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Sandra Day and Henry K.

Sandra Day O’Connor and Henry Kissinger recently died only a few days apart. I glanced at some of the obits, memorials, and reminiscences about them. There was a striking difference. Nary a bad word was said about O’Connor. Not so for Kissinger. We were reminded of some of his positive accomplishments, but many comments dwelled on what were seen as immoral decisions leading to the deaths of tens of thousands and brutal dictatorial actions. Much of this commentary was summarized in a political cartoon that had Kissinger on escalator descending into hell. I thought of Jackie “Moms” Mabley’s take on the well-worn adage: “They say you shouldn’t say anything about the dead unless it’s good. He’s dead. Good.”

I first became aware of Kissinger when in a college political science course in 1965 I was assigned to read Kissinger’s book Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy. In certain (but small) circles it had garnered much attention. In the book, Kissinger criticized President Eisenhower’s stated policy of massive retaliation if the United States were to be attacked. The theory was that one party would not attack if it knew that the response would assure the destruction of both sides. Later this policy became known as mutually assured destruction whose acronym indicates how easy it was to mock the Strangelovian doctrine of massive retaliation. Even so, Kissinger was one of the first to criticize it openly.

The book, however, did not just criticize massive retaliation. It also promoted the use of nuclear weapons. Kissinger did not want the United States to eschew their use, but to employ tactical nuclear weapons in our conflicts. I did not know then, and am not sure now, what a “tactical” nuclear weapon is, but I thought even in my college days that their use would lead to widespread noncombatant deaths. That apparently was ok with Kissinger if the US was engaged in some righteous cause, but he did not define, at least to my satisfaction, his notion of righteousness. I had the feeling that he might mean that the US never did inappropriate things, and therefore America would always be justified in the use of tactical nuclear weapons.

I didn’t think much of Kissinger one way or the other after reading the book until he obtained nationwide recognition when he was appointed National Security Advisor by President Richard Nixon in 1969. A friend of mine, however, met Kissinger before he took federal office. The friend was working for the first hedge fund created by Alfred Winslow Jones. Someone trying to obtain some of the fund’s investment money came to the offices with Kissinger in tow. Kissinger then held an academic position at Harvard, but he was also happy to make additional money by advising rich and powerful businessmen. (Later in life he had a consulting firm. He did more than ok in these ventures. Several sources report that he was worth $50 million when he died.)

Kissinger addressed this hedge fund in early 1968 when the country was bogged down with the war in Vietnam. Kissinger confidently said that the war was unwinnable. After Kissinger concluded his remarks, my friend asked, “If this is apparent to you, surely it must be to the advisors to the President.” Kissinger replied, “I am sure it is, but the President can always choose who he listens to.”

A year later, Dr. Henry Kissinger was National Security Advisor to the newly elected President Richard Nixon. Kissinger, at least from what he had said to my friend a year earlier, was convinced the war could not be won. So, America’s involvement in Vietnam ended once Nixon and Kissinger got power. Of course, not. The United States did not withdraw its troops until 1975, and from the time Nixon took office until that messy, embarrassing withdrawal, another 20,000 Americans were killed in Vietnam. Furthermore, Nixon and Kissinger escalated the war by bombing Cambodia and increasing the unacknowledged bombing of Laos. (See the post on this blog, “Bombs Away” on April 24, 2017.) Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of Southeast Asians died because of the war after Nixon and Kissinger ascended to power. (No accurate count of Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian deaths exist, but by one estimate three million Vietnamese died in the war, two million of whom were civilians.)

Perhaps, even though Kissinger had previously said the war was unwinnable, instead of helping end it, he supported its escalation because he had an honest conversion. Somehow, perhaps, he became convinced that although the extensive bombings in Vietnam had not worked, more extensive, more brutal bombings would bring the enemy to the bargaining table. That Kissinger ever thought that is hard to believe. That kind of fantasy hardly fits with Kissinger’s realpolitik mystique.

Instead, as discussed on Harry Shearer’s fascinating radio program Le Show (This was the fortieth anniversary of Le Show. Who knew?), the White House tapes of conversations between Nixon and Kissinger show that the continuation of the war was strictly politics. The war could not be won, but Nixon and Kissinger did not want to be blamed for losing the war, at least not before 1972 when Nixon desperately planned to be reelected. The war had to be maintained for at least four years after Nixon and Kissinger took office. And, consequently, many, many had to die to ensure Nixon would remain in office.

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A Lesson for Brewing Good Coffee

I learned a valuable tip for making good coffee this morning. I got the cannister of coffee from the top-rated coffee club off the shelf. (For various reasons, I no longer keep coffee beans in the freezer as I once did.) These were freshly roasted beans from New Guinea. I used the long-handled scoop that I keep tucked in the cannister. I have used this scoop for decades, and I am confident of the scoops of coffee beans to water ratio for my brewing techniques.

I took the top off my top-rated burr coffee grinder and put in the desired amount of coffee. I turned on the grinder, which is set to grind according to its display for 28.7 seconds. (I am a bit suspicious of a device that lets me set by the tenth of seconds.) Meanwhile, I got fresh water in the pitcher I keep next to my top-rated coffee maker and poured the desired amount of liquid into the aforementioned top-rated coffee machine.

I then got a coffee filter from the shelf. These are basket filters required by my top-rated coffee maker because, according to every knowledgeable coffee maker (or at least the manufacturer of my top-rated coffee machine) a basket filter allows for a more even and complete extraction of coffee from the beans than a cone filter. I put the filter and the basket holding it on top of the carafe of my top-rated coffee machine, placed them in the appropriate place for my top-rated machine, and turned the maker on.

I had previously programmed the machine so that it first “blooms” the ground coffee, an essential step for top-quality coffee I was first instructed about when I did single cup pour over coffee a half century ago. A little bit of water first wets the ground coffee beans to release the full potential of the beans. Then a few moments later, the full brewing takes place.

This top-rated maker, correctly so, does not allow the brew cycle to be interrupted before the cycle’s end. This, I am convinced, will bring out the best quality from the New Guinea beans from the top-rated coffee club. While all the coffee is brewing, I get dressed and do some dishwasher loading.

The top-rated machine’s brewing light turns off. All I need to do now is take the filter basket off the insulated carafe (the carafe is better for keeping the coffee warm because, I have been led to believe by the manufacturer of the top-rated coffee maker, the continual heating by a warming element degrades the freshly brewed coffee) and replace it with the carafe’s top.

It was at this point I learned the tip for the day, which you have perhaps already figured out. The precisely measured New Guinea beans from the top-rated coffee club that have been ground by the top-rated burr grinder for 28.7 seconds must be removed from the grinder’s receptacle and placed in the filter that has been placed in the basket of the top-rated coffee maker before that machine is turned on. Otherwise, you get, as I did, a carafe of hot water and a wet filter with nothing in it. And you learn, as I did, how disappointed you are when you are ready for the first cup of top-rated coffee, and it is not ready because of your own ineptitude.

[For a related post on this blog, see “The Barista is Not an Essential Worker” posted July 15, 2020.]

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Azerbaijan Meets Puerto Rico

She was cute. She was little. But she hurt me. I saw her a decade or so ago, but I remember asking her if physical therapists had to enjoy inflicting pain. With a charming, or perhaps diabolical, smile she said, “Maybe a little.”

I told this story to Michelle, my present physical therapist, who said, “She was just trying to be funny.” Michelle, however, at our first meeting said in the nicest possible way, that pain would be necessary on the road to recovery for my knee replacement. And then she did what physical therapists always seem to do—she hurt me, bending my joint more than I wanted it to be bent. After the first time, she said, “That was good.” I said, I hope not too bitterly, “If you think I am going to say, ‘That was good for me’ and light up a cigarette, you are sadly mistaken.” She did pronounce that “funny.”

Michelle, however, is a good physical therapist. She has also given me a renewed faith in a version of the American dream. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, but her parents were Jewish refugees from Azerbaijan when it was part of the Soviet Union. Her parents, she said, were secular, but if they had wanted to practice Judaism, they would have to do so in secret. Michelle did get some religious training in the United States, but she said her brother got more. (She was clearly proud of him as she bragged that he had passed all his actuarial exams on the first attempts.) He had been sent to a Brooklyn Yeshiva because her parents did not then understand New York City’s public schools. However, her brother broke his arm badly in the Yeshiva’s hazardous schoolyard. Her parents sued the school, apparently getting a significant award, and the school kicked her brother out. After that, he attended public schools.

Michelle attended Brooklyn public schools from the beginning of her education, got a bachelor’s degree from a state public university, and then got her doctorate in physical therapy from a university in the public City University of New York system, the College of Staten Island. She said somewhat defensively that although she got into what are thought to be more prestigious private universities, she chose the public school for her doctorate so she would not encumber herself with excessive debt. And, of course, she is now a physical therapist in a well-regarded institution forcing me to flex my knee more than I want to.

Michelle has what seems to be a Russian or Slavic family name, but it does not end in an “a” as a Slavic woman’s name might. She said that it was because she was born in the United States. Americans don’t genderize family names, and she is a proud American.

In our first session, Michelle told me that she would see me for the first two weeks of the sessions, but then someone else would step in until she got back. She was going to be married followed by a honeymoon to Bali. I told her that she would not be the first woman who left me after two weeks. She said, “That’s funny.”

She told me that her fiancé grew up in Astoria, Queens, a neighborhood that once was populated overwhelmingly by people of Greek descent. I asked if the fiancé were Greek. She said her husband-to-be is Puerto Rican, and I thought this is quite a New York story—a Jewish-American girl whose parents fled the Soviet Union marries a Puerto Rican boy raised among Greeks. Hey, if I could write tunes I would be working on a musical.

I asked if it was difficult for her fiancé growing up in Astoria. Many white ethnic New York neighborhoods were not welcoming to other ethnic groups, especially if they were people of color. Astoria is now increasingly diverse, but back when the fiancé was born, I assumed that Astorians did not open their arms to Puerto Ricans. Michelle said that his family did have some problems. She told me that her fiancé’s father is very light skinned. She paused and continued, “Lighter than me.” I had not paid attention to her skin tone, but while it might have been darker than most Scandinavians, it was not particularly dusky. Michelle went on to say, however, that the fiancé’s mother is dark—“she is almost Black.” The residents of her Astoria block did not take kindly to the Puerto Ricans. They told the Puerto Rican family that they could not park at certain places on the block because “those are our spots,” even though it was all public street parking. When the mother walked by, neighbors often made racist comments loud enough for her to hear.

Then one day as the mother was about to enter her residence some teenagers held a knife to her and tried to force themselves into her house. A neighbor who previously had not been particularly neighborly saw this and came running over to stop the thugs. He yelled for help and other neighbors came running. Michelle delicately put, “They beat the shit out of them.” This is New York. You are a neighbor. I might not have wanted you for a neighbor, but I want even less someone from outside the neighborhood doing harm to my neighbor. After this day, the fiancé’s family was at least tolerated in Astoria.

She’s on her honeymoon now. I hope that she has had a good time, including the dance at her wedding with her father to the tune he picked, “Sunrise, Sunset.” And perhaps now there will be less discomfort when she gets back, but when she bends my knee again, I will expect pain. That is what physical therapists do including those in a version of an American dream.

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Snippets

Pharmaceutical companies advertise heavily on some of the television shows I watch. The ads almost always have a disclaimer or warning. There’s one in particular that I don’t understand. It’s the one that says don’t take the drug if you are allergic to it. How would you know about the allergy if you don’t take drug? And if you did take it and had an allergic reaction to it, why would you take it again?

“Have something to say; say it; and stop when you are done.” Tryon Edwards.

The history book group just read Mirage: Napoleon’s Scientists and the Unveiling of Egypt by Nina Burleigh. I have read biographies of Napoleon, all decades ago, and remember little of his Egyptian foray. I did remember that he brought along scholars, savants, and that the French seized the Rosetta Stone, which ended up with the British. I did not remember, however, how much of a military fiasco the Egyptian invasion was for the French. Napoleon did not get his reputation as a great military leader from Egypt. But what surprised me most in Burleigh’s book was how much the French were decimated by the bubonic plague. I thought that the major effects of the plague were in the middle ages, but it devastated the French in Egypt from 1798 to 1800. (And while the trailer for Ridley Scott’s movie may show Napoleon firing a cannon at the pyramids, that never happened.)

“Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.” George Eliot.

In the “Is This Supposed to Be Good News?” Deparment: When tiny trash-can-looking containers were found in a local park, the word quickly went out that they had contained fentanyl. The authorities sprang into action and had a lab test them. The police reassured the nervous moms and reported that none of the containers had even traces of fentanyl. The police, apparently trying to be reassuring, said that the containers were just regular crack vials.

“If nobody ever said anything unless he knew what he was talking about, a ghastly hush would descend upon the earth.” Alan Herbert.

I missed the holiday again. November 25 is Evacuation Day, or least it used to be in New York City. The British occupied New York City for most of the Revolutionary War. They finally left on November 25, 1783, with a British flag nailed atop a pole. The first attempts to lower the offending cloth failed because the British had greased the flagpole. The American flag only replaced it after cleats were nailed into the pole. Evacuation Day became a New York City holiday, but it ended in 1916 as World War I made the U.S. especially close allies with the British and officials tried to erase ancient enmities. I think it would be nice to bring back the holiday, not because I care to commemorate again the Revolution or its end. Instead, various restrictive parking regulations get suspended in this city on holidays, and I am always in favor of that.

A wise person said: “It is easier to look wise than to talk wisely.”

I was paying for the cookie (or was it more than one?) at the fancy muffin and cookie place. Two teenaged girls poked their heads in. One asked, “Do you have vegan stuff?” The man sorting out my change replied, “No. Sorry.” The other girl persisted, “No vegan at all?” “No, sorry.” They huffed out. When I left a few moments later, I said, “No reason to be sorry.” With a gorgeous smile, he concluded, “I agree with you.”

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Trump’s Uncanny Inheritance

Whenever I listen to a minute or two of one of his rallies (which is as long as I can tolerate), I admire Donald Trump’s speaking ability. This is not the speechifying of many public figures. It is not like the famous speeches we may remember. It is different from JFK’s pronouncing that the U.S. was going to the moon; different from MLK’s I Have a Dream speech; or Ronald Reagan’s, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” The oratory of those other figures was carefully scripted, and we knew that this was a performance for a massed audience. On occasion, Trump tries something similar, but we can always tell that he is reading words written by someone else.

Instead what I admire in Trump’s rallies is his “conversational” style. He does not seem to be talking to the massed audience all at once, but to an individual. (I say “conversational” because, of course, we don’t really think he would ever have a real conversation with anyone at his rallies or perhaps anywhere.) He has the ability to make it seem as if he is talking only to you, not just to a faceless crowd.

This makes me think about something I read decades ago about the development of popular music. Before microphones, singers sometimes used a megaphone to reach their audiences, but mostly they just projected their voice so that it could be widely heard. They were singing for a massed audience without any individuals being singled out. Think opera today. I may feel thrilled to hear the soprano, but I don’t feel that she is singing just to me. I am just one of many who is hearing her at the same time.

When amplification started, the popular culture historian I read said that at first singing styles did not change. The music was still for a massed audience. Then, according to that writer, Bing Crosby changed everything. He used the microphone in a new way that felt not that he was singing to a group, but was singing to every individual in that group. Close your eyes and listen to Crosby singing about that white Christmas. He is singing to you. It is a personal experience, not a mass one.

Trump’s strength in his rallies is that he does not talk to a crowd. He makes it seem as if he is talking to everyone personally, and that has turned out to be a powerful ability to attract and keep followers.

Trump has benefited from speaking to large public assemblages in this way. He reads the room seeking laughter and outrage from his listeners, and this serves to acknowledge them. It gives them an identity when they feel overlooked and some sort of hope that he can make their lives better.

In these rallies he is an heir to a much older America where people got education and entertainment by hearing speakers and lecturers. America’s golden age of oratory was from roughly 1870 to 1925, a time before the mass media of radio and television had permeated the nation. What there was instead was an extensive railroad network. Able to appear in towns of all sizes, speakers utilized this network to entertain and inform. People like Frederick Douglass, Emma Goldman, William Jennings Bryan, and Clarence Darrow may have had other careers, but they all were on the lecture circuit. For example, Frederick Douglass edited a newspaper and wrote much, but he was perhaps most widely known for his oratory, which not only spread his views but earned him sizeable sums.

These speaking tours must have been exhausting because the speakers were almost constantly on the move. Emma Goldman, for example, made 321 speeches in a year. In breaks from the Scopes trial in 1925 in Dayton, Tennessee, Darrow road the rails to Chattanooga and elsewhere to speak, and Bryan also appeared at auditoriums whenever the trial was in recess. Wherever such speakers appeared, they gave audiences their money’s worth, speaking for more than an hour, eliciting laughter and outrage as they tried to get the audiences to adopt their views. Trump may not know who these people were (When president Trump said, “Frederick Douglass is an example of somebody who’s done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more, I notice.”), and he certainly does not espouse the racial views of Douglass or the pro-labor, anti-capitalist views of Goldman, the true populism or religious faith of Bryan, nor the populism or agnosticism of Darrow. Even so, at his rallies he in essence shares a legacy with these and similar people. I can’t imagine he knows who they are, but if he did, he would not see them as kindred spirits; He would only despise them.

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This, Too, Is America

         When some horrific act of hatred, intolerance, prejudice, exploitation, or violence occurs in this country, someone almost always says that the atrocity is “not American”; it’s not “who we are.” A friend of mine who has read deeply in American history rejoins that the Panglossians have a limited understanding of America and its history, for Americans have done atrocious things regularly throughout our history. My friend, however, is not truly surprised by the glib comments. He knows that standard American mythology seldom incorporates the bad from our history. For example, few of us were aware of the events depicted in David Grann’s riveting 2017 book Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI, which has now been made into a powerful film by Martin Scorsese. I won’t be a spoiler and go into many details of what happened for those who may see the movie or read the book (now back on the bestseller lists), but both the book and movie recount how Oklahoma Osage Indians in the 1920s became rich from oil discovered under their lands. However, a sickening conspiracy of murders (at least, twenty and perhaps hundreds) arose so that whites could control the wealth.

          Reviewers praised the book as a compelling narrative of forgotten American history, but that is misleading. If the history was forgotten, it was forgotten by few of us because few of us had ever learned of these acts in the first place. We don’t teach the bad things in our history much.

          At almost the same time as the Osage murders (which, of course, were meant to be hidden), a mass movement based on bigotry, fueled by greed and egotism, and inviting violence was also burgeoning in the country. Even though it was public, few know of it today.

The movement was the middle incarnation of the Ku Klux Klan. Most of us are aware that the Klan arose after Reconstruction to suppress the constitutional rights and other freedoms of Blacks. And we know that KKK resurfaced in the Civil Rights Era after World War II. Fewer of us know, however, of the Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s.

The early twentieth century KKK was different from the post-Civil-War incarnation. It was not limited to the South, and it expanded its hate. The nineteenth century KKK acted primarily against Blacks, but the early twentieth-century Klan targeted Catholics, Jews, Asians on the Pacific Coast, Mexicans in the Southwest, and immigrants everywhere in addition to Blacks. With this expansiveness, the Klan, professing Americanism, pronounced hatred for one in three Americans. They loved America, as some today also proclaim, but only a segment of it. (Of course, even without a Klan behind them, Americans have often acted violently against minorities and immigrants. For example, in1891 eleven Italian immigrants were lynched in New Orleans.)

This 1920s Klan entered the political arena, and it had both state and nationwide power and influence.  It opposed the teaching of evolution because that science implies that all people have a common origin. This KKK movement supported eugenics and mandatory sterilizations that became law in many places. (The eugenics movement in the U.S. was widespread and influential, but it had some trouble reconciling religious faith and American heroes with eugenics. Daniel Okrent in The Guarded Gate: Bigotry, Eugenics, and the Law That Kept Two Generation of Jew, Italians, and Other European Immigrants Out of America reports my favorite mental gymnastics from these supposedly principled people: A eugenicist concluded that Jesus was not Jewish, and that Columbus was Nordic.) The Klan sought to prevent immigration from “non-Nordic” countries, and it blessed the National Origins Act of 1924 which restricted immigration from Southern and Eastern Europe and elsewhere. The law, with its Klan support, passed overwhelmingly in the House and garnered only six dissenting votes in the Senate. The Klan’s national power was perhaps most visible on August 8, 1925, when the KKK held a parade in Washington with 50,000 marchers. An estimated 250,000 spectators watched.

This new Klan’s power was most evident not in the South but in the midwestern state of Indiana, as documented in Timothy Egan’s excellent book, A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them. (The 1920s Klan also controlled Oregon, whose legislature passed laws to outlaw Catholic schools, a measure that was found unconstitutional by the Supreme Court. Eighty years earlier, when still a territory, Oregon forbade all Blacks within its lands.) Every level of the Indiana government was run by Klan members, and that history, although it may not be widely known, seems familiar.

The movement was encouraged and often led by evangelical and fundamentalist Protestant clergy. It should not surprise anyone that American religion and hate can go together.

The KKK members were wedded to guns and other weapons. An observer of Klan meetings reported “weapons were passed among Klansman as freely as illegal hooch. I have never met a Klan member who didn’t have a gun, a knife, or often a blackjack.”

The leader of the evangelically blessed, gun-loving, America-first Indiana KKK was D.C. Stephenson. Perhaps Stephenson truly believed in the causes he espoused, but he also saw a way to make money — and lots of it — from the Klan. He got a cut of each $10 fee that state Klan members paid, and he was the supplier of the sheets and conical (comical?) hats each Klan member bought. In a few years, Stephenson was rich, owning fabulous homes, cars, and boats.

What is most striking today is not just the grifting — that, of course, has modern parallels — but the methods he used to expand the Klan. Egan writes that D.C. Stephenson “had the touch and the charm, the dexterity with words and the drive. He understood people’s fear and their need to blame others for their failures. He discovered that if he said something often enough, no matter how untrue, people would believe it. Small lies were for the timid. The key to telling a big lie was to do it with a conviction.” Stephenson could tell lies, lies, and more lies, and through the lies he attracted crowds, admirers, and followers thereby gaining power. In short order, the Klan under Stephenson controlled town after town and the Indiana state government.

Moreover, Stephenson expected that he, not the Klan, would control Indiana. Stephenson took credit for every KKK member who was elected and concluded that those officials owed him a personal loyalty that outweighed governmental duties, an oath to the Constitution, or even Klan “principles.” As a prosecutor later said, “Stephenson forced a super oath on public officials. This super oath was greater than the oath of constitutional authority.” Loyalty to an individual that supersedes fealty to sworn duties then as now is always a great threat to democracy. Egan states that Stephenson’s Indiana experience reveals that a truly representative government of the people and for the people cannot be taken for granted. Instead, it demonstrated that “democracy was a fragile thing, stable and steady until it was broken and trampled. A man who didn’t care about shattering every convention, and then found new ways to vandalize the contract that allowed free people to govern themselves, could do unthinkable damage.”

Stephenson’s downfall came from a criminal conviction, not one for corrupting government or unconstitutionally trying to retain power. Instead, he was convicted for murder and rape coming out of his sexual perversities, which were well known to many. Even so, in what also sounds familiar today, Stephenson’s followers “believed the trial was a hoax and witch hunt.” However, the heroes of the day, the twelve average men of the jury, knew otherwise, and Stephenson was sentenced to life in prison.

Stephenson may have been a charismatic person, but he could not have created a Klan that controlled a midwestern state unless he was tapping into a wellspring that already existed. Timothy Egan asks, “What if the leaders of the 1920s Klan didn’t drive public sentiment, but rode it? A vein of hatred was always there for the tapping. It’s still there, and explains much of the madness threatening American life a hundred years after Stephenson made a mockery of the moral principles of the Heartland.”

          There was a strain of hatred then as there is now, but there have also been other American traits fueling dangerous mass movements. One is a search for a scapegoat. Although conservative groups may pronounce a belief in personal responsibility, that is often a personal responsibility for people other than themselves. Instead, as Dara Horn writes in People Love Dead Jews: Reports from a Haunted Present, “People will do absolutely anything to blame their problems on others.” Somehow blaming Blacks and immigrants, Jews and Mexicans makes many people feel able to explain the shortcomings in their own lives.

          These conservative movements tap into hatred and scapegoats, but they also ride on a particular fear, a fear of change. John M. Barry also writing about the 1920s in Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How it Changed America says that the KKK’s target was not so much Blacks—no politician at the time was arguing for equality—but change. Barry points out that American populism has always had an “us” and “them”—not only an enemy above but also below. That dynamic remains.

          Interwoven with the fear of change is the myth that some earlier time was idyllic, and we must return to that period by eliminating aspects of present America. These Americans often deride global influences, but it’s ironic that they fit into an international conservative trend. As Peter Hessler writes in The Buried: An Archaeology of the Egyptian Revolution, such a movement “is like the modern Islamists, whose revolutions in Iran, Afghanistan, and Egypt always envisioned a return to some distant, purer past.” Make America Great Again seeks a similar mythical path.

          Almost anything bad that happens in this country out of hate, envy, insecurity, or greed has had too many precedents in our history. We may say that they are as American as apple pie. We could also say they are as American as bigoted violence.

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Snippets

I once thought I understood proper tipping, but now I am confused. More and more the machines where I pay ask if I want to leave a tip at places where I seldom tipped before, such as a bagel shop or a coffee bean retailer. But I was very surprised when I went through a toll booth and I was asked if I wanted to tip.

The handwritten sign in the bar’s window said:

          Here’s to Strong Women

                    May we know them

                    May we be them

                    May we raise them

When inside, I said to a favorite server that the sign was offensive. She asked if that was because there was no reference to men, and I replied, “No. Because there should be another line: ‘May we love them.’ ” She gave me a thumbs up and a fist bump. When a bit later I saw the at-least-once-burned owner and said the same thing, she snapped back, “No one believes in love anymore.”

Until recently I was not aware that Stellantis was a major American car maker. Of course, until recently I did not even know that Stellantis existed.

I was only trying to spread hope, but the mother seemed upset when I peered into the stroller and said, “Some two-year-olds get better looking as they grow older.”

All those TV sports shows ought to interview college athletes about their favorite professors and then produce clips of those teachers both in the classroom and interacting with the athletes outside of classes.

A wise person said: “The fact that you cannot serve God and mammon does not seem to have hurt business any.”

The sidewalk sign for a neighborhood establishment said among other things that I could buy “esoteric products” on the second floor. Can you tell me what I could expect to find?

If a son is a “Junior,” is it psychologically harmful to him if his father is not “Senior?” Does this help explain Donald Trump, Jr.?

Trump Sr. boasts that gasoline prices were much lower when he was president than now. He is correct, but even when he is correct, he is wrong. He says that the prices back in his presidential days were much lower than now. They were, but he quotes prices that were much lower than they actually were when he was President and then quotes much higher prices than is true for today. Is there a name for this syndrome where a person tells falsehoods even when the truth favors him?

When Trump took office, the cost of gasoline (“Obama’s gas prices”) were lower than the averages during the next four years. I have never heard Trump mention this.

“The trouble with facts is that there are so many of them” Samuel McChord Crothers.

“The best liar is he who makes the smallest of lying go the longest way.” Samuel Butler.

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First Sentences

“It’s a favorite pastime of Americans, and American conservatives especially, to keep watch for various evildoers scheming to seize the public sphere and rob of us our historic liberties.” Sohrab Ahmari, Tyranny, Inc.: How Private Power Crushed American Liberty—and What to Do About It.

“Richard Cadogan raised his revolver, took careful aim and pulled the trigger.” Edmund Crispin, The Moving Toyshop.

“Can you remember meeting William Shakespeare for the first time?” Farah Karim-Cooper, The Great White Bard: How to Love Shakespeare While Talking about Race.

“When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog name Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of fine spring afternoon.” James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss.

“Olmsted’s letter from Texas about the romance of nomadism was tailored to its recipient: Anne Charlotte Lynch, a New York poet, globe-trotting traveler, and eminent convener of literary salons.” Tony Horwitz, Spying on the South: An Odyssey Across the American Divide.

“The bodies were discovered at eight forty-five on the morning of Wednesday 18 September by Miss Emily Wharton, a sixty-five-year-old spinster of the parish of St. Matthew’s in Paddington, London, and Darren Wilkes, aged ten, of no particular parish as far as he knew or cared.” P.D. James, A Taste for Death.

“Rain drums Chicago’s gridded streets on the early morning of June 9, 1880.” C.W. Goodyear, President Garfield: From Radical to Unifier.

“The Dean, as he lay awake in bed that memorable Sunday night, pondered the astonishing vagaries of the weather.” Michael Gilbert, Close Quarters.

“On May 2, 1938, three special trains, carrying hundreds of German diplomats, government officials, Nazi Party leaders, security agents, and journalists, left Berlin accompanying the Führer on his first—and what would turn out to be his last—visit to Rome.” David I. Kertzer, The Pope at War: The Secret History of Pius XII, Mussolini, and Hitler.

“In the time before steamships, or then more frequently than now, a stroller along the docks of any considerable seaport would occasionally have his attention arrested by a group of bronzed mariners, man-of-war’s men or merchant sailors in holiday attire, ashore on liberty.” Herman Melville, Billy Budd, Sailor.

“It is hard to imagine working with books—writing an essay, a lecture, a report, a sermon—without the ability to find what you’re looking for quickly and easily: without, that is, the convenience of a good index.” Dennis Duncan, Index, A History of the: A Bookish Adventure from Medieval Manuscripts to the Digital Age.

“The most powerful man in Indiana stood next to the new governor at the Inaugural Ball, there to be thanked, applauded, and blessed for using the nation’s oldest domestic terror group to gain control of a uniquely American state.” Timothy Egan, A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Klan? Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them.

Posted on by rjonakait · 1 Comment

A Memorial for Ruby (Guest Post by Nephew DM)

Thursday, October, 13, 2005 was Yom Kippur. I was off from school as is the case with all the Jewish holidays if they fall during the week. I remember the day vividly; I’ve mentioned several times before that I am blessed (however; sometimes I think it might be more of a curse) with a photographic memory. It was cloudy, gray, rather humid for October, definitely not jacket weather. I went for a run after breakfast, cleaned a bit, showered, then decided I would head out to Willow Grove Mall to see if anything struck my fancy for Greg’s birthday (he would be turning 28 on October 28).

We had discussed getting a dog for quite a while. We wanted a dog but I think both of us were afraid to take the plunge. Dogs are a big responsibility we quipped, if we had one, we couldn’t just take off to go somewhere for a weekend… this was something we spontaneously did now and then. If we had a dog those spur of the moment things were bound to end; for these reasons neither of us made a move.

As I was driving down Easton Road in Glenside that morning towards the mall, I remembered I would be passing a branch of the Montgomery County SPCA… what harm would a brief stop cause. I walked in and asked where I could see the dogs they had that were waiting to be adopted. A woman took me to the back where they were in cages. They were all beautiful in their own way…  I wanted to adopt all of them; however, there was this little Lhasa Apso named Simba that I was immediately drawn to. I thought Greg would adore him. Even though I wanted it to be a surprise I realized this would need a consultation from him.

I asked if they could hold Simba. The woman told me there was no holding; you had to adopt on the spot. If you weren’t ready, you’d run the risk of the dog being adopted when you came back. I went out to the car and called Greg on my flip phone (ah… technology). Thankfully he was at his desk and answered his phone. He agreed he’d leave the office a little early and we’d drive up together to see Simba, and perhaps adopt him.

I thanked the woman at the SPCA and picked up a couple of other small gifts for Greg at the mall confident that Simba would still be there when we returned in the early evening. We arrived at the SPCA around 6:30pm and I asked a different woman if we could see Simba. I told her we were interested in perhaps adopting him. She replied, “Simba was adopted this afternoon.”  I was crestfallen.

Greg asked to see the other dogs that were available. I wanted to leave. Greg insisted we look. I relented and went with him into the back. We looked around and he pointed at this little red furball who was staring at the floor. He said, “What do you think of that one?” All of the paws had some white in them, but the front, left paw was striking as it looked like a white glove. The woman who brought us back there said, “That’s Ruby, she was just dropped off this afternoon. The owner said she’s untrainable. She’s about one year old.” We asked to see her.

She was quiet, stared at the floor, shook a little bit. When another dog was brought out to be examined by some other potential pet parents, she let out a little woof.

As we were petting her, the woman said that she still needed to be spayed so if we wanted her, we couldn’t have her until Monday. We looked at each other and said, “We’ll take her… the extra couple of days gives us time to get the house ready for her.”

As we were filling out the paperwork the woman then said, “Oh wait, you can take her now, she’s already spayed. I made a mistake.” We both said, almost in unison, “Since this is your mistake can you at least give us until tomorrow? We have nothing at home for her and need to at least pick up some basic dog things.” Thankfully the woman gave in and said she could make an exception this time; we had until 4pm the next day (Friday) to pick Ruby up.

I picked her up on my home from work and the rest is history. The first couple of days I think she was unsure of whether we were going to keep her; she didn’t let me out of her sight. The little girl watched me shower, watched me grade papers, watched me do everything (Greg had to go away that weekend to visit his parents, so I was solo with the new fur baby). We tried to crate train her, but she cried a lot. On Sunday night (the day Greg came home), I was lying in bed… she hopped in, and Greg looked at her, then at me, and I remember saying, “Fuck it, let her sleep with us.”

So much for crate training.

She slept with us for the next fifteen years until it got too hard for her to jump onto, and then off of the bed. I still miss her weight bumping up against me…. God how I miss it. She would often wait for me to fall asleep and then shift to the other side of the bed. I felt like she knew I was anxious certain nights and wanted to help me sleep.

Ruby completed our little family… she became our child at a time when it was still very difficult for gay men to become parents. Ruby taught us patience, and how to appreciate the simple things again. We didn’t mind missing our spontaneous jaunts here and there on weekends. Our walks down on Forbidden Drive and the Wissahickon more than filled that void. She brought unspeakable joy to the both of us with her kind, playful, and beautiful spirit (furthermore, she was an island of sanity during the pandemic lockdown, Greg’s mother’s illness, my recovery from open heart surgery… I could go on…).

After living with Cushing’s Disease, being attacked by two big dogs, and countless other dust-ups here and there over the years (did I tell you she was a tough cookie as well?) she finally told us she was tired this past week. It may sound cliché, but a true lady always knows when it is time to say goodbye. Ruby is no exception to this, even though she was tough, she was still a true lady. Greg and I decided we needed to respect and honor this even though our hearts are beyond broken.

Thank you, our dear sweet little girl, for the 18 years you gave us… I so wish we could have stolen that first year of your life as well (yes, I am greedy). I can only hope we will see each other again in the future. Words cannot express how much we are going to miss you!

Please know Greg and I love you to the moon and back… always have, always will!

Rest easy our little darling Rubygirl.

Posted on by rjonakait

Snippets

Only a couple weeks ago I was singing: “I am getting sutured in the morning./ Bing-bong machines are gonna chime./I still could party/but I must be hearty./So, get me to the OR on time.”

I had my left knee replaced. Because I had the right knee replaced a decade ago, I knew it was not a walk in the park. (Did you get the humor?) Because of the weakness and the opioids, I have missed some of my self-imposed posting deadlines.

I guess a friend was trying to make me feel better by sending me an internet page indicating that things could be worse. It said that a knee replacement was only the third most painful orthopedic procedure. I don’t know how such things are measured, but two spinal procedures topped the list. Fourth and fifth were ACL repairs and a shoulder replacement. This only reminded me that I have had two ACL operations and one shoulder replaced. I don’t really desire pain, but I am apparently composed of faulty and injured joints.

Two months ago, a friend had a hip replaced, and during his recovery he said that he was told a hip replacement was a relatively easy procedure compared to a knee replacement. After I mentioned the pain rankings, he asked where hips were on the list. I did not know. I only saw the top five, but I told him it was far below the others under the heading “Almost a Vacation.” The friend was not overly amused.

A medical technician told me that she was going to have a manicure later in the afternoon. It soon came out that the next day she was flying to Miami to be with her boyfriend.  She told me that he was from New York but now worked in Florida. I asked what he did, and she replied, “He’s a personal bodyguard. . . . He works for a private family.” I decided to stop my inquiries.

During my recovery, I have listened to a lot of radio. Unfortunately, my local NPR station was having its dreaded fundraising week. I am always fascinated by the matching grants. You know, the ones that say, “If we raise $10,000 by tonight, a donor will match it.” If that amount is not timely raised, does the supposed donor really withhold the money?

It hardly lightened my mood, however, to listen to any news. There was 24/7 coverage of the Mideast conflict. That was not surprising, but I was bewildered not to hear more about or from Jared Kushner. I thought that he and his pappy-in-law had solved the Mideast. On the other hand, the Mideast has apparently made Kushner successful since the Saudis have given him $2 billion to play around with.

And then, of course, there are the shootings that seem to happen even more than Mideast violence. The new House Speaker met the news of the Lewiston massacre with the old recipe—prayers for the evil to end. I assume he believes that God is eternal, and Johnson must know that people have been uttering prayers for as long as prayers have existed. He did not address why prayers should now stop the violence when they have not before.

Of course, in the time of Jesus, apparently evil existed, but there were no mass shootings. Perhaps we should all reflect on that.

At least one of the recent shooters seems to have been mentally ill. Is someone with a mental illness “evil”?

Can you turn the other cheek as Jesus commanded and also carry a gun?