Dear Dr. Schweizer,
The present-day phenomenon of the 'chicken hawk' - warmongering conservatives who found ways to ditch their duty during the Vietnam era - has renewed my interest in McCarthyism. I wonder whether the same type - the loud-mouth, self-proclaimed super patriot - succeeded politically then using the same tactics Karl Rove succeeds with today. Rove has successfully trashed men whose patriotic credentials seemed beyond reproach - John McCain, Max Cleland, and John Kerry. Does this repeat an ugly pattern from the past? Do the loud-mouth, sunshine patriots always win?
I began compiling a list of Predators and Prey from the McCarthy period. I was considering adding Ronald Reagan to the Predators list - when I picked up your book as part of the research. I also picked up Eric Bentley's,Thirty Years of Treason, where I read Reagan's testimony before HUAC. The only person Reagan trashed was Herb Sorrell (and I'll take your word that Sorrell merited trashing) so I decided that he was not a true Predator. And Reagan was fairly eloquent expressing his confidence that a free society could win an open debate with Communism.
Your book disappointed me in several ways. Your portrayal of the Hollywood strike made it appear that the strikers were all dupes - puppets on Sorrell's string. Your analysis struck me as shallow and perfunctory. People do not, like zombies, risk their livelihood. I could not buy your assertion (on p. 282) that 'Moscow and its supporters did try to gain a level of control in Hollywood.' Frankly, I am still with Lillian Hellman's confession that she was wrong about Stalin but the McCarthyites were the ones who damaged the country.
Your analysis of the Hollywood strike raised my suspicions. I skimmed the index. Lo and behold, there was no mention of 'Beirut' or 'Marine barracks' or 'Lebanon' or 'national debt.' Warily, I read on. Imagine my disgust with your omission of any reference to the cut and run after the bombing of the Marine barracks on February 23, 1983. That omission is especially nauseating given the fact that Marines (who had been on the way to Beirut and diverted at sea) landed on Grenada on the very same day! That is a startling fact. Your failure to comment upon it makes it difficult to take you seriously as a biographer.
(Would it not be perfectly logical for the terrorists - comparing President Reagan's tough policy toward the Soviets with his cut and run from Beirut - to conclude that assymmetric war might very well work against the United States? May I suggest this as a topic for your next book? Would not that be a meatier, more dignified topic for someone with your credentials than joining Ann Coulter in her petty hectoring of liberals?)
The Wall in Berlin fell at some cost. The women of Afghanistan paid a very high price for the re-unification of Germany. The bureaucrats of the Soviet puppet government in Kabul were 55% female. When that government fell (after holding on for several years after the Russian withdrawal), those women were handed pink slips and blue burkahs. A reign of Terror was unleashed. Our abandonment of those women was a great sin. Connect that sin up with Reagan's obscene deficit spending - and the unheeded warning of Deuteronomy, chapter 28, seems our just desserts. After warning, in verse 12, that God's people "shalt lend unto many nations and thou shalt not borrow," verses 49-52 describe the punishment: "The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from afar, from the end of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth... and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates until thy high and fenced walls come down..."
In conclusion, your use of Soviet and old Warsaw Pact sources briefly made an impression upon me. But upon consideration of the startling omissions, the bias with which I began reading the book still stands. Ronald Reagan, though a very nice guy, is the third most over-rated President in American History.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Rumfoord's Pocket History of Iraq
Civilization, to date, has created 10,000 wars. Regrettably, there are only four intelligent commentaries on war: those of Thucydides, Julius Caesar, Shelby Foote, and Winston Niles Rumfoord, my uncle, who chose 75,000 words so well that nothing remains to be said about the war between Earth and Mars. That war, of course, is prologue to my war. As such, the enquiring scholar must carefully study The Pocket History of Mars.
My purpose would be well- served with a brief excerpt from my uncle's masterwork:
I served in the war between Earth and Mars, a veteran of its greatest skirmish - the Battle of the Basel Meat Market. When the Swiss demanded my surrender, I ejaculated, "Nuts!" My bravery that day inspired Winston Niles Rumfoord to adopt me as his nephew, heir to his Legacy. I carry on today, in Iraq, the high ideals of his Martian adventure.
The American Commander-in-Chief responded to 9/11 by announcing a Crusade. Imagine the consternation in the Islamic World! Could any announcement more inflame them? The radio antenna we had installed in his head worked perfectly! He followed this up by christening our military response, "Operation Infinite Justice." Since only Allah can dispense Infinite Justice, he might as well have code-named it Operation Blasphemy.
The perpetrators of 9/11 left a trail of bread crumbs leading to Afghanistan. The terrorists were funded by a network of Wahhabi charities tracking back to Saudi Arabia. 14 of the suicide bombers were Saudis. None were from Iraq, a secular Ba'athist country. I reminded everyone that there were few good targets in Afghanistan, no place less suited for demonstrating the overwhelming strike capacity of the American war machine.
I went, reluctantly, with the World into Afghanistan. We kept the pressure on, offensively, as our NATO allies came in behind us to secure liberated areas. Once we trapped the al Qaeda leadership in Tora Bora, we were finally free to go after Iraq, my preferred target. The oil men were overjoyed. Secretly, I smiled at their naive greed.
The easy victory in Afghanistan failed to satiate the urge to avenge 9/11. We manipulated that angst mercilessly. We cherry-picked the intelligence, elevating to the status of revealed Truth the fairy tales of an embezzler and a doubtful source code-named 'Curve Ball.' In our public pronouncements on national security, we always coupled Iraq with 9/11. We casually dismissed the conclusions of the inter-agency Iraq Assessment Group, which warned that high troop levels would have to be maintained after Liberation. We laughed in the face of the counter-insurgency theorists, who warned of a protracted struggle. Generals who questioned our rosy scenario were put on the fast track to retirement. We squawked about a (non-existent) nuclear threat. We retaliated against those who questioned our pronouncements.
It was a masterpiece of Mendacity.
The war in Iraq commenced with our bombing of Baghdad, something we christened 'shock and awe' - an obvious synonym for Terror. Humanity was put on notice. Though the bombs were very smart, the technological transformation of the American military was still incomplete. Institutionally, the objective was to transcend the human factor, boots on the ground. Simultaneously, this would make morale, as a factor to be consulted, obsolete. With Morale obsolete, morality could be jettisoned as well. All war calculations, for the first time in History, would be purely objective. Humanity would lie prostrate to pure power. And it would be America, an apathetic democracy, which would wield that power.
The war in Iraq, sold to Americans as quick and easy, has entered its fifth year. The war, meant to be financed by Iraq's oil revenues, is costing the United States $5,000,000,000 per month. Selling the war was a masterpiece of deception. The American people blinded themselves to the ruthless manipulation. The rest of the World watched in disgust.
Many at DoD like to think the war would have been better put off until transformation was complete. But, they admit that 9/11 presented a golden opportunity. We had to seize it. My colleagues at DoD like to think that American public opinion today would be more positive if we were fighting with a transformed military - where we had elevated war to a simple mathematical calculation. They don't ask themselves the next series of questions. Would the rest of the World serenely submit to American domination? How many would we have to kill and maim with our machines to secure that submission? In securing that submission, would we become better people? Or would we continue to rot, growing ever more obese - denizens of the Third Circle, slush-meat for Cerberus - as our machines performed our dirty work?
The virtue of transformation, in terms of the Rumfoord Legacy, would have been to clarify the central issue. Is the life force, Universal Will to Become (UWTB), stronger than the death force? Would Humanity submit to the whims of an overfed superpower?
The war in Iraq, politically, for Americans, has been an exercise in flatulent patriotism, orchestrated by men notorious for their lack of service in an earlier imperialist adventure. The end of the American Empire is being greeted with a Greek chorus of 'Support our Troops,' the theme song of people who have no intention of joining them. Instead, the volunteers suffer third and fourth tours of duty. (They remind me so much of the grossly misused Army of Mars.) The army wastes away through attrition. Morale seeps, like blood, into the desert sands ready to blow away forever with the next brisk gale.
The American people bought our argument that, by tying down the terrorists in Iraq, they could not attack our homeland. Few considered the possibility that the reverse would be true, that terrorists could tie us down for decades fighting an insurgency in Iraq. And consider the chill this policy has up the spines of the rest of the World. Americans are willing to see other countries, any country, turned into playgrounds for terrorists as long as the United States is not hit. Imagine adopting such a morally bankrupt strategy while, simulaneously, claiming moral leadership of the World.
Nothing could suit my purpose better.
American casualties, to date, are over 3500 killed - more than 2500 of those after victory was (prematurely) declared in May 2003. At least 15,000 have been wounded, a high percentage of those seriously. Indigenous casualties number somewhere between 30,000 and 650,000. Nobody knows for sure, and most Americans - especially the Rapture-impaired, Culture of Life mob - don't care. Nobody knows how many have been seriously wounded. Is there anyone in Iraq unscathed by this war?
In The Pocket History of Mars, my uncle takes the measure of Leadership. I am certain he would admire our Commander-in-Chief immensely.
The American Commander-in-Chief believes he is a divine instrument. Oh! If he only he knew to what purpose! Consider the irony. The man was voted into the most powerful office in the World thanks to the Electoral College, a vestige of the old Slavocracy. Then, in office, this man (the living embodiment of the failure of the great American democracy) announced that he would impose Democracy on the Middle East! Americans, robot-like, nodded their heads approvingly. The rest of
the World hung their heads in dismay.
Iraq is the vomit of the anarchic system of competing nation-states. The liberating force of the 18th Century, Nationalism, has decayed into a death wish. The nation-state is a millstone around our necks. Either we get rid of it, or it will get rid of us. In a world where two billion people go to bed hungry every night, $1,000,000,000,000 is immolated every year on the funeral pyre of defense spending. An elected, representative and sovereign United Nations is long overdue. The life force, Universal Will to Become (UWTB), imposes an intelligent design. Only a re-chartered United Nations can act legitimately against Terrorism. Such an institution cannot emerge until the last superpower is brought to its knees.
I am the mastermind of the American suicide in Iraq. It was always my intent to lose this war - to lose it foolishly and dishonorably. Flaws in the American character, runaway hubris, and an abundance of right wing lunatics on talk radio simplified my mission immeasurably. The great and unforgettable humiliation of America will bring on a great consummation which will usher in a millenium of peace.
My purpose would be well- served with a brief excerpt from my uncle's masterwork:
"The mastermind of the Martian suicide was Winston Niles Rumfoord... It was Rumfoord's intention that Mars should lose the war - that Mars should lose it foolishly and horribly. As a seer of the future, Rumfoord knew for certain that this would be the case, and he was content. He wished to change the world for the better by the great and unforgettable suicide of Mars."
I served in the war between Earth and Mars, a veteran of its greatest skirmish - the Battle of the Basel Meat Market. When the Swiss demanded my surrender, I ejaculated, "Nuts!" My bravery that day inspired Winston Niles Rumfoord to adopt me as his nephew, heir to his Legacy. I carry on today, in Iraq, the high ideals of his Martian adventure.
The American Commander-in-Chief responded to 9/11 by announcing a Crusade. Imagine the consternation in the Islamic World! Could any announcement more inflame them? The radio antenna we had installed in his head worked perfectly! He followed this up by christening our military response, "Operation Infinite Justice." Since only Allah can dispense Infinite Justice, he might as well have code-named it Operation Blasphemy.
The perpetrators of 9/11 left a trail of bread crumbs leading to Afghanistan. The terrorists were funded by a network of Wahhabi charities tracking back to Saudi Arabia. 14 of the suicide bombers were Saudis. None were from Iraq, a secular Ba'athist country. I reminded everyone that there were few good targets in Afghanistan, no place less suited for demonstrating the overwhelming strike capacity of the American war machine.
I went, reluctantly, with the World into Afghanistan. We kept the pressure on, offensively, as our NATO allies came in behind us to secure liberated areas. Once we trapped the al Qaeda leadership in Tora Bora, we were finally free to go after Iraq, my preferred target. The oil men were overjoyed. Secretly, I smiled at their naive greed.
The easy victory in Afghanistan failed to satiate the urge to avenge 9/11. We manipulated that angst mercilessly. We cherry-picked the intelligence, elevating to the status of revealed Truth the fairy tales of an embezzler and a doubtful source code-named 'Curve Ball.' In our public pronouncements on national security, we always coupled Iraq with 9/11. We casually dismissed the conclusions of the inter-agency Iraq Assessment Group, which warned that high troop levels would have to be maintained after Liberation. We laughed in the face of the counter-insurgency theorists, who warned of a protracted struggle. Generals who questioned our rosy scenario were put on the fast track to retirement. We squawked about a (non-existent) nuclear threat. We retaliated against those who questioned our pronouncements.
It was a masterpiece of Mendacity.
The war in Iraq commenced with our bombing of Baghdad, something we christened 'shock and awe' - an obvious synonym for Terror. Humanity was put on notice. Though the bombs were very smart, the technological transformation of the American military was still incomplete. Institutionally, the objective was to transcend the human factor, boots on the ground. Simultaneously, this would make morale, as a factor to be consulted, obsolete. With Morale obsolete, morality could be jettisoned as well. All war calculations, for the first time in History, would be purely objective. Humanity would lie prostrate to pure power. And it would be America, an apathetic democracy, which would wield that power.
The war in Iraq, sold to Americans as quick and easy, has entered its fifth year. The war, meant to be financed by Iraq's oil revenues, is costing the United States $5,000,000,000 per month. Selling the war was a masterpiece of deception. The American people blinded themselves to the ruthless manipulation. The rest of the World watched in disgust.
Many at DoD like to think the war would have been better put off until transformation was complete. But, they admit that 9/11 presented a golden opportunity. We had to seize it. My colleagues at DoD like to think that American public opinion today would be more positive if we were fighting with a transformed military - where we had elevated war to a simple mathematical calculation. They don't ask themselves the next series of questions. Would the rest of the World serenely submit to American domination? How many would we have to kill and maim with our machines to secure that submission? In securing that submission, would we become better people? Or would we continue to rot, growing ever more obese - denizens of the Third Circle, slush-meat for Cerberus - as our machines performed our dirty work?
The virtue of transformation, in terms of the Rumfoord Legacy, would have been to clarify the central issue. Is the life force, Universal Will to Become (UWTB), stronger than the death force? Would Humanity submit to the whims of an overfed superpower?
The war in Iraq, politically, for Americans, has been an exercise in flatulent patriotism, orchestrated by men notorious for their lack of service in an earlier imperialist adventure. The end of the American Empire is being greeted with a Greek chorus of 'Support our Troops,' the theme song of people who have no intention of joining them. Instead, the volunteers suffer third and fourth tours of duty. (They remind me so much of the grossly misused Army of Mars.) The army wastes away through attrition. Morale seeps, like blood, into the desert sands ready to blow away forever with the next brisk gale.
The American people bought our argument that, by tying down the terrorists in Iraq, they could not attack our homeland. Few considered the possibility that the reverse would be true, that terrorists could tie us down for decades fighting an insurgency in Iraq. And consider the chill this policy has up the spines of the rest of the World. Americans are willing to see other countries, any country, turned into playgrounds for terrorists as long as the United States is not hit. Imagine adopting such a morally bankrupt strategy while, simulaneously, claiming moral leadership of the World.
Nothing could suit my purpose better.
American casualties, to date, are over 3500 killed - more than 2500 of those after victory was (prematurely) declared in May 2003. At least 15,000 have been wounded, a high percentage of those seriously. Indigenous casualties number somewhere between 30,000 and 650,000. Nobody knows for sure, and most Americans - especially the Rapture-impaired, Culture of Life mob - don't care. Nobody knows how many have been seriously wounded. Is there anyone in Iraq unscathed by this war?
In The Pocket History of Mars, my uncle takes the measure of Leadership. I am certain he would admire our Commander-in-Chief immensely.
"Any man who would change the World in a significant way must have showmanship, a genial willingness to shed other people's blood, and a plausible new religion to introduce during the brief period of repentance and horror that usually follows bloodshed. Every failure of Earthling leadership has been traceable to a lack on the part of the leader of at least one of these things. Enough of these fizzles of leadership, in which millions die for nothing or less! Let us have, for a change, a magnificently-led few who die for a great deal."
The American Commander-in-Chief believes he is a divine instrument. Oh! If he only he knew to what purpose! Consider the irony. The man was voted into the most powerful office in the World thanks to the Electoral College, a vestige of the old Slavocracy. Then, in office, this man (the living embodiment of the failure of the great American democracy) announced that he would impose Democracy on the Middle East! Americans, robot-like, nodded their heads approvingly. The rest of
the World hung their heads in dismay.
Iraq is the vomit of the anarchic system of competing nation-states. The liberating force of the 18th Century, Nationalism, has decayed into a death wish. The nation-state is a millstone around our necks. Either we get rid of it, or it will get rid of us. In a world where two billion people go to bed hungry every night, $1,000,000,000,000 is immolated every year on the funeral pyre of defense spending. An elected, representative and sovereign United Nations is long overdue. The life force, Universal Will to Become (UWTB), imposes an intelligent design. Only a re-chartered United Nations can act legitimately against Terrorism. Such an institution cannot emerge until the last superpower is brought to its knees.
I am the mastermind of the American suicide in Iraq. It was always my intent to lose this war - to lose it foolishly and dishonorably. Flaws in the American character, runaway hubris, and an abundance of right wing lunatics on talk radio simplified my mission immeasurably. The great and unforgettable humiliation of America will bring on a great consummation which will usher in a millenium of peace.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Processing a nearly lost play by Dorothy Heyward
Many years ago, I researched a play dramatizing the two Supreme Court cases preceding the Trail of Tears. That research required a reading of the seminal 1919 biography of Chief Justice John Marshall by Albert J. Beveridge. In volume 4, p. 382-4, Beveridge briefly outlined an 1823 U.S. District Court case from Charleston, South Carolina - Elkison v. Deliesseline.
At that time, Supreme Court justices presided over Federal District Courts. In that case, Associate Justice William Johnson, a Charlestonian and State's Rights advocate (who had been appointed by Jefferson to obstruct the Federalism of Marshall), struck down a draconian state law restricting the movements of free people of color. As in the civil rights cases of the 1950's, Johnson cited Article One, Section 8 of the Constitution - the commerce clause - as the basis for upholding the rights of Henry Elkison, a free person of color.
I filed this in the back of my mind as a promising dramatic subject. A few years later, when I came back to it, I finally recognized the obvious connection of the case to the Denmark Vesey slave uprising of 1822. Initial research - a 1935 scholarly article by Philip Hamer in the Journal of Southern History and a very readable 1983 essay by Scott W. Stucky in the North Carolina Central Law Review - made the connection crystal clear. The slavocracy of South Carolina, terrified by the Vesey conspiracy, turned to the legislature for extreme police measures to control the servile population. They sought to insure that their slaves never happened upon a free person of color. That very freedom was deemed seditious.
I sought out biographies of Denmark Vesey - by Donald R. Egerton, William Freehling, John Lofton and David Robertson. That raised some interest in Vesey's co-conspirators, especially Gullah Jack. I contacted (via e-mail) Susan R. Silverman (Gullah Jack's biographer) at Winthrop College. Dr. Silverman alerted me to an article in the Charleston Courier reviewing the treatment of Vesey in the performing arts. That article enlightened me to the existence of Dorothy Heyward's play Set My People Free, a dramatization of the Vesey Rebellion. (DuBose Heyward, incidentally, was a descendant of Nathaniel Heyward, one of the judges for the kangaroo court which convicted Vesey.) Quickly, it became apparent that my play would be shaped by the content and quality of the earlier play by this Heyward woman.
I set out to find the play. I read James M. Hutchisson's biography of DuBose Heyward. While reading this book, I supplemented the information with internet searches. One of those searches dredged up an entity called the DuBose and Dorothy Heyward Memorial Fund. The Trustee for the Fund is Mr. Albert Cardinali of Thacher, Proffitt and Wood, L.L.P. Naturally, I assumed that the Fund would have a copy of the play. Confidently, I contacted Mr. Cardinali. Unfortunately, the firm's offices at the World Trade Center were destroyed on 9/11. None of the attorneys were killed, but the papers of the 150 year old establishment were destroyed, Set My People Free among them.
I continued my search with the inter-library loan department of my local library. The best information suggested that only two copies of the play existed on the entire planet - one at the South Carolina Historical Society (with an alternate title, Charleston, 1822) and one at the Detroit Public Library. The SCHS was willing to photo-copy the play at 25 cents per page. After a long week, the script was in my hands. It was obvious to me, unfortunately, that that copy was an early draft.
Now, I was down to one last hope - the Detroit Public Library, which promptly informed my librarian that the play could not be lent to me under any circumstances. Clearly, it was time to call in the cavalry - Mr. Cardinali. Within a week, the script was in my hands. It looked like a final draft (excepting a long scratched-out section), complete with properties list. I spent the next few weeks processing the script. It has been rescued.
At that time, Supreme Court justices presided over Federal District Courts. In that case, Associate Justice William Johnson, a Charlestonian and State's Rights advocate (who had been appointed by Jefferson to obstruct the Federalism of Marshall), struck down a draconian state law restricting the movements of free people of color. As in the civil rights cases of the 1950's, Johnson cited Article One, Section 8 of the Constitution - the commerce clause - as the basis for upholding the rights of Henry Elkison, a free person of color.
I filed this in the back of my mind as a promising dramatic subject. A few years later, when I came back to it, I finally recognized the obvious connection of the case to the Denmark Vesey slave uprising of 1822. Initial research - a 1935 scholarly article by Philip Hamer in the Journal of Southern History and a very readable 1983 essay by Scott W. Stucky in the North Carolina Central Law Review - made the connection crystal clear. The slavocracy of South Carolina, terrified by the Vesey conspiracy, turned to the legislature for extreme police measures to control the servile population. They sought to insure that their slaves never happened upon a free person of color. That very freedom was deemed seditious.
I sought out biographies of Denmark Vesey - by Donald R. Egerton, William Freehling, John Lofton and David Robertson. That raised some interest in Vesey's co-conspirators, especially Gullah Jack. I contacted (via e-mail) Susan R. Silverman (Gullah Jack's biographer) at Winthrop College. Dr. Silverman alerted me to an article in the Charleston Courier reviewing the treatment of Vesey in the performing arts. That article enlightened me to the existence of Dorothy Heyward's play Set My People Free, a dramatization of the Vesey Rebellion. (DuBose Heyward, incidentally, was a descendant of Nathaniel Heyward, one of the judges for the kangaroo court which convicted Vesey.) Quickly, it became apparent that my play would be shaped by the content and quality of the earlier play by this Heyward woman.
I set out to find the play. I read James M. Hutchisson's biography of DuBose Heyward. While reading this book, I supplemented the information with internet searches. One of those searches dredged up an entity called the DuBose and Dorothy Heyward Memorial Fund. The Trustee for the Fund is Mr. Albert Cardinali of Thacher, Proffitt and Wood, L.L.P. Naturally, I assumed that the Fund would have a copy of the play. Confidently, I contacted Mr. Cardinali. Unfortunately, the firm's offices at the World Trade Center were destroyed on 9/11. None of the attorneys were killed, but the papers of the 150 year old establishment were destroyed, Set My People Free among them.
I continued my search with the inter-library loan department of my local library. The best information suggested that only two copies of the play existed on the entire planet - one at the South Carolina Historical Society (with an alternate title, Charleston, 1822) and one at the Detroit Public Library. The SCHS was willing to photo-copy the play at 25 cents per page. After a long week, the script was in my hands. It was obvious to me, unfortunately, that that copy was an early draft.
Now, I was down to one last hope - the Detroit Public Library, which promptly informed my librarian that the play could not be lent to me under any circumstances. Clearly, it was time to call in the cavalry - Mr. Cardinali. Within a week, the script was in my hands. It looked like a final draft (excepting a long scratched-out section), complete with properties list. I spent the next few weeks processing the script. It has been rescued.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Propinquity
I drive a school bus for Jefferson County. The massacre at Columbine High School hit close to home. I know several staff members, two going all the way back to our days as students at Lakewood High School. I transported Coach Sanders to numerous games. I worked with Cassie Bernall's grandparents at the South Area terminal for the better part of ten years. And Cassie rode my bus during her middle school years.
I learned that Cassie was one of the victims the day after. I barely reacted. I had not seen her in three years. Her grandparents, Shirley and Bernie, had retired and moved away about the time that Cassie had moved into the Columbine attendance area.
After awhile, I remembered Cassie's first day in 7th grade. She was just a name on my student roster. On her way out, she asked whether I knew her grandparents. Now the name Cassandra 'Bernall' meant something. "Your Shirley's granddaughter?" I said. "Yes," she smiled. When I returned to the terminal, Shirley asked, "Did my granddaughter ride your bus, this morning?"
"Yes, she introduced herself. Cute kid." Shirley smiled and I smiled, saying, "Poor Cassie. She'll never get away with anything on my bus." We both laughed.
On the Wednesday evening after the shooting, about 11:00, I started wondering whether Shirley and Bernie might wonder about her last moments - how someone so innocent could face up to such consummate evil. Tears welled up in my eyes and I forced the thought away. Eventually, I fell asleep.
On the Thursday morning, my mother showed me the picture of Cassie (at the bottom of page one of the Rocky Mountain News) reporting her last words. One of the lost boys (supposedly) asked her, "Do you believe in God?" And Cassie replied, "Yes, I believe in God." Then, he blasted her life away. I muttered, "Poor Cassie." Then, I walked through the garage where Bernie had been the lead mechanic for years. I put my hand over my face as I walked past the guys. I went into their restroom, stood in the mechanic's shower, and wept bitter tears, powerless to turn the clock back to Tuesday morning.
The police estimated that there were 8000-10,000 pieces of evidence at the high school. The building would remain a crime scene for at least a month, probably longer. So, the School Board had to decide what to do with the remainder of Columbine's school year. They chose to use Chatfield High School's building from 1:00-6:00. Naturally, the kids needed Transportation. The dispatcher, Louise, tacked an evening take-home onto my route.
On May 3rd, the kids returned to school. As I turned onto Chatfield Avenue, I couldn't help but notice a bunch of tents across Simms Street - the media lying in wait. Numerous police effected a healthy respect for the campus boundary, but I still felt a touch of paranoia. I made sure my turn into the parking lot was perfect.
Two kids boarded the bus around 5:30. The bell rang at 6:00 and my bus started to fill. I left at 6:10 with about 35 passengers. They were all new to me. Due to the media presence, the police would not allow me to turn left onto Simms. I noticed the kids looking across the street. As we got away from the school, conversation started to pick up. A girl right behind me, a Senior, told the kid next to her that she expected a phone call from a counselor that night. Apparently, she felt hugged out when a teacher tried to hug her earlier in the day. Later, the teacher said something she did not like. She stormed out of class.
It is my habit to frequently check the overhead mirror. About half the kids were talking quietly one to one. The other half stared out the windows. The engine is in the back of the bus, so I could hear some of what was being said. Several conversations seemed to drift and float around the horrible event. But, it was not the only subject.
I dropped off my last two kids. Turning onto Pierce Street, my eyes welled up. I fought back tears, source unknown, and returned to the terminal. I clocked out, telling Louise, "There are some hurting units on that bus."
The next day, the press disappeared. I mentioned that observation to the first two kids, Doug and Karen, as they got on. They were both glad. I went back to reading my book and listening to KVOD, our Classical station.
Something started Karen talking. Her mother died three years ago. Her father's present address and disposition are unknown. Her aunt brought her up from Texas to get her out of a 'bad school.' She had been attending Columbine for less than two weeks when the massacre occurred. She may have been one of the last three kids saved by Coach Sanders. She also mentioned that her sister teaches in Jonesboro, Arkansas - at the school where the previous school shooting took place. Stunned, I said, "How did the press miss you?" She told me that her sister called, instructing to keep her mouth shut - otherwise the press would make both of their lives miserable.
One day during the second week, my eyes were drawn to an especially pretty, unusually curvaceous brunette leaving for the school parking lot. She looked familiar. Then, I heard a voice call out, "Bae!" She turned and I remembered her. Like Cassie, she had attended Carmody Middle School before moving into the Columbine attendance area.
One of the ugliest incidents ever to occur on my bus involved Bae. She had bloomed early. Like most girls that age, she went through 2 or 3 'boyfriends' per month. One boy - a very big football player (235 lbs. of 14-year old baby fat and muscle) - did not take well to being put on waivers when she began 'going out' with a boy from her church. The big boy's half brother decided to get even.
The bus arrived at Carmody one morning. Bae, on the verge of tears, came up after every else got off. She carried some pennies with her. She said some kids had been throwing them at her during the ride - sending a message that they regarded her as a cheap whore.
I took the pennies and promised to deal with it. I inspected the bus and picked up all the pennies (26 in all), put them in a sandwich bag, and took them to a counselor. I explained all I knew and let the school investigate. At the end of the day, seven kids (five of them, girls) were kicked off for two weeks. But, none of the kids had the courage to finger the two half-brothers. They were not kicked off.
The mother of one of the kids who was kicked off could not believe that her son was involved. "He likes Bae," she said. I told her that I was disappointed with her son, but not terribly surprised. "Why," she asked. "He's securing his social credentials for next year. He thinks he'll need protection at Bear Creek," I replied. She still could not believe that her son could be so cruel for such a petty reason. "I'm sure he felt terrible. And I know that Bae will forgive him. But we can't let this pass without consequences."
Now, it's two years later. One day, as I walked back to the bus from Wendy's, I saw Bae again. She's still the prettiest girl in braces that you'd ever want to see. We walked back together. She told me about her day on April 20th. She ran from the commons to the library when the shooting began. Somehow, she made her way to the auditoreum and out of the school. She failed to mention that she witnessed the murder of Isaiah Shoals.
On Friday, May 21st, I had to switch buses with another driver. I wound up with his 32-foot mountain bus. My kids loved it! Two boys, in very high spirits, out-yelled everyone for the oldies station, KOOL 105. So, I tuned it there. The disc jockey played some great old songs. As we turned into the neighborhood, Carole King's "Natural Woman" came over the air. The boys sang in full voice, "You make me feel like a na-tu-ral woman!" The girls laughed themselves silly - all except one. One girl, right behind me, held back tears throughout this entire fun ride. I knew she would get off at the first stop, so I stood up to look straight at her and say, "have a nice weekend." She smiled. But, she's hurting.
The "Natural Woman" boys got off at the same stop. They high-fived me as they got off - all because I had let them sing. Kids are funny. They put me in a good mood, then give me the credit.
At the next stop, I asked a few girls for the name of the unhappy girl. Nobody knew her. They did not grow up with her. They thought she may have moved into the neighborhood just before the horrible event.
I dropped off the last kid at his house. As I was coming out of the neighborhood, I heard another driver announce (over the C.B. radio) that she had to return to the school for disciplinary reasons. I knew her bus was packed, as she was covering two routes. The dispatcher decided to send two buses to meet her back at the school. I volunteered.
When I returned to the school, I recognized one of my kids limping around in an ankle cast. I asked her name and why she had missed the bus. She - Dani - told me that she had been in a meeting. And now, she could not get anyone at home. I told her I would take her home after we sorted out the problems with the other bus. About ten minutes later, I had 35 kids aboard. I took them home first. Then, I took Dani home.
Dani is a basketball player, so she knew Coach Sanders well. She fled from the commons when the shooting started. She ran for a stairwell with at least a hundred other kids. The kids were falling all over each other, so Dani and a couple others took the responsibility of getting those being trampled back on their feet. Then, she made her way out, running for dear life. She had never run so hard for so long. She ran to a friend's house where a few dozen kids had congregated.
I felt awkward, like apologizing for my generation's neglect of her generation. Instead, I told her that when I went to high school, the only security we needed was the threat of being sent to Mr. Brownlee's office. She smiled.
Dani is tired of the sympathy. The gifts are all very nice, but it's time to move on. I asked her about her stuff in the school. She said the Administration notified everyone that backpacks and other property will be returned by messenger.
"Oh! They won't allow you back in the school?"
"Some kids want to walk through before they remodel. For closure."
I asked whether she want to see the school before the remodel. She said she wants to see it, but will understand if the Board won't allow it.
I think the kids should be allowed to walk through if their parents will sign a permission slip. Dani may be right. It could help with closure. (The kids walked through on June 1st.)
On the way home one day, the kids were noticing how many cars had WE ARE COLUMBINE bumper stickers. One of the shell-skocked boys mentioned that he will never go to McDonald's again. "Why?", I asked. "Because they started the WE ARE ALL COLUMBINE bumper stickers. I hate those bumper stickers!" I nodded in agreement.
I had thought the same thing. The kids at the school, their parents and siblings, the faculty and administration - are the Columbine community. The rest of us can sympathize. Some can truly empathize. All of us can wish them well. But, we are not ALL Columbine.
The vicarious connection of some with this horrible event is almost promiscuous. The flood of emotion seems to affect some almost pleasurably. At least it seems that way. I've gotten a real creepy sensation from some women when they talk about it.
Men of my age are immune to this perverse reaction. I've noticed something else, though. Men my age are angry about the massacre - and very eager to point fingers. Most condemn the SWAT teams with cowardice. We also blame the leniency of the criminal justice system. I listened to one guy rant on that theme for awhile. Then, I asked, "What about the dead beat dads?" He looked at me as though I had changed the subject. I explained, "The criminal system, lenient or not, would not matter if fathers were doing their duty." This remark went over like a lead balloon. Sometimes, the hardest thing to see is right in front of one's face.
I wonder how many of my generation feel guilty about the massacre? A recent study shows that parents today spend an average of 22 fewer hours per week with their children than 30 years ago. Does anyone else find that statistic staggering? Imagine! More than 3 hours of parental supervision per day has vanished!
One of the lost boys was the son of an Air Force colonel with a glittering record. The other lost boy, the son of a Jewish mother, worshipped Adolf Hitler. The young man who sold them the assault pistol is the son of parents involved in the gun control movement. The boy who filmed the video of the dry run is the son of the lead FBI investigator. Does anyone discern a pattern here? These kids all seem to be saying, "Hey! Screw your careers and ambitions! Take a look at me for once!"
Good parenting can prevent even a born sociopath from wreaking such a tragedy. Three more hours per day of parental supervision might have led a parent into a garage which had been turned into a bomb factory.
The shell-shocked kids sit in the front of the bus. Three boys, in particular, have gotten my attention. One day, I overheard one say, "I was the only one at my table who wasn't shot." The other two went to a counseling session on a Sunday. They arrived early and were asked to consume some time in the bathroom - for confidentiality reasons. The counselors apparently wanted the previous clients to sneak out unnoticed. The boys surmised that the previous clients had been accomplices to the lost boys.
On Monday, May 24th, the kids told me there had been a bomb scare. Some dumb kid had decided that it would be funny to start a rumor about a bomb in the school. Parents heard and rushed to the school. Several kids started crying as soon as they heard the rumor. One of my kids admitted that she had reacted that way. Dani said her stomach knotted up immediately. The shell shocked group in front got that hunted look in their eyes. They started breathing faster.
I asked whether the school had caught the dope who started the rumor. They nodded. I suggested that the perfect punishment would be for the jerk to have to bare his butt and bend over while every student in the school gave him one solid blow with a ping pong paddle. The kids laughed and their breathing subsided. Such punishment would probably bring all bomb scares to a screeching halt. Public humiliation from one's peers is a wonderful tonic for a bad sense of humor.
Wednesday, May 26th was their last day. I won't see any of them again, unless they happen to be transported with a team or band to a game or musical competition. I made no special effort to learn their names. As I pulled up to the first stop, I got on the p.a. and said, "I hope the world steps back and lets you guys have a carefree summer." One of the boys seemed offended, "Carefree?" I said nothing. The remark stands on its own (lack of?) merit. But several of the girls - as they exited the bus for the last time - eyes glistening, made a point of saying, "Thank you."
John Ciardi once said, "Who says only artists suffer. Adolescence is enough suffering for anyone." These kids have filled their quota.
I learned that Cassie was one of the victims the day after. I barely reacted. I had not seen her in three years. Her grandparents, Shirley and Bernie, had retired and moved away about the time that Cassie had moved into the Columbine attendance area.
After awhile, I remembered Cassie's first day in 7th grade. She was just a name on my student roster. On her way out, she asked whether I knew her grandparents. Now the name Cassandra 'Bernall' meant something. "Your Shirley's granddaughter?" I said. "Yes," she smiled. When I returned to the terminal, Shirley asked, "Did my granddaughter ride your bus, this morning?"
"Yes, she introduced herself. Cute kid." Shirley smiled and I smiled, saying, "Poor Cassie. She'll never get away with anything on my bus." We both laughed.
On the Wednesday evening after the shooting, about 11:00, I started wondering whether Shirley and Bernie might wonder about her last moments - how someone so innocent could face up to such consummate evil. Tears welled up in my eyes and I forced the thought away. Eventually, I fell asleep.
On the Thursday morning, my mother showed me the picture of Cassie (at the bottom of page one of the Rocky Mountain News) reporting her last words. One of the lost boys (supposedly) asked her, "Do you believe in God?" And Cassie replied, "Yes, I believe in God." Then, he blasted her life away. I muttered, "Poor Cassie." Then, I walked through the garage where Bernie had been the lead mechanic for years. I put my hand over my face as I walked past the guys. I went into their restroom, stood in the mechanic's shower, and wept bitter tears, powerless to turn the clock back to Tuesday morning.
The police estimated that there were 8000-10,000 pieces of evidence at the high school. The building would remain a crime scene for at least a month, probably longer. So, the School Board had to decide what to do with the remainder of Columbine's school year. They chose to use Chatfield High School's building from 1:00-6:00. Naturally, the kids needed Transportation. The dispatcher, Louise, tacked an evening take-home onto my route.
On May 3rd, the kids returned to school. As I turned onto Chatfield Avenue, I couldn't help but notice a bunch of tents across Simms Street - the media lying in wait. Numerous police effected a healthy respect for the campus boundary, but I still felt a touch of paranoia. I made sure my turn into the parking lot was perfect.
Two kids boarded the bus around 5:30. The bell rang at 6:00 and my bus started to fill. I left at 6:10 with about 35 passengers. They were all new to me. Due to the media presence, the police would not allow me to turn left onto Simms. I noticed the kids looking across the street. As we got away from the school, conversation started to pick up. A girl right behind me, a Senior, told the kid next to her that she expected a phone call from a counselor that night. Apparently, she felt hugged out when a teacher tried to hug her earlier in the day. Later, the teacher said something she did not like. She stormed out of class.
It is my habit to frequently check the overhead mirror. About half the kids were talking quietly one to one. The other half stared out the windows. The engine is in the back of the bus, so I could hear some of what was being said. Several conversations seemed to drift and float around the horrible event. But, it was not the only subject.
I dropped off my last two kids. Turning onto Pierce Street, my eyes welled up. I fought back tears, source unknown, and returned to the terminal. I clocked out, telling Louise, "There are some hurting units on that bus."
The next day, the press disappeared. I mentioned that observation to the first two kids, Doug and Karen, as they got on. They were both glad. I went back to reading my book and listening to KVOD, our Classical station.
Something started Karen talking. Her mother died three years ago. Her father's present address and disposition are unknown. Her aunt brought her up from Texas to get her out of a 'bad school.' She had been attending Columbine for less than two weeks when the massacre occurred. She may have been one of the last three kids saved by Coach Sanders. She also mentioned that her sister teaches in Jonesboro, Arkansas - at the school where the previous school shooting took place. Stunned, I said, "How did the press miss you?" She told me that her sister called, instructing to keep her mouth shut - otherwise the press would make both of their lives miserable.
One day during the second week, my eyes were drawn to an especially pretty, unusually curvaceous brunette leaving for the school parking lot. She looked familiar. Then, I heard a voice call out, "Bae!" She turned and I remembered her. Like Cassie, she had attended Carmody Middle School before moving into the Columbine attendance area.
One of the ugliest incidents ever to occur on my bus involved Bae. She had bloomed early. Like most girls that age, she went through 2 or 3 'boyfriends' per month. One boy - a very big football player (235 lbs. of 14-year old baby fat and muscle) - did not take well to being put on waivers when she began 'going out' with a boy from her church. The big boy's half brother decided to get even.
The bus arrived at Carmody one morning. Bae, on the verge of tears, came up after every else got off. She carried some pennies with her. She said some kids had been throwing them at her during the ride - sending a message that they regarded her as a cheap whore.
I took the pennies and promised to deal with it. I inspected the bus and picked up all the pennies (26 in all), put them in a sandwich bag, and took them to a counselor. I explained all I knew and let the school investigate. At the end of the day, seven kids (five of them, girls) were kicked off for two weeks. But, none of the kids had the courage to finger the two half-brothers. They were not kicked off.
The mother of one of the kids who was kicked off could not believe that her son was involved. "He likes Bae," she said. I told her that I was disappointed with her son, but not terribly surprised. "Why," she asked. "He's securing his social credentials for next year. He thinks he'll need protection at Bear Creek," I replied. She still could not believe that her son could be so cruel for such a petty reason. "I'm sure he felt terrible. And I know that Bae will forgive him. But we can't let this pass without consequences."
Now, it's two years later. One day, as I walked back to the bus from Wendy's, I saw Bae again. She's still the prettiest girl in braces that you'd ever want to see. We walked back together. She told me about her day on April 20th. She ran from the commons to the library when the shooting began. Somehow, she made her way to the auditoreum and out of the school. She failed to mention that she witnessed the murder of Isaiah Shoals.
On Friday, May 21st, I had to switch buses with another driver. I wound up with his 32-foot mountain bus. My kids loved it! Two boys, in very high spirits, out-yelled everyone for the oldies station, KOOL 105. So, I tuned it there. The disc jockey played some great old songs. As we turned into the neighborhood, Carole King's "Natural Woman" came over the air. The boys sang in full voice, "You make me feel like a na-tu-ral woman!" The girls laughed themselves silly - all except one. One girl, right behind me, held back tears throughout this entire fun ride. I knew she would get off at the first stop, so I stood up to look straight at her and say, "have a nice weekend." She smiled. But, she's hurting.
The "Natural Woman" boys got off at the same stop. They high-fived me as they got off - all because I had let them sing. Kids are funny. They put me in a good mood, then give me the credit.
At the next stop, I asked a few girls for the name of the unhappy girl. Nobody knew her. They did not grow up with her. They thought she may have moved into the neighborhood just before the horrible event.
I dropped off the last kid at his house. As I was coming out of the neighborhood, I heard another driver announce (over the C.B. radio) that she had to return to the school for disciplinary reasons. I knew her bus was packed, as she was covering two routes. The dispatcher decided to send two buses to meet her back at the school. I volunteered.
When I returned to the school, I recognized one of my kids limping around in an ankle cast. I asked her name and why she had missed the bus. She - Dani - told me that she had been in a meeting. And now, she could not get anyone at home. I told her I would take her home after we sorted out the problems with the other bus. About ten minutes later, I had 35 kids aboard. I took them home first. Then, I took Dani home.
Dani is a basketball player, so she knew Coach Sanders well. She fled from the commons when the shooting started. She ran for a stairwell with at least a hundred other kids. The kids were falling all over each other, so Dani and a couple others took the responsibility of getting those being trampled back on their feet. Then, she made her way out, running for dear life. She had never run so hard for so long. She ran to a friend's house where a few dozen kids had congregated.
I felt awkward, like apologizing for my generation's neglect of her generation. Instead, I told her that when I went to high school, the only security we needed was the threat of being sent to Mr. Brownlee's office. She smiled.
Dani is tired of the sympathy. The gifts are all very nice, but it's time to move on. I asked her about her stuff in the school. She said the Administration notified everyone that backpacks and other property will be returned by messenger.
"Oh! They won't allow you back in the school?"
"Some kids want to walk through before they remodel. For closure."
I asked whether she want to see the school before the remodel. She said she wants to see it, but will understand if the Board won't allow it.
I think the kids should be allowed to walk through if their parents will sign a permission slip. Dani may be right. It could help with closure. (The kids walked through on June 1st.)
On the way home one day, the kids were noticing how many cars had WE ARE COLUMBINE bumper stickers. One of the shell-skocked boys mentioned that he will never go to McDonald's again. "Why?", I asked. "Because they started the WE ARE ALL COLUMBINE bumper stickers. I hate those bumper stickers!" I nodded in agreement.
I had thought the same thing. The kids at the school, their parents and siblings, the faculty and administration - are the Columbine community. The rest of us can sympathize. Some can truly empathize. All of us can wish them well. But, we are not ALL Columbine.
The vicarious connection of some with this horrible event is almost promiscuous. The flood of emotion seems to affect some almost pleasurably. At least it seems that way. I've gotten a real creepy sensation from some women when they talk about it.
Men of my age are immune to this perverse reaction. I've noticed something else, though. Men my age are angry about the massacre - and very eager to point fingers. Most condemn the SWAT teams with cowardice. We also blame the leniency of the criminal justice system. I listened to one guy rant on that theme for awhile. Then, I asked, "What about the dead beat dads?" He looked at me as though I had changed the subject. I explained, "The criminal system, lenient or not, would not matter if fathers were doing their duty." This remark went over like a lead balloon. Sometimes, the hardest thing to see is right in front of one's face.
I wonder how many of my generation feel guilty about the massacre? A recent study shows that parents today spend an average of 22 fewer hours per week with their children than 30 years ago. Does anyone else find that statistic staggering? Imagine! More than 3 hours of parental supervision per day has vanished!
One of the lost boys was the son of an Air Force colonel with a glittering record. The other lost boy, the son of a Jewish mother, worshipped Adolf Hitler. The young man who sold them the assault pistol is the son of parents involved in the gun control movement. The boy who filmed the video of the dry run is the son of the lead FBI investigator. Does anyone discern a pattern here? These kids all seem to be saying, "Hey! Screw your careers and ambitions! Take a look at me for once!"
Good parenting can prevent even a born sociopath from wreaking such a tragedy. Three more hours per day of parental supervision might have led a parent into a garage which had been turned into a bomb factory.
The shell-shocked kids sit in the front of the bus. Three boys, in particular, have gotten my attention. One day, I overheard one say, "I was the only one at my table who wasn't shot." The other two went to a counseling session on a Sunday. They arrived early and were asked to consume some time in the bathroom - for confidentiality reasons. The counselors apparently wanted the previous clients to sneak out unnoticed. The boys surmised that the previous clients had been accomplices to the lost boys.
On Monday, May 24th, the kids told me there had been a bomb scare. Some dumb kid had decided that it would be funny to start a rumor about a bomb in the school. Parents heard and rushed to the school. Several kids started crying as soon as they heard the rumor. One of my kids admitted that she had reacted that way. Dani said her stomach knotted up immediately. The shell shocked group in front got that hunted look in their eyes. They started breathing faster.
I asked whether the school had caught the dope who started the rumor. They nodded. I suggested that the perfect punishment would be for the jerk to have to bare his butt and bend over while every student in the school gave him one solid blow with a ping pong paddle. The kids laughed and their breathing subsided. Such punishment would probably bring all bomb scares to a screeching halt. Public humiliation from one's peers is a wonderful tonic for a bad sense of humor.
Wednesday, May 26th was their last day. I won't see any of them again, unless they happen to be transported with a team or band to a game or musical competition. I made no special effort to learn their names. As I pulled up to the first stop, I got on the p.a. and said, "I hope the world steps back and lets you guys have a carefree summer." One of the boys seemed offended, "Carefree?" I said nothing. The remark stands on its own (lack of?) merit. But several of the girls - as they exited the bus for the last time - eyes glistening, made a point of saying, "Thank you."
John Ciardi once said, "Who says only artists suffer. Adolescence is enough suffering for anyone." These kids have filled their quota.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Argument for a Principled Accommodation
Dear Mr. Brooks,
Among clever, witty co-workers (Maureen Dowd and Tom Friedman), on Meet the Press, you made the funniest statement. And like most insightful comedy, your remark sprang from tragedy. "In my black moments," you said, "I sometimes think President Bush is the Manchurian Candidate sent to discredit everything I believe in." As a registered Libertarian, I share some of your pain. Yet, without major party affiliation to bind and blind me, I quickly perceived the war mongering of this Administration. I never bought into the neo-con self-delusion of spreading Democracy, at gunpoint, throughout the Islamic World. What an excursion into the stratosphere of wishful thinking!
There are four basic responses to the challenge of Islamic Fundamentalism.
1) Capitulation.
2) Religious War
3) A Principled Accommodation
4) Victory
Capitulation should not be taken seriously. The Islamic Fundamentalists, though they may fantasize about exterminating us, do not wish to rule us. They do not want such depraved, secular people to experience the joys of their Caliphate.
Religious Warfare is a distinct possibility. I am sure that Pat Robertson, between selling his diet shake and praying for John Paul Stevens to die, dreams of a War of Civilizations. Frankly, I do not see anything in that for me and the secular majority. Focus on the Family's utopia too closely resembles the Caliphate. And after all these millenia of religious extremism, God must yearn for a secular world, don't you think? How many hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people have been butchered in God's name? This continuous stream of sanctified blood, century after century, surely has convinced God that we are too primitive to comprehend Him. Don't you think?
A Principled Accommodation with the Islamic World can be pulled off by men of good faith. (Lying about WMD to justify a blood for oil foreign policy does not quite pass muster as good faith.) Yet, such an Accommodation, realistically, must include a Jeffersonian-style Embargo. The traditional societies of the Islamic World are de-stabilized by all of our garbage - the music, the movies, the halter tops, the blue jeans, etc. etc. etc. We must help those countries keep the garbage out. That, of course, means an even more enormous trade deficit. So be it.
Victory means sacrifice. High Taxes. Conscription. Etc. We haven't the stomach for such sacrifice. (And, as a Libertarian, such sacrifice defies my principles.) The necessary instrument to achieve Victory - an elected, representative and sovereign United Nations - does not even exist. Americans are not the only ones unwilling to sacrifice the graven images of Nationalism just to achieve Victory over the Caliphate.
The Bush Doctrine - defying and castigating the World to impose Democracy on Iraq at gunpoint - cannot achieve Victory. The necessary means to achieve the stated ends add up to an UnPrincipled Accommodation with the Islamic World.
Will we ever work off this angst over 9/11 and start Thinking?
Among clever, witty co-workers (Maureen Dowd and Tom Friedman), on Meet the Press, you made the funniest statement. And like most insightful comedy, your remark sprang from tragedy. "In my black moments," you said, "I sometimes think President Bush is the Manchurian Candidate sent to discredit everything I believe in." As a registered Libertarian, I share some of your pain. Yet, without major party affiliation to bind and blind me, I quickly perceived the war mongering of this Administration. I never bought into the neo-con self-delusion of spreading Democracy, at gunpoint, throughout the Islamic World. What an excursion into the stratosphere of wishful thinking!
There are four basic responses to the challenge of Islamic Fundamentalism.
1) Capitulation.
2) Religious War
3) A Principled Accommodation
4) Victory
Capitulation should not be taken seriously. The Islamic Fundamentalists, though they may fantasize about exterminating us, do not wish to rule us. They do not want such depraved, secular people to experience the joys of their Caliphate.
Religious Warfare is a distinct possibility. I am sure that Pat Robertson, between selling his diet shake and praying for John Paul Stevens to die, dreams of a War of Civilizations. Frankly, I do not see anything in that for me and the secular majority. Focus on the Family's utopia too closely resembles the Caliphate. And after all these millenia of religious extremism, God must yearn for a secular world, don't you think? How many hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people have been butchered in God's name? This continuous stream of sanctified blood, century after century, surely has convinced God that we are too primitive to comprehend Him. Don't you think?
A Principled Accommodation with the Islamic World can be pulled off by men of good faith. (Lying about WMD to justify a blood for oil foreign policy does not quite pass muster as good faith.) Yet, such an Accommodation, realistically, must include a Jeffersonian-style Embargo. The traditional societies of the Islamic World are de-stabilized by all of our garbage - the music, the movies, the halter tops, the blue jeans, etc. etc. etc. We must help those countries keep the garbage out. That, of course, means an even more enormous trade deficit. So be it.
Victory means sacrifice. High Taxes. Conscription. Etc. We haven't the stomach for such sacrifice. (And, as a Libertarian, such sacrifice defies my principles.) The necessary instrument to achieve Victory - an elected, representative and sovereign United Nations - does not even exist. Americans are not the only ones unwilling to sacrifice the graven images of Nationalism just to achieve Victory over the Caliphate.
The Bush Doctrine - defying and castigating the World to impose Democracy on Iraq at gunpoint - cannot achieve Victory. The necessary means to achieve the stated ends add up to an UnPrincipled Accommodation with the Islamic World.
Will we ever work off this angst over 9/11 and start Thinking?
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
A Brief note to a Serbian for Victory
Dear Mr. Silajdzic,
I watched you on Richard Perle's paean to Neo-Conservatism. So far, you are the only public figure (I know of) who has stated the obvious: that one single country policing the entire world is inherently illegitimate. I say over and over again that the only institution which can WIN the war or Terror does not yet exist: an elected, representative, and sovereign United Nations.
I watched you on Richard Perle's paean to Neo-Conservatism. So far, you are the only public figure (I know of) who has stated the obvious: that one single country policing the entire world is inherently illegitimate. I say over and over again that the only institution which can WIN the war or Terror does not yet exist: an elected, representative, and sovereign United Nations.
Freedom Fries re-gurgitated
Dear Congressman Jones,
I watched you lecture Richard Perle, pleading for an apology for this misadventure in Iraq. While we're at it, how about an apology for Hans Blix? This Administration besmirched the integrity of Mr. Blix, suggesting he was a toady for Saddam. In the early 90's, this "toady of Saddam" uncovered evidence that Saddam was planning to produce lithium 6, which can only be used in H-bombs. This stimulated pressure to insert weapons inspectors into Iraq. Some toady! If we had listened to him, you would not be going to military funerals so often. You would not have had to write those 1300 letters. How about an apology for him? Blix was right!
Come to think of it, perhaps you should begin the apologies. You berated the French, setting in motion a wave of Francophobia. Have you apologized to them? Just because we jump off a cliff, sans parachute, into Iraq, does not mean the French must follow. Maybe if you apologize for your ignorant remarks, Mr. Perle and the other architects of this fiasco will follow your lead? How can you urge Mr. Perle to muster the decency to apologize, if you won't muster the decency to apologize for your error in judgment?
When you write that speech, keep this image in mind. When Charles Lindbergh landed in Paris, he was mobbed by Frenchmen inspired with his achievement. His two chief competitors were both French. Now that is Nobility of Spirit!
I watched you lecture Richard Perle, pleading for an apology for this misadventure in Iraq. While we're at it, how about an apology for Hans Blix? This Administration besmirched the integrity of Mr. Blix, suggesting he was a toady for Saddam. In the early 90's, this "toady of Saddam" uncovered evidence that Saddam was planning to produce lithium 6, which can only be used in H-bombs. This stimulated pressure to insert weapons inspectors into Iraq. Some toady! If we had listened to him, you would not be going to military funerals so often. You would not have had to write those 1300 letters. How about an apology for him? Blix was right!
Come to think of it, perhaps you should begin the apologies. You berated the French, setting in motion a wave of Francophobia. Have you apologized to them? Just because we jump off a cliff, sans parachute, into Iraq, does not mean the French must follow. Maybe if you apologize for your ignorant remarks, Mr. Perle and the other architects of this fiasco will follow your lead? How can you urge Mr. Perle to muster the decency to apologize, if you won't muster the decency to apologize for your error in judgment?
When you write that speech, keep this image in mind. When Charles Lindbergh landed in Paris, he was mobbed by Frenchmen inspired with his achievement. His two chief competitors were both French. Now that is Nobility of Spirit!
Monday, June 4, 2007
Walling Ourselves
In his masterful study of Sino-Western Relations, Dragon by the Tail, John Paton Davies describes the Great Wall, "stretching more than 1400 miles from the Jade Gate, on the frontier with Turkestan, to the sea: it protected the Chinese from unwelcome attention only when the Dynasty was bristling and alert. But when the human defenses were slack, it was no serious threat to invaders. It was really a monument in brick, stone, and mud to a usually static point of view."
Frederick Jackson Turner, in his seminal work on the importance of the frontier in shaping the American character, reminds us that the colonists in Massachusetts resisted a proposition of 1676 to build a defensive wall from the Charles River to Massachusetts Bay. "This project," wrote Turner, "of a kind of Roman Wall did not appeal to the frontiersmen of the time."
Walling away the outside world is un-American. Bin Laden's primary objective is to re-establish the Caliphate, walling the Islamic World off from the moral pollution of the West. Another way to obtain the objective would be for the United States to wall itself in.
Are we really going to wall ourselves in? Have we given over to a static point of view?
Frederick Jackson Turner, in his seminal work on the importance of the frontier in shaping the American character, reminds us that the colonists in Massachusetts resisted a proposition of 1676 to build a defensive wall from the Charles River to Massachusetts Bay. "This project," wrote Turner, "of a kind of Roman Wall did not appeal to the frontiersmen of the time."
Walling away the outside world is un-American. Bin Laden's primary objective is to re-establish the Caliphate, walling the Islamic World off from the moral pollution of the West. Another way to obtain the objective would be for the United States to wall itself in.
Are we really going to wall ourselves in? Have we given over to a static point of view?
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Children's Advocates
Several months ago, I filled out an online questionnaire expressing my principled indifference to gay marriage. Then, the American Family Association provided a link for sending a message to the President expressing, what I foolishly thought would be, my opinion.
I wrote a brief paragraph, best summarized as a "people should mind their own business" theme and sent it along to the White House. AFA thanked me for my participation and sent an auto-reply with the text of my message. Lo and behold, my simple paragraph was sandwiched between two paragraphs urging a Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. So, I was manipulated into throwing my name in with millions of AFA sheep bleating for Government meddling into the private lives of American citizens. I resent it.
I bet those liars at the AFA are getting a good belly laugh at my expense. That's a pretty rotten thing to do to a poor school bus driver. The bedrock of my success with kids is my credibility. They know down to the bones that I tell the truth (which they reciprocate by telling me the truth). Too bad I can't say the same thing about the AFA. Too bad we have serial liars claiming they stand up for children. I wonder how the children will reciprocate their lies?
I wrote a brief paragraph, best summarized as a "people should mind their own business" theme and sent it along to the White House. AFA thanked me for my participation and sent an auto-reply with the text of my message. Lo and behold, my simple paragraph was sandwiched between two paragraphs urging a Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. So, I was manipulated into throwing my name in with millions of AFA sheep bleating for Government meddling into the private lives of American citizens. I resent it.
I bet those liars at the AFA are getting a good belly laugh at my expense. That's a pretty rotten thing to do to a poor school bus driver. The bedrock of my success with kids is my credibility. They know down to the bones that I tell the truth (which they reciprocate by telling me the truth). Too bad I can't say the same thing about the AFA. Too bad we have serial liars claiming they stand up for children. I wonder how the children will reciprocate their lies?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
