Looking Back and Looking Ahead

In 1952, Ferrar, Straus, and Young published a book by novelist-reporter-historian William L. Shirer called Midcentury Journey. (For a while I had misremembered the title as Europe at Midcentury, as it focuses on England and the countries of the European continent, following World War II as well as up to and during that war.) True to my francophilic nature, rather than beginning at the beginning, I immediately turned to the third chapter, “The Waning Star of France,” curious to see what I would find. 

French government up to the Second World War was known as the Third Republic, which began in 1870 (after the collapse of Napoleon's Second Empire) and lasted until 1940. It was relatively stable, and the economy as late as the mid-1920s was also in decent shape, Shirer reports. Intellectual life, the arts, and literature, freedom—all were flourishing. “Men were wonderfully free, and they were free from fear,” as Shirer saw them in Paris:

If ever a great nation seemed destined to continue on its glorious and civilized course for centuries to come, France was it.

And yet, even then there were signs of approaching catastrophe that one can only appreciate today—with the benefit of hindsight.

- William L. Shirer, Midcentury Journey 

How to explain the weakness of France in the face of German aggression, and why did so many French people, not just a radical racist fringe but even conservative middle-class Frenchmen, actually see Hitler as a savior?

Part of Shirer’s answer is that there were, in fact, two Frances, a democratic, republican Left (heirs of the 1789 Revolution) and an authoritarian Right, "which looked backward with nostalgia to the ancient régime….” While democratic, republican France was supported by industrial and farm workers and people in the trades and small business, those on the authoritarian side, yearning for a return to monarchy, had support from the church and army, big business and finance. Evenly matched numerically in the population, the two sides had little common ground, and thus power tended to shift back and forth, back and forth, until fear of “Reds” in their own country (“the enemy within”) led the (formerly, I would say) “conservatives” in France to see Hitler as the lesser evil.

Naturally, there were other contributing factors. Loss of male population in World War I and the subsequent falling birthrate, decay of the bourgeoisie, a corrupt press (“venal,” Shirer calls it), widespread tax evasion at all levels of society, and failure to industrialize sufficiently all played a part in the country’s problems. What struck me most forcibly, however, was the deep division Shirer identifies in the French people, a chasm with no bridge across, because had the country been united, couldn’t they have devised solutions for the other problems? 

The troubles of France, it became evident, went back to the French Revolution of 1789, which had given birth to the nation we [Americans] came to know. There the deep fissure developed which has divided France to this day. It was an unfinished revolution in that the old order was never really liquidated or even converted, and therefore survived to combat the republican idea right up to Hitler’s entry into Paris, which it welcomed and which brought the Third Republic to an end.

These two Frances, Shirer argues, “never really fused.” 

Whether or not France is a united country today is not my concern today (although I do see divisions continuing), and it is probably obvious why Shirer’s idea of a divided country strikes me with such force: It is the divisions in the United States of America, my own country, that most deeply concern me. In one of my January posts, I wrote about avoiding difficult subjects. For me, such avoidance means ignoring crisis to pretend that life is normal, although these are not normal times. The great question of our time is, once again, whether our nation, “conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal,” can endure into the future. And yet, and yet—.

Yet conversation across the chasm is all but impossible, because Americans, like those divided French Shirer describes, have so little common ground on which to meet that we live in different realities. 

The fissure was already deep in 1776, when a nation "conceived in liberty for all” allowed some humans to own others. A scant 85 years later came the Civil War, the war Lincoln saw as deciding the nation’s fate. That war came to an end without stitching the country seamlessly back together. The legacy of defeat is still bitter to many who never lived through it but inherited bitterness from those who could not accept the war's outcome, in much the same way that the defeated candidate for the presidency in 2020 has never been able to recognize and accept his defeat that year—and now, despite having successfully avoided military service himself and despite being elected to another term in the White House, has taken up political arms against Americans by withholding Congressionally approved funds, has sent armed forces into American cities and states that contributed to his defeat, and is now bombing foreign countries and killing civilians in the name of America. That is, these things are being done in your name and mine.

***

I wrote the foregoing back in March. Since then--just the other day, in fact--the world has seen an event that fills me with hope. Despite loud support from top officials in the current American government, autocrat Viktor Orbán was defeated for re-election as prime minister by opposition leader Péter Magyar, who ran on a strong anti-corruption platform. Read about the campaign what Magyar to build support, and how he brought down a 16-year regime that had ruled through, in addition to outright corruption, stacking key institutions with loyalists and taking over news outlets. Now the rest of Europe is eagerly welcoming Hungary back into the fold--and meanwhile, Canada is contemplating joining the European Union, no longer able to trust completely in a North American alliance. The Magyar story, though, is inspiring. It can be done! We do not have to slog through another world war and commit mass genocide before returning to sanity!

Longings for Elsewhere

Return to the West I: Longings for Elsewhere

During my midlife graduate study of philosophy at the University of Illinois, from time to time I was invited to francophone dinner parties given by the bilingual secretary of the French Department, whom I knew through mutual friends. Besides Americans for whom French was a second language, guests were visitors to the Illinois prairie from Canada, Belgium, Algeria, Senegal, Côte d’Ivoire and other French-speaking African countries, as well as from France. Those international evenings granted all of us a most welcome temporary illusion – that of being in Paris, dream capital for all enamored of the French language and culture.

When I had first arrived in town, I’d been told that Champaign-Urbana was a wonderful place to “get work done” because there were “no distractions.” While scholars at the Chicago campus might be challenged by temptations of the city itself, no such danger existed downstate.

After one of her delightful dinner evenings, my French-speaking hostess remarked rhapsodically, intending neither irony nor humor, “Champaign-Urbana is such a wonderful place! There are so many people here who desire to be elsewhere!”

Desiring to be elsewhere....

What I remember of my birth state, South Dakota, comes from a later visit, a camping trip in my seventeenth summer. My memories of growing up center instead on Joliet, Illinois, and while the memories are far from being nightmares, for years there I longed to escape, and once escaped have never contemplated permanent return. As a child, I spent long, dreamy hours on the front porch, gazing west across the cornfields on the other side of the road (soybeans in alternate years), yearning for wild open spaces where I would not be hemmed in by suburban streets and land cultivated for agricultural crops. No one would have known it to look at me, but in my imagination I rode a galloping horse toward the setting sun.

But it is no fault intrinsic to Illinois that the Land of Lincoln felt like a prison for me. Illinois was cast in that thankless role in my personal story, I see now, because of the facts of childhood dependency, adolescent longing, and, later, the suffocating constrictions of graduate study. No doubt I would have had the same longings for escape in Albany or Phoenix, had circumstances other than place been the same.

For years, Michigan was the dream. From the time I was twelve years old, our family camping trips took place along the Lake Michigan shoreline from Indiana to the Straits of Mackinac. Camping – vacation -- escapes from school and housework and all ordinary strictures of urban/suburban life. Sun or rain, regardless of temperature, in Michigan we lived the outdoor life that fueled my dreams, so it is little wonder I saw Michigan as embodying those dreams, that life. At the age of eighteen, I moved to Michigan at last.

Having a dream is one thing. Living it is another. Reality is always a mix of light and shadow. But I have not been disappointed living the dream. Michigan is home.

It took a while, but working year after year in jobs often experienced as miserable servitude I managed at last to find a way of being in the world that has remained with me, for the most part, ever since. That is, wherever I am, living or visiting, I try to be fully. After all, if I could afford to travel endlessly, would I not devour every strange sight and sound and make the most of every moment? So why not do that wherever my here is on any given day?

In Kalamazoo, then, on long walks or bus rides through the city, I came to see every building and alley and tree, in every detail, as unique and fascinating and delightfully foreign. The same was true for me of Cincinnati during two years I spent there. In the beautiful northern Michigan county where I have lived and worked now for over two decades, I am astonished at how many people will spend hours puffing away at indoor exercise rather than walking the roads and woods around them.

There is so much to see in the world, and the scenes are never the same two days in a row – they change from one hour to the next. For every one of us, life is too short to contain all possible experiences, and these are not limited to sight alone, either. I have imagined being without sight, without hearing, and how much delight would remain in the fragrance and touch of a June breeze here at home, sitting outdoors below the linden tree in bloom.

“We’re here now” has been my mantra for years. Being here is not something I want to miss.

And yet – and yet -- .

By December of 2014 we had been four years at home without any significant travel or time away when unexpectedly a possibility for adventure appeared. Someone we knew owned a cabin in southern Arizona, and we could rent it for the winter. The very modest price put it within our reach; the price was modest in keeping with the cabin and its location. We would know no one and have few neighbors -- all the better, as far as I was concerned, because as soon as the property owner casually tossed off the phrases “ghost town,” “high desert,” and “open range,” my heart throbbed with old cowgirl dreams.

I had not, as an adult, yearned for Arizona. If anything, to be honest, I was somewhat impatient with Michigan friends who jumped ship for the winter to head for the sunny warmth of the Southwest. Certainly, I had no desire to spend months quarantined in a trailer park or a condo, but a ghost town a mile above sea level with cattle roaming through the yard? Vivid images filled my imagination, and while negotiations were in abeyance it seemed that all my happiness depended on spending winter in the high desert.

We went. We saw. We explored. I fell in love. In the spring we came home again. That was then, and this is now.

Home happiness has never kept us from having travel dreams. Over the years we made actual travels, too,. One September we flew to France, a place we had each loved for a long time, finally joining our separate loves of Paris and discovering together new regions to the south. Another year, in the spring, we drove across the Canadian Shield to Montreal, an exciting and cosmopolitan North American City it had long been my dream to visit. The Florida Everglades were wildly different from northern Michigan, as was the fascinating Gulf Coast, where we spent a couple of winters (yes, it must be admitted – winters away from Michigan) in the tiny “Old Florida” settlement of Aripeka. Coming home one spring from Florida, we passed through the vibrant beauty of Savannah, Georgia, which featured youth as well as venerable age. And twice we followed the course of the Mississippi from Illinois to the Twin Cities of Minnesota, crossing back and forth from one bank to the other, hungrily devouring every sight along every bend of the river.

Back at home, we relived adventures and dreamed of returning to this or that place, of relocating somewhere else for part of the year, and of exploring new places not yet experienced. The imaginary lives we have lived are beyond number. How many times was it love, and how often mere infatuation? And how does one tell, except over time?

As teasing, reluctant northern Michigan spring advances and retreats following a blessedly mild winter, I look forward to the joys of the unfolding season. Still, I must confess my heart was not fully here in the cold and snow just past. Again and again it returned to the scruffy, hardworking, struggling, unglamorous scenes of southeast Arizona: the ghost town, the playa, the cow town, the isolation, the open spaces, the cows and horses and mountains.

I wonder how I will feel when spring has fully arrived, when the woods are full of the sweet, ephemeral blooms of wildflowers, when it is time to dig and turn the garden and inhale the fragrance of living soil. Will those long-beloved sights and perfumes banish my longing for the dry, dusty high desert?

If not, can I possibly write a travelogue while going nowhere? Can I transport not only myself but also anyone who cares to read my words to another place? Can I convey anything of what enchanted me in a part of the country not known for wide appeal to tourists or snowbirds?

“Be thinkin’ about it,” the announcer kept telling to the young rodeo riders waiting their turn in the arena.

I’m thinkin’ about it.

"Why Paris?"

In the wake of terrorist attacks in Paris, France, talking heads keep asking, “Why Paris?” They ask if the reason is this or that or the other thing, everyone looking for a simple answer. But the world is complicated, not simple.

France, like the United States, has long been a nation of both native peoples and immigrants. Both countries also have legacies of imperialism, France with official colonies, the United States with de facto cheap labor satellites in service to American capitalism. In both countries, the past haunts the present, and the present in one place on earth touches the present in other places. 

France and the United States are very different when it comes to geographic area and neighbors. The U.S. shares borders only with Canada and Mexico, and the contiguous states between those two borders is immense, while France forms part of a much smaller continent, divided into numerous smaller nation-states, with much more porous borders since European Union.

Terrorism attacks, it should be remembered, have not been confined to France and the United States. They have taken place this month in Lebanon and Jordan; the bombing of a U.S. embassy in Kenya in 1998 killed 247 Kenyans (20 for every American who died); nearly 300 Nigerian schoolgirls between the ages of 16 and 18 were abducted in 2014.

Historically, “war” has meant the clash of armies. Sending troops to war meant they would go into battle against other armed troops. American troops in the Revolutionary War and Vietnamese troops in the last century adopted techniques of guerrilla warfare, rather than charging at each other across open fields, but they were still armed troops engaging other armed troops in what could be recognized and called battle – a deadly game, to be sure, with civilian casualties, but still with a few recognized rules.

No more. No rules. When and how (no doubt gradually) the changes came about can be argued, but the fact is indisputable.

Do we in the West care more, care disproportionately, about “our own” and ignore terrorism elsewhere? One Facebook post decried the lack of posts on Beiruit, at the same time Paris postings were everywhere. One reason for that, I think, is that we share the news we hear, and what we hear on American radio and read in our newspapers is by and large the news that touches Americans most directly. When I want news about Ethiopia, I have to seek it out; what’s happening in Paris is on the radio 24 hours a day. But I agree that it is important to look beyond the headlines to the rest of the world.

To the original question, “Why Paris?,” however, there is no simple answer. But after September 11, 2001, did anyone ask, “Why New York?” It seemed obvious, didn’t it?

Paris is obvious for the same reason.

Paris, like New York, has long been a dream city for people all over the world. It is a center of art and culture, of business and finance, of fashion and of government. It is, if you will, New York and Washington, D.C., combined. And it is beautiful. Many who live elsewhere hold it in their hearts as a second home, and many who have yet to see it for the first time hold it in their dreams.

It is important that we not forget victims and grief and fear in other parts of the world. Did you know that Beirut was once called “the Paris of the Middle East”? Even had it never been called that, the people of Beirut are as deserving of compassion as the people of Paris. At the same time, it’s only natural that our hearts are drawn to what is familiar, to the country President Obama rightly called “our oldest ally,” the city that welcomed American GIs and artists and writers and students, following World War II.

Paris, c’est une phare. Que la lumière sois jamais èteinte.