Now Reading: This is What America Looks Like - My Journey From Refugee to Congresswoman - Excerpt!

 As a refugee who fled civil war as a child, I am still trying to figure out where I fit in—which is perhaps why the most important note I found sticking to the wall outside my office had only three words. 

“You belong here.”

Even though there are many politicians who interest me, this one woman, who happened to write a book, has drawn me since she was first taunted over and over and over by white congressmen.

What power did she have to achieve so soon a prejudicial spirit from the republican party? For surely she had no past experience that they could consider--at least I didn't think so. Yet, there she was being a target right from the point she had been elected...

Why?

Obviously I decided to buy her memoir.

But immediately I realized that this book may later be a political story. But first, we learned about her early life that was so completely different from those who grew up in America, that I was startled...

And then empathy flowed as I continued to read...

Perhaps, I thought, if I shared an early chapter, there would be many United States women, and perhaps, even some men, who would also find, if not empathy, at least some type of sympathy???

But, frankly, after the last decade and, especially, during the last several years, I have lost any trust that men who have been so indoctrinated by various groups, that, if we allow it, women will be "placed" back into the kitchen/house, never to be allowed to even leave that building...

Am I wrong? I hope so. There are many women who have known the lack of a love such as Jesus (And who was clearly NOT White)

taught--to love wives as Christ loved the Church... I recognize that my faith is falling--not in God--but in how those who claim to be Christian have turned against the majority of All God's Children!

Because they are not White

But, merely, like Jesus and many other leaders

The Irony of this turn for so many is sadly incomprehensible to most... 

Prologue “Thank you for helping to uplift so many girls from all over! Love from Seattle.” “Salaam sister—from the West Side in Senegal to Detroit #13 strong. You continue to amplify us.” I don’t remember when they first appeared on the wall outside my office in the Capitol Building: the Post-it notes with words of admiration and encouragement left by people from as far as Duluth and Delhi. “Congresswoman, traveled from Oregon and HAD to see you! Thank you for being BRAVE, BOLD, AND OUTSPOKEN. If UR ever in Eugene, I can show you around.” “Thank you so much for all you’re doing to protect our courts!” “Keep fighting for immigrants.” I do know when they started to become a problem for Facilities. It was a few months after I became the first Somali American Muslim woman elected to Congress in 2018—right after President Donald Trump began his Twitter attacks against me. “Ilhan is an American hero!” “No matter what they say, we’ll always have your back!” Overnight, a large mosaic of multicolored squares grew up around the American flag and plaque bearing my name and the name of the state I represent, Minnesota. Maintenance asked us to remove them, so my staff took the Post-its down and put them back up on a wall inside my office. But visitors to the congressional office building, open to the public Monday to Friday, 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M., continued to put them up. “Thank you so much for being a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves.” “You are a soldier of the people for peace & justice for all.” They just kept coming, so Facilities gave up. Now the patch of little neon notes is a permanent bright spot on the otherwise austere white walls of a municipal hallway. What I am most proud of is not the visible expression of support for my work as a legislator, fighting for all my constituents’ ability to participate in our democracy. Nor is it the high praise or the depth of emotion—although these sentiments have gotten me through some tough times. What I am most moved by is the incredible diversity of the message writers. They come from different places and perspectives. There are Post-its from teenage girls, who dot their exclamation marks with little hearts, and from Senate staffers, who took a moment from their long days in a cynical city to jot down a positive word. A blue heart-shaped sticky note with “Republican women support you” was stuck beside a regular yellow Post-it that read, “From one black immigrant to another, please know that I love you.” I learned the Hebrew letters on a light blue note, מיר וועלן זיי עיבערלעבן, were actually Yiddish for “We will outlive them,” which Hasidic Jews in 1939 had turned into a song of resistance in the face of a Nazi commander. That all these people and more would choose to stand behind me—a Muslim immigrant who had arrived in this country from Africa speaking only two words of English—is proof enough that there are stronger bonds than identity. As a refugee who fled civil war as a child, I am still trying to figure out where I fit in—which is perhaps why the most important note I found sticking to the wall outside my office had only three words. “You belong here.”

Named a Best Political Book of the Year by The Atlantic

“This Is What America Looks Like is the origin story of a leader who,

 finding no set path that would take a person like her to the

places she wanted to go, was forced, and free, to chart her own.” 

–The New York Times Book Review

1 Fighter 1982–1988

Mogadishu, Somalia The teacher quickly put a student in charge of my third-grade class before she stepped out of the room. This was not unusual in my elementary school, where students stayed in the same classroom while our teachers for different subjects rotated in and out. When transitioning between periods, teachers usually designated one child to keep the rest from getting too rowdy. Like all kids, we were prone to abusing this position. Today, though, the boy in charge really let his newfound power go to his head. Almost immediately, he ordered another, smaller boy up to the chalkboard to write an assignment. “I beg you,” said the boy being ordered to the board, “leave me alone.” But the tall boy in charge was determined to humiliate his classmate, who was a minority in every sense. Poor, small, and an orphan, he didn’t have the crisp white shirts, ironed uniform trousers, and shiny school shoes of the middle class that the large boy and I both came from. The big boy continued to taunt his victim, escalating his threats when his classmate wouldn’t rise from his seat, until finally he shouted, “Hooyadawus!” which means “Go fuck your mother” in Somali. I burned in my seat. I always hate it when people use vulgar language, but I get really angry when it involves mothers, who I knew from the beginning were sacred—even if I didn’t have one. I mean, everybody was always talking about how important mothers are. In Islam, my native country’s main religion, we learned that “Paradise is under the feet of mothers.” You were supposed to bow to your mother, abide by her every wish, not debase her. There were also deeper forces at play than my seven-year-old brain could recognize in the moment. Although thanks to my older sisters and many loving aunties I didn’t lack for mothering, my mother, my hooyo, had died when I was a preschooler. I don’t have a single memory of her, even though I remember other things from that age—like family members fighting over whether or not I should start school. Some of my aunties and uncles thought I was too young, because technically you were supposed to wait at least until you lost your first two teeth. “She’ll lose her books,” someone said. “She won’t know where to go,” another argued, “and the other kids will steal from her.” But I didn’t stop complaining until they let me go. And, no, I didn’t lose my books or get robbed, even with all my baby teeth intact. I remember all of that clearly, but my hooyo? What she looked like, something she said, even what she died of? Nothing. As an adult, I went to a hypnotist to see if he could help evoke something, anything—a voice, a touch—but nothing emerged. I still find it so odd. Whether it was an early commitment to my religion’s teachings or the fact that an absence can loom larger than any reality, mothers were a big deal to me—and I didn’t like anybody to disrespect them. “He’s not going to get up,” I said to the bully. “You’re supposed to make sure nobody gets out of their seat, not give us assignments. So you’re just going to sit and shut up, and we’re going to wait for Teacher.” The boy, at least two heads taller than me, was not impressed. “If you don’t shut up, you’ll be sorry,” he said menacingly. I was a particularly tiny child, so anyone who didn’t know me assumed I was a coward. The runt who always got bullied at school. But I wasn’t afraid of fighting. I felt like I was bigger and stronger than everyone else—even if I knew that wasn’t really the case. “I’ll meet you in the rear courtyard after school,” I said. That was the place where all the kids went to fight. Right before the next teacher entered the room, the boy who I had stood up for whispered to me, “After school, I’m going to run, because after they beat you, they’re going to beat me.” “If you don’t want them messing with you every day,” I replied, “you’ve got to stand up for yourself.” He might have been a wimp, but he was no liar. When school let out, he kept his word and ran. With a crowd of kids screaming around us, the bully and I began fighting. I was small but a good fighter. I pulled the boy down and rubbed his face in the sand. When my brother, Malaaq, who was in the eighth grade, arrived to watch the fight and saw me grinding the boy into the ground, he shouted, “Ilhan! What the hell?” My brother wasn’t actually surprised to see me at the center of a fight, just annoyed. There was always a slew of parents coming to our house to complain that I had hurt their children. My dad would just laugh. “The only child nobody should be coming here to complain about is my smallest baby.” YES, I WAS THE BABY OF A LARGE FAMILY, AND YES, I WAS SMALL. But that had nothing to do with the sticks growing in the bushes by the gate outside our house, which were perfect for beating back any kid who chased me home from school. I had the independent mindset of an only child. I didn’t feel young, in no small part because I was never treated like a child. No one was patronized in my brilliant, loud family. In our Mogadishu compound—filled with African art, books of history and Somali poetry, and music—the disagreements were constant. We were a multigenerational family—aunties, uncles, cousins, and siblings from my maternal side, all living together. We were unlike a traditional hierarchical Somali family, where when the father or mother spoke no one else dared utter a word. Instead, everyone, even the youngest child, me, was brought into every decision. Sometimes I wished Baba, my grandfather, and my aabe, my father, would take on more authoritarian roles. They were annoyingly accommodating to each person’s opinion and patient during the ensuing arguments. Everybody was always screaming about what we should do, even when it came to what we were going to eat for dinner. The constant conflict made us at once close and distant from one another. Despite our differing points of view, we all were accustomed to disputes—we had that in common. There was nothing typical about my family. To this day, I don’t know a family quite like ours. But in Somalia, where members of an extended family living together are almost always patrilineal, we especially stood out, since my aabe had moved in with my mother and her family after they were married. Sons usually assumed responsibility for supporting their parents as they aged. Hooyo, however, wouldn’t agree to marry Aabe unless she could stay with her family. My father didn’t have a full appreciation of what he was getting into when he decided to leave everything he knew by the wayside for love. Although I would perceive different conflicts in him when I grew older, as a child, the greatest one I noticed had to do with his diet. Aabe, who won’t touch seafood, married into a family where fish was the primary source of protein. Furthermore, although he ostensibly fit into my mother’s world, as is often the case, he could never completely forget the ways he was born into. My father, an educator, came from a traditional patriarchal Somali family where the boys, the primary beneficiaries of educational investment, were raised to become the leaders of their future families. Meanwhile, when my grandfather welcomed his firstborn child, my mother, he promised himself that she would be treated the same as, if not better than, any male firstborn. Custom dictated that only the birth of a boy was a moment for pride. But Baba, who had a huge presence, was nevertheless very proud. He was opinionated and sure of himself, but not without reason. He had one of the sharpest memories of anyone I ever met. Well-read, he had the knowledge of so many books at his fingertips. When he wasn’t working at his government job, helping to run the country’s network of lighthouses, he liked to fish and play cards. Baba was also a great cook. He was a purist when it came to the ingredients he used to prepare dishes of his specialty, Italian cuisine. His minestrone was my favorite food. Just as he wouldn’t compromise on the quality of the tomatoes in his soup, Baba didn’t waver in his convictions. He stayed true to his vow to raise his daughter as an equal to his sons. When Hooyo met Aabe, she was in her twenties, which was very rare at the time, since women predominantly married in their late teens. Not only that, but she was also gainfully employed as a secretary for a government minister. I don’t know that my grandfather needed her financial support, but my mother had a sense of duty about living up to the responsibility and unusual privileges she had been afforded by her father. Everyone knew that if you ever needed Baba to sign on to something or calm him down about a dispute, you needed to talk to his daughter. She was my grandfather’s true confidante. I wasn’t surprised by the stories I heard time and again about how while she was alive, whatever Hooyo said, went. That’s because Baba continued to invest a lot of time and energy in the girls of the family (more than he did with the boys, according to my uncles). He was extremely close to us and did not adopt the traditional patriarchal role of the protector that Somali men usually fall into with the opposite sex. He treated us as equals. It’s always hard to say why a person goes against cultural norms. My grandfather’s freethinking partly stemmed, perhaps, from the fact that he didn’t come from one of the country’s formalized clans. The maternal side of my family was Benadiri, a Somali ethnic minority who trace their lineage to Persians, Indians, and Bantu peoples from West Africa and Arab Yemenis. Successful traders credited with helping spread Islam to Somalia, they settled in port cities like the country’s capital Mogadishu, where my grandfather was born and raised. I think Baba embraced the idea that if you don’t fit in anyway, you might as well do what you want. THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I COMPLETELY FIT IN AS A CHILD WAS within the walls of my family’s compound. Otherwise, I wasn’t quite enough of any one thing. Although officially I belonged to my aabe’s clan—one of the most powerful in the country—I wasn’t fully Somali because of who my mother was. Not that anyone, other than our neighbors, really was aware of this, since we weren’t stereotypical Benadiri, known for their light skin and passive natures. Many of my aunties and uncles, as well as my grandfather, had darker skin like me. And no one in our family was remotely passive. As the youngest, I was spoiled, but then again I really wasn’t. Our family of civil servants and teachers was well off enough to have a guarded compound and driver. But I didn’t like the attention I received from the other kids for the in-your-face privilege of our white Toyota Corolla and our driver, Farah—nor the constraints. I hated being driven back home after school and usually tried to walk, which meant trouble for Aabe, since that’s when the fights with other children took place. I also wasn’t enough of a girl, at least in the traditional sense. None of the women in my family were expected to cook and clean—like most Somali women. We certainly had just as many, if not more, opinions than the men in the house. But I also did what boys did outside the house. I played soccer. I climbed trees. I snuck into the movie theater. No other girls I knew did any of that. My tomboy ways only fueled the talk among the neighborhood women about “poor Ilhan,” a girl growing up without a mother. Never mind that I had all the love and attention of a crowd of caring adults, they reasoned, I must have been deprived of a mother’s affection and guidance. There were so many assumptions about who and what I was supposed to be, and none of them fit the description I had of myself. But I wasn’t burdened by the discrepancy. Indeed, I never bothered to answer for it. Instead, I followed Baba’s example. If there wasn’t a world out there to fully embrace me for who I was, I didn’t have to worry about appeasing anyone.

I was eight years old when civil war broke out in Somalia. One day everything was okay, and the next, there were bullets piercing not only buildings but also people.

In the reality of war, sometimes running for shelter somewhere else makes you feel safer—even if it isn’t so. On the way to my great-grandmother’s home, I saw bodies piled up on the street. We stepped over them. The adults didn’t know what was happening, even though I felt they should. Instead, I kept hearing them say the same thing over and over: “I don’t understand how everything just turned.”

~~~~

My background is German on both sides of my family. Reminding me again that when I asked my mother about my background, she immediately pointed out that I was an American. Today, as we are faced with the extreme turn of one political party against the known principles of democracy, we are also in a position wondering how everything just turned... But, when you stop and think about your own life, you will soon realize that in every society, every culture, there are individuals who act as bullies from their early lives and sometimes carry those predatory emotions into their adult lives. Others will choose, as Ilhan might have, coming from an actual democratically run home with sufficient financial support to be able to strive for what each would choose for their lives...

But as in the Prologue, we see that even with a unique family dynamic, this congresswomen chose to work with others to attempt to make life better for all... She was where she needed to be...

Yet, right from the beginning, it was the president himself who set the tone of prejudice against her, so that many have followed in his footsteps on bigotry... Yet she continues to fight!

What Ilhan Omar symbolized when she was attacked — and why it drives Trump crazy

The administration’s policies are about making women compliant again.

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-assault-trump-american-women-femininity

Rep. Ilhan Omar: Trump is weaponizing fear against me and other immigrants

ICE activity in Minnesota is state-sanctioned racial profiling used as a tool of political intimidation.

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-trump-slurs-somali-minnesota-ice

Trump not only dismissed Ilhan Omar — he disrespected his own role as president

Abraham Lincoln warned us about this momen

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-attack-trump-response

Disclaimer

I am sure all of my readers are aware that I do not support, in any way, the republican party. 

For one reason. We all know that the president lies, and the party follows what he says. I really have no choice. As long as I cannot trust anything stated by the republican representatives, I cannot in good conscience use any "alternative facts" from that group.

I have no desire to debate between parties. Politics, in my opinion, is backing 99% of the actions now being made by our government. None of it is legal. None of it is in in support of the majority of the needs of our citizens. None of it is supported by the constitution.

GABixlerReviews

Even James Becker Needed Lots of Help on This One! Fun Mystery Thriller! Check out John Betcher's Latest!

All that remained was for the agent
 to package the biologic for maximum
 dispersal and to add the explosive –
 Chinese fireworks known as M-80s
 would work just fine.

Rodney had no idea that, as a point of law, the dollar was neither necessary, nor in and of itself, sufficient, to establish a confidential relationship between us. That required a combination of expectation and intent. I leaned forward and flattened the wrinkled dollar on my desk blotter, taking time to repair each dog-eared corner. If I agreed to listen to Rodney, and maybe to help him with his concerns, it was unlikely I would be paid for my trouble. Then again, how often does a client pop into a lawyer’s office with a “big discovery?” He had captured my interest. After fixing the bill to my satisfaction, I folded it in half and tucked it in a shirt pocket. 
“You just hired yourself a lawyer,” I said. “You’ve got your confidentiality. But all I’m agreeing to do at this point is hear you out. I can’t guarantee I can be of any help until I know more. Understand?” 
“Yeah.” 
“Good,” I said. 
“Then let’s hear all about it, starting at the beginning if you don’t mind.” Rodney slid back in the chair, his hands gripping the armrests. He cracked his neck to both sides before beginning his tale. “It was yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Sunday . . . and I was out on the John Deere checking my fields, you know . . . and all of a sudden I hear this sound. It was a kinda weird sound, you know?” 
“Not really. Can you be more specific?” I had heard a lot of weird sounds in my day. Rodney thought for a moment. “It was kinda like whoosh-thud . . . tumble, tumble, tumble,” he said. He could have stuck with “weird” if that was the best he could do.

Bear Wave (Photo credits: Giphy)

 “Go on,” I said. “So I stood up and looked toward the sound.” He raised a hand to his brow and craned his neck, as though searching the horizon. “And something was knocking down my corn, like a big animal or something . . . not like a deer, more clumsy than that . . . maybe like a bear.” He looked to me for understanding. 
“A bear,” I said, nodding. It wasn’t a total impossibility that Rodney had encountered a bear in Ottawa County. There had been two or three confirmed sightings of black bear in the area over the past ten years. But his hypothesis wasn’t particularly likely either. I don’t remember anyone saying the other bears made a whoosh-thud, tumble sound. Then again, many interpretations are possible in the mind of an eyewitness . . . or in this case, ear-witness.
 “This thing, whatever it was, knocked down maybe thirty or forty feet of head-high corn stalks, in a straight line,” he continued. “I saw the last ones go down.” He clapped one flattened hand downward onto the other. “Then all was quiet,” he said, passing a benediction over the serenity in my office. He checked to make sure I was tracking. I gave him two thumbs up. “Anyway,” he went on, “this thing’s trail was pretty obvious in the corn. But not knowing what in the heck it was, I was a little . . . you know . . . reluctant to investigate.” Yeah. He was afraid it was a bear. “But I found a good size wrench in a fender box and decided to take a chance.” He made a hammering motion as he wielded the imaginary wrench. “So I got off the tractor and slipped into the corn field, nice and quiet like.” Rodney’s story-telling momentum was gaining steam as he worked his way along. This was probably a first rendition of the “big discovery” story. He would no doubt smooth out earlier scenes on future iterations. I stroked my chin as if contemplating the implications of Rodney’s tale thus far.
In truth, he hadn’t said much of consequence yet, at least as far as I was concerned.

~~~

 The largest FMD epidemic in U.S. history occurred in 1914 when diseased animals were transported to the stock yards in Chicago. Stock yards. 

Of course, we have no idea how many have tried to "create" it...

The Critical Element

Book 5: James Beck Series

John L. Betcher

If you've read the James Beck Series you already know what this latest exudes... His back-handed witty and/or facetious comments that may or may not be received well by the police officials with whom he gets involved! I enjoy them in the books--I don't know how I would accept them if I were the receiver of this wit...LOL 

James Beck has a high security clearance, higher than most of us even understand--and his wife's may be just as high... And they are both definitely higher than any local police have, much to their irritation. Intelligence for each? Different but generally, they communicate quite effectively and work so well together than it is almost like they are making love... In other words, I very much enjoy this couple...They are both loving, trustworthy, and dedicated to keeping America safe and secure. In this story, James is on the frontline, his wife in the background and he doesn't even share her name or reference her when she gets more information faster that any of the FBI specialists... Most of you will easily guess why...

Now you may quickly wonder what the opening excerpts are today--cows, a bear, and what looks like a bowling ball... Well, that's exactly right...That's what James was faced with as he began his $1 dollar discussion with Rodney Holton. (BTW, did you know that you weren't buying confidentiality with $1? I always did believe that, so we learned something from our lawyer series!)

Now Holton was a bit of a shyster and everybody knew it, but he would tell such stories, that some people would always listen... Beck did for a dollar's worth... But the story made him curious enough that he later went out to the farm to see it himself--and paid $39 more than he'd been paid! Boy, this guy is good!

Or Was...

Because Rodney wasn't far wrong in describing what he'd found on his farm as a meteorite. But when Beck saw it, he decided while it might have come out of the air, that it was probably man-made--and looked like a burnt bowling ball, maybe. Rodney had it all rigged out in his yard, even though it had not landed there and was selling views for $20/head...

Wonder how that compared to the money he lost on all the heads of cows he lost...

Confused? Everybody was! Because before long, Rodney's discovery had been stolen!

And his cattle became ill about the same time...

Soon many were concluding that the cattle had become ill from the meteorite, and it wasn't very long before the government had come, killed all his cattle and burned down his barn. That was bad enough, but it didn't seem that they were concerned about the theft of his, hopefully, very valuable prize from the sky! Now, the book doesn't say, but I can just imagine that Rodney immediately started negotiating with the loss of his cattle, his livelihood and his valuable meteorite and was soon somewhere in a very warm climate, living in luxury for the rest of his life...

In the meantime, Beck had been the only one who listened to a neighbor of Rodney. Blastus looked bad, smelled terribly and seemed a little "off" but really had PTSD from his horrible time in Vietnam and no help since then. Beck immediately realized what shape he was in and started to wade through what he was telling that he'd seen. He'd gone to the Sheriff to explain that he thought that his neighbor was selling drugs because of the activity he'd seen at off hours... But working with him, Beck soon was picking up clues that only he was using... and, in essence, he had concluded that there were two different events--possibly terrorist attacks--from two different sources. But nobody was really willing to accept what he was suggesting.

So, like Beck is prone to do, he called in his own help--Bull! And if you don't know this character, then it's worth reading at least one of the books to meet him! So with Beth and Bull's help, Beck soon had a handle on what and who was doing what. Beth was getting worried, but she continued to feed both Beck and Bull additional information even while they were separately trying to tackle what they believed was taking place--at exactly the same time. Fortunately, they got help just "in the nick of time..." LOL but it certainly made for an exciting, fascinating ending! I loved it!

Each of the books is free-standing, even though the series characters are basically the same for each book. So, this is a perfect time to discover why Betcher's series has steadily gained a following that moved this relatively new author quickly into a best-selling status... Adding an Epilogue to spotlight what had later happened to Blastus is a perfect illustration why this writer brings in more and more readers (See Below!)

If you don't like this series, I will be totally amazed... If you enjoy mystery, thrills, and humorous main characters...hey, this is an unusual group of wonderfully heart-warming characters! Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

When I told the receptionist I was there to meet Benny Volnscheid, she recognized the name immediately. “You mean Blastus,” she said with a smile. “He’s in the PT area right now. Just follow the signs.” She pointed me in the right direction. “And keep your ears peeled.” 
I had no idea what that meant, but took her advice concerning the signs. As I approached the doorway labeled “Physical Therapy,” I could hear the sounds of an acoustic guitar strumming and a ragged chorus of male voices belting out the chorus to Old Stewball Was a Race Horse emanating from within. I opened the door and stepped inside. On the far side of the room, adjacent to a wall of cloudy windows, a guitarist sat astride a black vinyl exercise bench, one hand banging the guitar strings, and singing for all he was worth – the obvious leader of this tone deaf glee club. A group of maybe twenty young men, mostly amputees, sat gathered around him and were obviously responsible for a majority of the racket. My eyes left the musician momentarily then darted back for a second look. He was almost unrecognizable owing to the short haircut, the clean shaven face, and the bright plaid flannel shirt. But I had no doubt, the guitarist was my formerly reeking and dissolute buddy, Benny Volnscheid. 
When Benny noticed my presence, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment, but didn’t interrupt the song. I leaned on the wall and listened, a smile glued to my face. . . . 

Oh the fairgrounds were crowded, and Stewball was thereBut the betting was heavy on the bay and the mare. And a-way up yonder, ahead of them all, Came a-prancin' and a-dancin' my noble Stewball.I bet on the grey mare, I bet on the bay. If I'd have bet on ol' Stewball, I'd be a free man today. Oh the hoot owl, she hollers, and the turtle dove moans. I'm a poor boy in trouble, and I'm a long way from home. Ol’ Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine. He never drank water, he always drank wine.

When the song was over, the singers erupted in cheers and applause for ol’ Blastus.

~~~

Amazon TOP 100 Bestselling Author, John L. Betcher, holds a Bachelor's Degree, cum laude, in English from St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota and a Juris Doctorate from the University of Minnesota Law School in Minneapolis. He has practiced law for more than twenty-five years in the Mississippi River community of Red Wing, Minnesota. Mr. Betcher has published an award-winning series of "Becker" suspense/thriller novels. The first five are THE 19TH ELEMENT, THE MISSING ELEMENT, THE COVERT ELEMENT, THE EXILED ELEMENT and THE CRITICAL ELEMENT. He has also authored the award-winning spiritual phenomenon, A HIGHER COURT.

James Becker Series Includes Funny, Talented Husband/Wife Team!

Image via Wikipedia

"Though he was an American soldier, 

Fuentes considered his Ranger team

 a covert element in the larger conflict

 between the Mexican people and the cartels.

 This was a war he knew

 he would be fighting for a long time,

 whether under the American flag or not."

The Covert Element:


A James Becker Thriller




By John L. Betcher




I continue to so much enjoy John Betcher's  Series, especially when Beth, his wife, takes part in solving the crime. James and Beth are fun to get to know through scenes such as this: 


"What have you been doing while I was at work anyway?" Beth asked, assuming a defensive posture."
"Pretty much rolling around in the neighbor's sand box. Why? Is there something unsavory about me?"
"I'd say you're pretty much out of savor. Now go get cleaned up so I can show you what I found."
With a bow and a doff of my imaginary cap, I was off to the shower. I knew Beth thought the cap thing was stupid. But hey...as far as vices go, a quirky doff isn't so bad.

Beth's background is CIA and has extensive computer skills that were very much needed.  Beck had been called by Doug Gunderson (Gunner), Ottawa County Chief Deputy Sheriff, to meet him at the site where a meth lab had been destroyed. More importantly, the "twenty-odd murder victims lined up outside" appeared to be execution style, perhaps gang related...

Information about what might be happening comes through Beck's friend and sometimes investigative assistant, Bull. His former sarge in the Rangers, had called, asking for help. He had told Bull there had been a massacre and that he was sure the Mexican Drug Cartel was involved. Beck knew that the police had not released any information about the meth lab deaths and immediately was suspicious how Bull's friend could know. 

When Bull asked Beck to be in on the meeting with Fuentes, he agreed, hoping to gain further information. 

Meth labs could be built/maintained within the US borders, thus improving quantity and saving both transportation and patrol problems. The head of the Mexican cartel had moved into the Minnesota area without anybody knowing it. Mexicans had been in the state for many years and were accepted by the people in the small surrounding towns. Now one lab had been destroyed--perhaps by another cartel? But there was also a major lab, ingeniously hidden within another organization--but where was it? At least one individual knew, was it the same one who had murdered those near the lab that had already been destroyed?

Tackling a major, known problem within the United States is just what James Becker would have done had he still be working, wherever he had worked...So even if he was now retired, Beck was still in there, doing what he does best to support the USA.

Influence of the Mexican Drug Cartel
http://www.flickr.com/photos/truthout/4037933538/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Follow the potential life of one Mexican-American individual who dedicated his life to eliminating the Drug Cartels. John Betcher's choice to use this character is intriguing, allowing us to see into the heart of many Mexicans who are just as concerned, or maybe even more so, about the influence of drugs in the United States and throughout the world. I commend John for this effort and look forward to future important books in this series. Highly recommended.


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Review: The 19th Element Sets James Becker Up for the Long Run!

The 19th Element:

 

A James Becker Thriller

By John L. Betcher

ISBN: 1451521014
316 Pages

Image via Wikipedia   Robert B. Parker

It was just luck that I happened to read The Missing Element first, because it quickly pulled me in as a fan of this series. One of the reasons why I wanted to read the book is that he advertised it as somewhat like the writing of Robert B. Parker, who was one of my favorite authors

And I was pleased to see similar dialogue and a wonderful threesome fighting crime as was displayed in the Spenser series...John L. Betcher had my attention!

But it was The 19th Element that won John L. Betcher his own place on my list of favorite authors. This novel firmly sets the character, Beck, in a solid role of hero in my book! Not willing to give away anything, I can only say that the climactic plane scene is really amazing!

James L. Becker is an attorney-at-law who went back to his childhood hometown of Red Wing, Minnesota, to begin his retirement after 20+ years of hush-hush military intelligence operations. His wife, Elizabeth, also has quite a background, but she's a minor character in The 19th Element and I did mention to the author that I missed their lively, fun dialogue this time! To which I got an "Understood." (Well, if you don't ask...LOL)

Beck could keep busy with his law practice, but whenever something happens in or around Red Wing, he tends to look at it from all angles...and if it doesn't "feel" right to him, he'll start to asking questions.  So of course when a dead body is found on the Mississippi River shoreline north of his town, he immediately wanted to know more--who was he, first of all.

Gunner (Doug Gunderson) is Ottawa County's Chief Deputy Sheriff. Normally, he wouldn't be interested in having a "civilian" involved in his business, but he has already discovered that Beck always seems to make sense and usually is of help, even if he's somewhat pushy about knowing everything! Actually, they are old school friends and Gunner is one of the few individuals who was persistent enough to be told a little of Beck's background. Besides, while Gunner operates strictly by the book, he knows that Beck...has his own rules. I love the dialogue between the two men...

After the usual press by Beck to be told all, he learned that the dead man had been a professor of Agriculture at the university. He had been stabbed. And his lab assistant, Farris Ahmed, was also missing. Beck was already profiling and wanting to know the international activities, etc. Of course, Gunner's response was strictly stated: "No racial profiling..."

But Beck was already thinking! Was there any ties to Al Qaeda? What was in the area that might be of interest to terrorists? And to be more specific--what had the professor been working on in his lab? Was there anything missing?

When you ask the right questions as Beck did, you start getting a handle on the possibilities! The professor had been involved with studying the use of potassium and had invented a "potassium electrolysis separator." With the device, it was possible to extract pure potassium from potassium chloride, transforming it from a solid to a gas, which would then convert to solid potassium metal... What readers will learn is that it can be a very dangerous explosive!

And the potential interest in the area? Oh, that would be the...nuclear plant, specifically, the Minnesota's Prairie River Nuclear Power Plant--See front cover!

The thrilling suspense comes in as Beck uses one clue after another to arrive at what the plans will be. His knowledge and experience, plus his inborn wisdom allows an empathy that reflects not only the overall plan but the details that must be considered and countered.

Especially, when nobody supports his announced theory of a major threat and only his friend Bull will work with him... that is, until it is almost too late!

Wow! I loved it! John L. Betcher has written a thriller that will keep you turning pages and reading until you finish, especially once you arrive on the scheduled day! The choice of potassium as the explosive is very risky; events leading to its use, in themselves, are dangerous. The characters created to support the incident lead to the terror in many ways...only in America...right? Don't know what I mean, well, you're just going to have to read the book! You won't be sorry...

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Review: Freya's Child - Great Merge of Mythology and History!

Image via Wikipedia

Freya's Child

By Alvin Franzmeier




Wheatmark

ISBN: 9781604943658

241 Pages

It was 1939 and most of the world was watching as Nazi Germany invaded and took over countries. Would the US become involved? Alvin Franzmeier sets his book, Freya’s Child, during this time; however, within the background, the novel presents an alternative history that will fascinate readers in its potential...

Dr. Hulda Schwarz was a sergeant in the SS when she was told to meet with Nazi Schutzstaffel Reich’s Fuhrer Heinrich Himmler. Nervous at first, she was thrilled when she was asked to discuss a runestone that had been found in Minnesota. Many believed that the stone could have great significance for the future of the Reich. She shared a part that she had already been able to translate:

Shine Freya Moon gold bright and clear
Your day of rest draws near
Valhalla calls her maiden home...

For the German Nazis, they believe that the stone would lead to gold...

But for Dr. Schwarz, it was far more important. She tried to explain to Himmler about the true discoverers of the Americas when the Scandinavian countries had traveled into Canada and down into America in areas now included in the state of Minnesota. Finding a Runestone seemed to prove this to be true.

And to Dr. Schwarz and other believers, it was believed that the poem was foretelling the return of the goddess Freya and it would be her race, the Aryan race, that would now rule the world. Dr. Schwarz was willing to ride the Hitler wagon, though she knew that most Nazis were atheists.

When Dr. Schwarz arrived, it seemed that a strange number of coincidences had led her there and were supporting her beliefs. She was a Volva and practiced Seidh. Indeed it was her extensive research and study of her faith that allowed her to translate the words (runes) on the stone. She believed the prophecy pointed to their destiny as the leaders of the Aryan people and that blessed Freya, becoming incarnate in a promised child, would guide them.

Valhalla - "Heaven" for those who believed...

Image via Wikipedia...


That child, however, happened to have been born to Albert Freitag’s family. He was a Dakota County deputy sheriff; however, because he spoke German, he had been requested to work with the FBI on occasion because it was known that there were Nazi soldiers and sympathizers in the United States.

Tillie, his wife, was pregnant and was afraid for Al to go undercover. Especially when she met the beautiful Hulda Schwarz and saw her interest in her husband! But it was more than jealousy, she was afraid of Hulda and later for her child...
Al tried to reassure Tillie, but within himself, he worried and wondered. He seemed to be under a spell whenever Hulda was around. What was worse, his job demanded that he travel with her to try to find out what plans were underway by the Germans...

Alvin Franzmeier’s merge of the legends of Valhalla with the political power and takeover by Germany is a wonderful blend of history that results in an adventure both suspenseful and fantastical in its possibilities. I thoroughly enjoyed this and lovers of both history and mystery and suspense will find this tale well worth reading!


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John L. Betcher Announces First James Becker Mystery! Review Coming Soon

After decades of clandestine government operations, James “Beck” Becker and his wife Elizabeth return to “Beck’s” childhood home to enjoy a settled retirement in the small Mississippi river town of Red Wing, Minnesota. But “settled” is a relative term and no matter where Beck goes, intrigue follows.

When Minneapolis computer genius, Katherine Whitson, disappears under peculiar circumstances, her husband exploits a sympathetic Red Wing acquaintance to enlist Beck’s aid in finding her. As it turns out, Katherine’s kidnapping is more complicated than the typical abduction, and the case taxes the Beckers’ considerable skills to their limits.

After dispensing with the “usual” suspects – the unfaithful husband, his same-sex lover, an overly-ambitious co-worker and a cadre of beleaguered managers – Beck homes in on Katherine’s boss at ComDyne Computer Systems as the likely mastermind behind her abduction.

Under cover of darkness, Beck and his word-miserly American Indian cohort, Bull, follow the kidnappers on a visit to their remote “hidey hole” in an abandoned artillery installation. With the aid of law enforcement, the two guys in the white hat and headdress free Katherine from her dungeon imprisonment. But she’s not safe until her boss is behind bars.

Now it will take all of the Beckers’ collective experience – his as a military intelligence specialist and hers as a CIA code-cracker – to bring Katherine's captors to justice, and to neutralize an international cyber-espionage threat that has been at the root of the kidnapping all along.

Katherine herself proves instrumental in orchestrating an FBI raid on her employer’s--ComDyne Systems, Inc.’s--headquarters and in exposing the nefarious potential of ComDyne’s new network hardware.

In the end, Homeland Security halts the release of ComDyne’s spy components. And the would be pooks/kidnappers receive their due.

Some of the book’s more unique characteristics are its Minnesota setting, its likeable main characters and its high-technology-made-understandable. Not to be forgotten is Beck’s American Indian cohort, “Bull,” who presents a stoic, formidable and good-humored persona.

The characters are reminiscent of those in the Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series. The book also features a good deal of law enforcement tactics and technology throughout.

WHAT MAKES THIS BOOK UNIQUE?


The Missing Element delivers high-stakes action in a Midwest setting. The book’s likeable characters, intelligent dialogue and traditional mystery plot line will appeal all readers of commercial mysteries. Along with the mystery comes a good deal of hightechnology-made-understandable, as the main character, James “Beck” Becker delves into the mind-bending world inside computer micro-processors.

Written in the style of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels, The Missing Element's action takes place at various venues in and around the Twin Cities area. So readers who are looking for a Minneapolis, or even a Minnesota, connection will appreciate the book’s authentic local color.

According to computer experts with whom the author has consulted, the book’s cyber-espionage premise is not only plausible, but likely. Reviewers agree.

And finally, readers who are concerned about the Orwellian aspects of the ‘black box’ that computer high-technology has become, will enjoy the philosophical questions Beck raises as he contemplates the reality that ‘man’ is fast becoming the ‘missing element’ in the cyber-equation

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY


The author holds a Bachelor’s Degree, cum laude, in English from St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota and a Juris Doctorate from the University of Minnesota Law School in Minneapolis. He has practiced law for more than twenty-five years in the Mississippi River community of Red Wing, Minnesota. He has also been a long-time supporter and coach of youth volleyball there.

Mr. Betcher has published three feature articles in COACHING VOLLEYBALL, the Journal of the American Volleyball Coaches Association. His most recent article was the cover story for the April/May, 2009 Issue.

His book on volleyball coaching philosophies entitled The Little Black Book of Volleyball Coaching has been selling nationwide and is currently available at Amazon.com.

His mystery novel, The Missing Element, was featured on the Reading Minnesota Blog on April 5, 2010, Reader’s Choice Review on April 25, 2010 and in the Red Wing Republican Eagle newspaper on May 1, 2010. He is also an active member and writing peer coach at the Agent Query Connect writer's forum.


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