Rockefeller Center Sold

Early in the day, I was greeted with the news that the Rockefellers had sold a huge chunk of Rockefeller Center to the Japanese (Part A, Oct. 31). I don’t know why I suddenly felt disconcerted; everyday somebody seems to be selling large parts of my country to folks who live some place else.

But this sale left me with an empty, disillusioned feeling. I felt cold all over and queasy. I was suddenly visited by a flood of memories of Christmases past, standing all bundled up, sipping hot chocolate and staring in awe at the big tree in Rockefeller Center. How wonderful to watch the skaters, faces chilled red, laughing as they move about the ice, watched by the big tree and warmed by the spirit of the season. How soon will all this be gone--I wonder!

Even in Los Angeles, as I walk the beautiful downtown plazas, I realize that the buildings and shops are not mine, nor do they belong to the shopkeepers. These places now belong to folks far away. Even Hollywood is being sold away.

The cascade of memories brought scenes of my boyhood and Macon, Ga., my hometown; of stores, buildings, places and folks that were part of everyone’s life. These were my stores and places; they also belonged to my friends and neighbors. What country owns my hometown now, I wonder.

The country in which my ancestors were enslaved but loved, the country that my forefathers worked to build, fought with and soldiered for, prayed for and hoped for is no longer here. It is gone. I have the hollow feeling that one morning I will awake to find that even familiar faces will be gone and the sky will be different. How unsettling is the feeling that I am a stranger in a land that but a moment ago was mine.

Until now, I always had the notion that what I thought and what I did with my life should somehow benefit my land and help make it good for those who follow me. I also thought it mattered to my country that I think and live this way. But alas, in the infinite wisdom of the powerful, my country is ceasing to be, and what I think and value, and indeed what I do, matters not.

This coming holiday season, I think I’ll paint a picture of David Rockefeller set in a wreath of holly and nail it to my front door. Quite possibly, this is what Christmas is all about nowadays.

LOUIS C. FRAYSER

Los Angeles