Always Good News -- Something New from Wendell Berry

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Look Out Above For What's Coming Down!

When I was in high school, about 14 or 15 years old, I went on my first date that was not a double date with some boy’s father or mother doing the driving, and the evening should have been memorable for that reason. The boy who asked me out had his driver’s license and picked me up at home, all by himself, after my parents gave permission because the boy and his family were members of the church we attended. Wouldn’t you think I would remember what I wore and what kind of car the boy drove, if we went out for ice cream after the main event and, if so, where? But I don’t recall any of that, because the main event was a stage play and that evening the first time I ever saw live actors on a stage. I I was powerfully stage-struck!

“The Curious Savage” is a gentle comedy with a quiet message and a touching conclusion. Other inmates of the cozy insane asylum where the main character is committed for the period covered by the play cannot tell her in so many words that they love her, but each of them has some indirect means of expression, and she understands them all. I still remember that she is told by one of them, in the last scene, to carry an umbrella, in case of rain. Hardly King Lear, but it moved me deeply.

The performers were high school students, mostly juniors and seniors. This was not a professional production, by any means. Nevertheless, as the final curtain fell, after the cast took their bows, I sat transfixed, unwilling to acknowledge that the magic spell had come to a close.

Inspired, I soon began to try out for one-act plays and to discover the intoxicating world of backstage. The focus of that monumental, hundred-year-old, three-story, limestone-block castle of a school, two or three blocks long, a school with tall Gothic doors and inner stairways of solid marble -- the focus for me became the auditorium with its heavy proscenium curtain, orchestra pit, onstage trap door in the floor and soaring space above for flying rigs. The smallest bit part sufficed to fuel my dreams or, failing that, a place on the props crew.

My theatre love persisted, and in my senior year our cast of “El Camino Real” (I played the old gypsy, mother of Esmeralda) climbed successive levels of competition to first place in the state of Illinois. Heady stuff! I then began a checkered undergraduate career -- three schools, three or four successive majors before graduation 20 years later -- in speech and theatre at the University of Illinois. “Read plays!” urged professors of acting classes. Fine! I would read plays! No one needed to twist my arm to make that happen! There were also technical classes, such as costume design, and challenging beginning work in directing. All the world may be a stage, but it’s just as true that the stage itself, wherever it is, is its own world, with its own language, traditions, and a history going back at least to ancient Greece. And I loved every aspect of it.

I’m getting to my point, truly I am. If I were younger, I would have gotten to it sooner, but at my age memories take up more and more of my conscious mental life.

Look up the phrase deus ex machina, if it is unfamiliar to you. The idea dates back to those early Greek and Roman dramatists and had originally a material reference. Even that long ago, you see, staging (think “production values”) was sometimes elaborate and complex. For example, marvelous machinery could bring a “god” down, unexpectedly, from on high, to thrill an audience and resolve dramatic action. Like all special effects, however, after a while it was no longer surprising and began to be seen instead as rather a cheap trick. Was the playwright unable to wrap up his plot no other way? Too bad!

As audiences, along with critics,  became more and more sophisticated, the term deus ex machina came to be more generally applied, as it is today, to any last-minute introduction of a new, often unconvincing character or development brought in near a story’s end to bring an otherwise hopeless mess to a tidy conclusion. Moderns use the phrase in literature discussions as well as in drama, and film criticism in our household is particularly scathing when we feel a scriptwriter or director has resorted to a deus ex machina resolution.

I approach my point ever more closely.

The now-familiar insomnia, waking not from but into a nightmare, recognizing inevitability but being unable to believe completely in what is clearly coming down the tracks – the overwhelming experience of the last two months and more – waking, that is, into a new world that has become frighteningly unreal, I thought in the dark of one recent morning of the deus ex machina, and my first thought was, isn’t that just what we need? There is no other way out, is there? We humans have made a horrid, irresolvable mess on our world stage, and no playwright on earth, no team of the wisest of world leaders can possible sort us out at this late stage. Not in my lifetime, surely.

Quickly, however, a second thought followed: wasn’t it precisely the irresponsible longing for outside rescue . . . combined with the emergence of someone claiming to possess the godlike powers of a world rescuer . . . combined with a fearful audience desperately willing to believe, desperately longing . . . that brought us to this state?

No, we should not wish for it, and we should not allow the cheap trick to be put over on us. There is no way around this mess other than through it, and through it we must slog, one foot in front of the other.

Do you need a weatherman to tell you there will be storms ahead? Take an umbrella. Someone else is sure to need it if you don’t.

Judging a Generation

Not infrequently on Facebook I see posts that bring on a wave of sadness. The posts I mean are not personal position statements thought out by the friend posting but what I think of as t-shirt or bumper sticker ideas the friend picked up somewhere else and reposted, so that now other friends are encouraged to “Share if you agree.” I never do. Never share, that is.

Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I identify strongly with the sentiment expressed. Other times I most emphatically do not. Either way, though, what so often brings on the sadness is an immediate gut response that, if put into words, would go something like this (if Fb allowed for italics, which it does not): “Oh, please, friends! It’s so much more complicated than that!”

(Americans, I read somewhere the other day, "don’t like nuance." There’s another blanket statement I can’t buy, because ain’t I an American?)

So now, to make good on today’s subject heading, here’s an example of what I’m talking about. The text reads as follows:

1944: 18 year olds [sic] storm the beach of Normandy into almost certain death.

2016: 18 year olds [sic] need a safe place because words hurt their feelings.

Then, of course, “Share if you agree.”

Sigh!

Originally I was going to title this post “Passing Judgments on Entire Generations,” but I figured that was too long a title. The subtext of the Fb post, however, asks us to do just that. It implies that one generation, that of World War II, i.e., my parents’ generation, was manly and courageous (at least, they men were, right?) and that a younger generation, my grandchildren, are a pack of whiny, sniveling, cowardly little babies. One generation all heroes, the other all sissies.

I don’t buy it.

Every generation has heroes and cowards, patriotic soldiers (some gung-ho, some reluctant), principled pacifists, and a majority of ordinary people who serve their country in thousands of diverse ways, at home and abroad. 

What did I learn from my parents’ generation? What was the most important lesson they taught me?

I’ll tell you. We were taught the Golden Rule. We were taught not that crying when picked on by a bully was shameful and babish but that bullying was shameful. That name-calling was shameful. That when we were witness to bullying and name-calling or any other kind of bad behavior, it was our job to speak against the bad behavior and speak up for the innocent.

And my grandchildren are being taught the same lessons today. They know that speaking out for what is right can be difficult, but they have the courage to stand up and be counted, and I am proud of their courage. I am proud of their sensitivity to the feelings of others, both those like them and those different from them.

“Kids today!” It’s a lament as old as the human race, but would any of us change places with our grandchildren? What a world they are inheriting! And well, it’s easy to gild the past and kick dirt on the present, isn't it? And the temptation is especially great as we grow older and seek cheap comfort in nostalgia. But how does that help anyone?

That's my bottom line. Do I have anything to say that's going to help anyone? Will sharing this or that somehow make the world better?

Because we need to ask what we can do to support young people in this confusing, difficult, threatening and threatened world. Because writing off the future of our country and the world makes no sense at all.

And Now, About That Five-Legged Dog

I’ll get to the dog in a minute, but first a couple of questions. How do you feel about living in a “post-truth era”? Are you convinced “there’s no such thing as facts”? 

Dan Rather – bless his heart! – has come out strongly on the side of facts and truth. Here are a few sample paragraphs for those disinclined to follow the link:

If people want to live in a post-truth world, where "elite" experts are all biased and facts are up for interpretation, I suggest they go all the way. 

You can go to a post-truth doctor who could say "well the elitist scientific tests say you have strep throat but I say it's cancer so let's give you some chemotherapy." 

Or you can go to a post-truth electrician who might say "well those elitist electrical manuals published in New York and those government regulations out of Washington say you should ground your electricity, but that's just a bunch of red tape." 

Or you can go to a post-truth auto mechanic who might say "well those elitist laws of physics say that this is how a braking system works, but let's replace your brake pads with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies because they will smell better when you hit the brake pedal." If people want to live in a post-truth world, where "elite" experts are all biased and facts are up for interpretation, I suggest they go all the way. 

I was reminded of David Hume’s dizzying bout of temporary skepticism, brought on by pursuing justification down a rabbit hole. “How can I believe in the material world, when the senses sometimes deceive and there would be nothing illogical about nonexistence?” For Hume, dinner and conversation with friends, followed (or preceded) by a good game of billiards, sufficed to banish doubt. And as for the rest of us, outside of our own dizzying moments of metaphysical speculation, we have no choice, either, but to “believe in” the earth we stand on. We can no more doubt it while going about our lives than a fish can doubt the reality of water.

My father was no philosopher but an engineer. A “just the facts” kinda guy? Well, he also had a fanciful side that came out in a long-running serial bedtime story about a family of squirrels, and his inclined enough toward dreams that he encouraged me for years to enter the Kentucky Club tobacco contest to name a thoroughbred racehorse and win the horse. That is, he was enough of a story-teller and dreamer that, when I was a child, we shared common loves and interests.

On the other hand, he was a lifelong Republican and a proud army reserve officer, with very traditional conservative values, and our relationship grew strained during my adolescence. He was gung-ho the war in Vietnam and adamantly opposed to the E.R.A. So if he were still alive, where would he stand today?

I need to believe he would come down firmly on Dan Rather’s sturdy position, out of respect for the English language, as well as for facts. You see, in addition to classical music and serious poetry and opera, my father delighted in doggerel and shaggy dog stories and riddles, and one of his favorite riddles, sparking many riotous debates with small daughters, was this puzzler:

Q: If you call a dog’s tail a leg, how many legs does the dog have?

When we were little, my sisters and I readily fell for the trick question, eagerly shouting out “Five!” Then came the implacable, rock-ribbed parental lesson:

A: The dog has four legs. Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg!

Long after my sisters and I had ceased to be gullible enough to offer the wrong answer, my father continued to trot out his old, tired riddle.

But here’s the thing: the answer never changes. The answer would not have changed even if my sisters and I had insisted for all those years that the tail was a leg and that the hypothetical dog in question had, therefore, five legs. We could have chanted in deafening chorus (Yeah, sure! As if my parents would have put up with that sort of nonsense!): “Five legs! Five legs! Five legs! Five legs!” It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.

Repetition would not have made the wrong answer right then, and it doesn’t make it right today. Calling a tail a leg does not make it a leg. Repeating a lie as the truth does not make it true, no matter how many times you tell the lie, no matter how long and loudly you shout and chant and intoxicate yourself.

12/4/2016

As Ready As I'll Ever Be

Migraine prevented me from cobbling together homemade treats on Friday evening, but grocery store treats seem to be filling the bill, as far as today’s customers are concerned on this Shop Local Saturday 2016. 

Except for a couple bursts of sunshine, the sky has been overcast and grey. All the better, perhaps, to showcase holiday lights. My little tree is twinkling away, and the 4,000 lights on the village tree will be lit in a couple of hours.

But the best, from my point of view, begins 20 minutes from the time I tap out these words: the decorated, horse-drawn wagon will be giving rides around downtown beginning at 4 p.m. I hope to get at least one decent picture of that to include later as a postscript -- because everything in life is better with horses.

Postscript

Okay, my attempts to photograph the horses in the dark were none too successful (although I'm proud that this is one Northport tradition I started and that lines were long with families waiting for the village tour)...

...but the tree lighting was truly MAGNIFICENT!

We Should Not Be Wall-Builders, Either

[What do you do when you can't sleep? I read and write.]

Saturday Morning Reflections

We who do not want to see a physical wall built between our country and Mexico must be careful not to build a social wall between ourselves and the Americans whose different views and votes carried the day on Tuesday, because “They” are not a homogeneous block but a diverse group, with diverse reasons for voting as they did.

·     Some are party loyalists and would have voted for the Republican candidate whoever he or she had been, and a certain segment of Republican party loyalists are of the all-government-is-bad stripe. (Ideologically, they are libertarians.) This group will always vote their ideology.

·     Others are one-issue voters (e.g., anti-abortion). One friend told me her group of Catholic women friends fall into this camp. All other issues, all other statements were unimportant to them.

·     Some “liked some of what he had to say” (e.g., “he talked about jobs”) enough that they could somehow set aside the rest. One woman told me she tried, in looking at both candidates, to set aside personality and character and look only at issues. Apparently there were people who could do that.

·     A very large segment flocked to the Republican Party because they had been feeling invisible and the Republican candidate paid attention to them. Most of the people in this group (amazingly! This came out in post-election coverage) won’t even care all that much if he fails to make good on his promises. Mobilization of the overlooked (overlooked by media and by mainstream politicos alike) is the #1 explanation favored by mainstream journalists in the election aftermath. I say it is significant, but it can only serve, in my view, as one explanation among others. We human beings crave simple explanations, but life is not always simple. Yes, this is an important factor (and we must all draw a lesson from it), but it is not the only factor.

·     Don’t forget that many who supported Bernie Sanders in the primary voted Republican in the election! Crossover vote from Democrat to Republican accounts for people (1) who believe that American workers have not benefited from trade agreements (I did NOT cross over, but I also believe that the agreements have benefited corporations at the expense of workers both at home and abroad; NAFTA was my biggest disappointment of the Bill Clinton administration) and (2) who want a president not beholden to the status quo.

·     Even the anti-Hillary contingent cannot be dismissed simply as anti-woman or anti-feminist. I voted for her but have never fully trusted either of the Clintons since NAFTA. Be honest, my dear fellow feminists: was she your ideal candidate? Not mine, but I voted for her because I mistrusted her opponent far, far more on almost every issue and could not stomach his behavior or rhetoric.

·     This brings us to racism and sexism and bigotry of all kinds. Undoubtedly, those played a part, and undoubtedly racism persists in this country, as does sexism and homophobia and xenophobia, etc. Unfortunately, too, the worst segment of that contingent now feels it has a mandate to act out its hate. And no, we cannot stand back in silence, and we cannot hide fearfully in our homes. We must oppose hatred and bigotry and persecution wherever we find them. But it’s important we not characterize half our country’s population on the basis of what I have to believe is a minority splinter contingent.

Nothing in my list above is meant to excuse odious speech or behavior on the part of the candidate or any of his supporters.

But now, two conclusions I hope you will share with me: First, supporters of the new president-elect cannot be dismissed as a monolithic demonic army of hate-mongers. And second, to prevent the social disintegration we so deeply fear it is important that we not build walls that would escalate divisions and turn our beloved country into warring camps.

President Obama never fails to amaze me, and he and the First Lady, Michelle, are the examples I would have us take for our own. We need to do as they have always done and continue to do: to oppose bigotry and hatred at every opportunity, to continue to listen to others, to demand and bestow respect for and on human beings, and to model the behavior we want to see surrounding us. I hope and fervently pray that the hour and a half the president-elect spent with the president the other day will have a lasting and beneficial effect on the future behavior of the man who will next inhabit the White House. I also hope, (somewhat desperately, I must admit: these are ugly, frightening times) that the president-elect will be inspired speak out publicly to rein in the worst behavior of his supporters. The sooner, the better. In fact, I hope it will have already happened before this post goes online.

Let's Tell It Like It REALLY Is

This year’s Republican candidate for the office of President of the United States is admired by his supporters for “telling it like it is.” Yesterday on the radio I heard a young college woman say that “our country is in crisis and we can’t afford ‘political correctness.’”

I saw red. 

The term ‘political correctness’ gets my goat. People say ‘politically correct’ when they suspect some truth is being covered over, and they say ‘politically incorrect,’ with a smirk, when taking pride in being offensive. At the risk of offending, let me say that the phrase makes me want to puke, whoever uses it, in whatever context.

What was the American language like before this nasty little term came into common usage?

We spoke of civil discourse, and we tried to be civil in our speech. We attempted to remain polite when provoked, and when anger got the better of us, we were ashamed afterward. We expected more of ourselves and one another – at least when sober. Of course, we fell from grace now and then -- we are human -- but drunken ravings were not the standard for public speech.

Manners and decency were respected in national life, as in smaller groups and communities across the country. Abusive name-calling intended to humiliate or belittle occurred, but most of us recognized it for what it was, because we were taught, by parents and teachers, to avoid hurting other people’s feelings. In turn, we taught our children the same lessons.

This country has seen crisis before. The United States began with a Revolution, survived wars, and struggled through crushing economic hardship during the Great Depression. We have been divided as a nation more than once in our past. Political campaigns have at times been ugly, and political cartoons have stooped to cruel caricature. But when has a candidate for the highest office in the land made public statements insulting women, minorities, people with disabilities, and military veterans?

And what is there in such statements that does anything to resolve crisis?

Cruelly inflicting pain is not courage. Spewing abuse is not honesty. Thoughtlessness is not any kind of moral standard, and preying on fear and encouraging hatred is not “doing what needs to be done.” Neither is any of that some kind of trivial, just slightly naughty “political incorrectness.” Rude, boorish, cruel, hateful, hurtful, and inflammatory statements need to be called what they are.

Speech is behavior, and inflammatory speech does not heal a nation.

“We don’t have time for political correctness,” the young college girl said. We’re in crisis, she believes. Given the reality of crisis, I would ask the following questions:

·      Do we have time for name-calling and scapegoating?

·      Do we have time to escalate fear and deepen divisions in our country, driving people further apart?

·      Do we have time to alienate sincere lovers of America on either side of the aisle – or out in the vestibule?

·      And if national leaders don’t model for young Americans minimum standards of decency, will we have time to start over, or will it be too late?