It's kind of like deja vu all over again. 1967, 49-years ago. I was just waiting to be admitted into officer school en route to flight school and, I prayed, fast jets. This happened. My buddies and I went down to the Detroit River waterfront and watched and listened. Patton main battle tanks patrolled Jefferson. You could hear the odd rifle shot, often answered by automatic weapon fire. It was overcast enough that the angry red glare of the burning blocks below were reflected in the clouds. From our safe perch on the Canadian side of the river we watched a society succumb to madness, fear and loathing. John R, Brush, Jefferson - street names that became indelibly etched into one's consciousness.
Now it's Dallas. Two, too many black men gunned down by white cops. Two too many. Two atop a pile of dead black men, grieving families and cops who seem to slaughter with impunity.
Two snipers. Eleven cops down. Five dead. More close to death. Black day in July. Half a century and we're still trapped in this shit. That's the lion's share of my lifetime. We've not moved on. Not really.
What in hell is wrong with us?