s the text of the most recent Google post about Crystal Mangum today, as of 9:30 a.m.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Only on the politically correct animal farms that are elite East Coast colleges could one woman’s lie lead a university president and 88 faculty members in 2006 to convict in the media three innocent white young men prior to trial - and even prior to the complete collection of evidence (“Where are Crystal Mangum’s liberal supporters now?” Web, Water Cooler, Friday).
Ms. Mangum’s long series of contacts with the law and Child Protective Services in the intervening years ended Monday when she was indicted for the first-degree murder of her boyfriend, Reginald Daye. Ms. Mangum is accused of murdering Daye by stabbing him in the chest with a kitchen knife.
Perhaps when the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) comes up for reauthorization and Vice President Joseph R. Biden yet again calls it his proudest political achievement and asks Congress to appropriate further billions of taxpayer dollars to it, we should think of Crystal Mangum.
GORDON E. FINLEY
Professor of psychology
Florida International University
Miami
© Copyright 2011 The Washington Times, LLC.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The article by Professor Finley seems to go beyond any one individual; Professor Finley seems to think that women ought to be victims of violence, and that it isn’t just a waste of money but a moral violation if the U.S. government or any government takes steps to protect women from becoming or staying victims of violence.
Professor Finley is listed by the article as a professor of psychology. Why is a professor of psychology endorsing violence against women?
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 10:00 a.m.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 26, 2011
When I got arrested on 11/21/10, the police brought me to the new police station in South Burlington. They put me in a holding cell in a room that also had a computer and some lockers, and the fingerprinting machine in a room off to the side.
The holding cell had bars, not glass, so I could hear the officers outside of the cell telling each other that I’d hit a Burlington police officer in 2007. That’s something that my parents must have said to the arresting officers, in addition to everything else that my parents wrote in their statements on 11/21/10.
One of the things that the police officer in question had done was to call me after he’d received the results of a phone trace that had been done on the multiple, blocked-caller-ID stalker calls that had been getting made to my phone for months. The officer left me a voicemail saying “I got the results of the phone trace and I don’t agree with them. I want you to come down to the station and talk to me about them tonight.” I didn’t go. I already knew that the police were on the side of the stalker, and that if the phone trace had given proof that the stalker or stalkers were who I had said they were, the officer would most likely try to intimidate me out of telling anyone about the results of the phone trace. Most of what that police officer did was similar to that voicemail. I don’t know what he was thinking.
As I've said when I've previously written on this blog about what happened on the night of 11/21/10, the entire time that my mother was on the phone to the police and my father had me pinned to the floor and was pushing my wrists together, I yelled “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!” over and over again. I meant for the police to hear me. I wonder if the police did hear me, and if the police subsequently asked my parents what had been going on.
The first thing that the police saw when they walked into the house on the night of 11/21/10 was me on the floor with my father lying sideways across me, holding onto both of my wrists, and since I’d kept yelling “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!” even when my mother had gotten off the phone, it’s likely that the police had heard me yelling when they got out of the police car and walked up to the house.
It seems to me that my parents had a motive for trying to put aside the fact that the police were both ear and eye witnesses to my being abused by my parents. The police heard me yelling repeatedly “PLEASE HELP ME! MY FATHER IS HURTING ME!”, first from the police station where they could hear me through the phone, a room and a set of stairs away from where my mother was making the call, and then as the police were walking toward the house. The first thing that the police saw when they got to the house was me pinned to the floor by my father, as I cried and continued to yell for help. I was then completely calm with the police the entire time that the police were there, from the second that they walked in the door, and I think that I thereby did a lot to refute without saying so in words what my parents claimed, which is that I had been suddenly violent for no reason and that I wasn’t being viciously attacked and betrayed by my parents after having been relentlessly provoked by them for months, but that I was correctly restrained by my 6-foot-tall father who weighs at least 250 pounds after I went crazy for no reason.
I didn’t make any statements about the incident, either written or verbal, to the police that night. I let my parents do the talking, which they did to at least one of the officers for an hour or more in another room while an officer stayed with me. I figured there was no point in my saying anything until I’d had a chance to talk to a lawyer, and that even getting arrested based on my parents’ statements was better than trying to make my own statement at that time about what happened on that night. I politely declined to discuss the incident with the police officer who stayed with me. He and I made some sporadic small talk about other things, which I punctuated with pauses for tears because I knew that my father, who is a lawyer himself, would know exactly what to say to get me arrested.
A few weeks after I got to the Vermont State Hospital, when I was able to read my chart, I saw that in addition to having gone to talk to the medical director of the local community mental health center in October, on November 21, 2010 my father had said something to the police such as “My daughter needs to be back in the mental health care system. Hopefully, (jail) will help her realize that.” I don’t remember if the quote I read said “jail,” or “a night in jail,” but I do know that the word “jail” was in the sentence.
I don’t think that my parents had any good reason to try to get me committed, whether by having spent months trying to provoke me and lying about it to me or by going to the medical director of the community mental health center and lying to her about me and about their actions toward me. For several months until a week or so before I got arrested, I had seen a therapist whom I had sought out on my own and was seeing voluntarily. Even though I never talked to her about my blog or the situation both in Vermont and outside of it, I got the feeling that she knew about it all. Every week when I walked into her office, there was another hint out that she would like to have me initiate a conversation with her about it, whether it was a magazine referring to the situation where I couldn’t miss it on the coffee table in the waiting room or her looking as if she could barely stop herself from flat out asking me about it once she’d asked a few leading if indirect questions. As time went on, it seemed more and more to me that she was getting scared about being my therapist. The threats toward me from the government/media/corporate/celebrity complex were getting worse all the time, and once she found something that she could say to get me to leave, she did. Technically, she wasn’t unprofessional; I would perhaps say that she wasn’t exceptionally brave and she found a way out.
As far as the night of November 21, 2010 went, once the police got there; it’s a nice thing for a police officer to do if he or she lets you cry when you can’t help it and neither talks to you while you’re doing it nor refers to it once you’ve regained control of yourself, nor tries to use the fact that you keep crying every few minutes to get you to talk about something that you don’t want to talk about. I would start crying, whatever conversation we were having would stop until I was able to stop crying, and then either we’d start making small talk again then or a few minutes later. I think that’s what’s called “The police respecting not only your rights but also your dignity.”
In addition to my unhappiness about what had happened between my parents and me that night, one of the reasons that I was crying was that I knew that if I were lucky I’d end up at the Vermont State Hospital for a while, and that if I were unlucky or not very careful while getting through the next few days, I would end up…
I can’t believe I’m laughing about this.
It’s been a government/media/corporate attack on my reputation for over a year. There was a chain restaurant (no pun intended) near my parents’ house for some months before I got arrested that had a banner outside advertising something that said “SLAMMER.”
@ 2:22 p.m.
So far, since I’ve been at the Department of Labor typing this, the following things have happened:
--a female staff member stood a few feet behind me, having a long and loud conversation with a male patron of the DOL who wanted to talk about “hazardous waste in Texas.” I finally turned around and asked him if he were a garbageman; I figured that was an appropriate question to ask about someone who was having a very long and loud conversation about garbage while at the Department of Labor. He said no, that he hadn’t been a garbageman, but that he’d “dealt with garbage” before.
--a male staff member having an audible conversation from the staff office adjacent to this room. There’s no door separating the two rooms; he decided to talk about “salt” to whomever he was talking to.
Are those people in favor of pedophilia? Do they object to the fact that I am against pedophilia? Is that what the problem that some of the people who work and who look for work at the Department of Labor in this town have with me?
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 2:30 p.m./some editing done @ 2:40 p.m.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 26, 2011
I just copied some job order numbers off the board in the hallway and a staff person from the DOL asked me into her office so that she could look up the jobs and print out their information. While I sat in the client chair, I noticed the following:
--A large poster in the center of her bulletin board that said:
“Tim Brick
BORDERLINE
The debut album from
Tim Brick
coming…..July 17th!!!”
July 17th is my birthday. Is this yet another art professional hopeful using me, my situation, a past non-relationship gone wrong, and my talks about Iran in order to get attention?
--A calendar saying :
“Best Wishes from APRIL”
with a cartoon of an old lady going over Niagra Falls in a barrel. The barrel has a label on it that says “Niagra or bust!”
The caption for the calendar says : “You’re never too old to really hurt yourself trying something new!”
--A big, unopened can of clam chowder sitting on her desk.
I’ve really had enough. I don’t show up at the DOL every day in order to be abused. I was in that office to get information about jobs that I could apply for; she had to know that if I were to get that kind of information from her, I’d be in her office and I’d see all of that.
What is the definition of “professional?” I don’t think that the definition of “professional” is: “Spend any time out of your day trying to think of things to say or do in order to try to upset, offend, humiliate or otherwise harm someone whom it’s your job to assist.”
The same woman just walked by me and coughed.
I wonder when people such as she are going to get the message that I couldn’t care less what they think of me; she’s here to help people. That’s her job.
Copyright L. Kochman April 26, 2011 @ 5:34 p.m.