Several elephants go around and around a circus ring, trunk to tail, holding onto each other, scared to let go and be separated from the herd. But the elephant trainer cracks his whip calling one to the center and perform a special trick. Lets call this elephant Charlie. Charlie is a good elephant, mature, smart, and expressive as he performs his trick and is well rewarded. Until one day something bad happens to Charlie and the show is disrupted.

We, the audience, take in this pause, viewing it all around, from one side of the arena to the other. There are few clues in the circus program notes to see what will happen next. We all find different truths for what has happened and we talk to each other following a clip, with no date, on the internet showing Charlie Kirk, answering questions from a woman, “What are you doing, what is the point?” is met by “ … When people stop talking, that’s when you get violence…” And we don’t want to see the elephants stampede. But there is little footage of him engaging with students. He tosses out unsupported statements in his strong, intimidating voice, cowering students not versed in the skills of debate. I sadly find such old-world prejudices that it is hard to believe an educated young man could hold them such as this comment on race from his show on January 23 rd 2024

“If I see a Black pilot, I’m going to be like, boy, I hope he’s qualified.”

In the 1990’s, while exploring books and authors for radio broadcast, I slipped into a rabbit hole of the writing of Saint Exupéry. At the same time a new friend, George Nixon, came into our lives. George was among the very first African-American Pilots on a commercial airline, and a captain for United Airlines. He was being recruited onto the board of directors for the Full Circle Program. George was definitely feeling like a duck out of water and knew that the board was eager for him to join as the token black man. George was back-peddling until we got taking and he realized that like Heather, his wife, I was English, and could see I was as itchy at board meetings as he was. George had also become the United Airlines poster boy encouraging us to ‘Fly the Friendly Skies of United.’ When he told Heather he was going to try out for the video she immediately replied, “Oh don’t be so silly George, you are far too black.” But George, with his ‘I don’t give a damn’ attitude went for it. And got it. His blue-black face was seen up and down the freeways in and out of San Fransisco with his smile grinning down to the commuters as he dared other young African Americans to reach for their dreams. 

Now with my rabbit hole search into aviation, and the writings of Saint Exupéry, I also had a pilot pal with which to explore the friendly skies. Once I flew on a night flight with George from San Fransisco to Boston with a plane load of flatulent first class fellows. I was excited and awake all through the night watching America unfold underneath the plane, until that moment that she didn’t. The hum of the engine was constant as I looked out of the window to see no lights below but only the stars ahead, not even really above us, just there in the night sky. Later, when we sat down together and I turned on the tape recorder we talked about his yearning to fly, I asked about the night sky that I had seen, talking about how Saint Exupéry flew by the stars.

“The stars,” said George, “The stars are my friends.” It is over thirty years since we had that conversation. I wonder how many pilots today still know where they are in the world by following the stars in the night sky. George retired in 1995 and with Heather moved to Tasmania at ‘Blackman’s Cove’ “Only you George, could do that,” laughed Heather and I in chorus. He stayed close to the edge, facing the ocean as he wondered what ahead for him.

It’s well into September now and there are storms coming in from the Atlantic ocean and tumbling over the Welsh hillsides on into the home countries. The winds are squally and the rain spits like a disgruntled snake. This is not a good day for landing a plane at Stanstead as the American President arrives for his second state visit which has been planned out very carefully to suit his tastes. As we work, the US President’s helicopters have just left the US residence in Regent’s Park, flying on their way to Windsor Castle. There will be soldiers standing with a guard of honor on the lawns before a carriage ride around the grounds, and inside in the evening a gold-plated meal – all within the safety of the castle keep. Hopefully the King will be wrapped up warmly and not catch cold.

On Thursday the US President will leave Windsor for Chequers where the prime minister will have another guard of Honor – this time a band of bag pipers. There are Churchill’s archives to view, if not read, before getting down to the business of deal-making with the leaders of GSK, Microsoft and Rolls-Royce. Meanwhile Melania will linger with the queen viewing the Windsor Royal Library along with Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. By the time the President and his wife leave they will have seen very little of the people’s displeasure at their feet on our soil.

On Saturday over a 150,000 people came to London joining a far-right street-protest. Billed as a festival of Free speech, Tommy Robinson then eased his people through into racial conspiracies and Anti – Muslim hate speech.  Having Elon Musk dialed in on the big screen was not that attractive as he railed against the “woke mind virus” and told the crowd that “violence is coming” and that “you either fight back or you die”. It didn’t sound much like Charlie Kirk’s suggestion to talk about it.

This morning the recycle truck came roaring down the street. The four lads jumped out, and jogging to the pavement, rolled the carts up to the lorry to chuck-in the recycling. The men are quick, laughing, shouting and getting on with it. I stand at our door with my bucket of compost, “Am I too late,” “No Aggie you’re fine, give it ‘ere.” And Nick takes my little bucket of compost and tosses it into the truck’s container. “How’ve you ‘bin Aggie?” “All right, and you?” “I’m retiring in two years Aggie.” “NO. You’re too young.” “I’m 64.” “No, you can’t be.” “I’m 82.” “No, Not a day over 42.” And he gives me an appraising look, as I stand there on the door step in my PJs and not a bit of uplift underneath.  Back in the house after this early morning banter, I’m smiling. If Nick and I were having a pub-time drink we would undoubtedly be sharing very different views about the worlds we live in. But we would talk and laugh together and buy just one more round.

This has been A Letter From A Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch 

And as always supported by https://www.murchstudio.com