I am eighty-four years old. I have been fighting the good fight, one way or another, for seventy years, ever since I went to Yankee Stadium to hear Pete Seeger sing at a Henry Wallace rally in 1948 and ended up, across the river, watching Rex Barney pitch a no-hitter against the Giants. I ought to be able to relax, organize my files, watch old movies, and leave the fighting to my sons and, one day, to my grandchildren. And then I read this story of border guards separating children from their parents and I think, “Maybe one more fight.” It is not as though separating children from their parents is anything new in America. For the first seventy-eight years of the United States, it was standard operating procedure. It was called the Slave Market. There is not a single obscenity, foreign or domestic, now practiced by the U. S, government that is not as American as apple pie. But when I was younger, I had hope. Now, in my dotage, I think I am just too mean and stubborn to let it go. So come Tuesday, when Memorial Day is behind us, I will call my senators and my Representative, and tell some hapless staffer that I protest. Will they care? Of course not.