Ichabod's Kin
A place for politics, pop culture, and social issues

Oct
09

          In all wars, everyone loses. And the costs are devastating. We are in a civil war and the price will be with us for decades. Once again it’s parent against child, sibling against sibling. Just like old times. Someday Ken Burns will sort it all out for our viewing pleasure.

          If nation binds us, this conflict has torn us apart. Aside from the politics of it, the recent brawl for the Supreme Court stands to make assaulters of women only bolder. For victims there has been little shelter and there will be little to come. And, in time, bye-bye Roe v Wade. The commanders in the field, so to speak, are politicians and between them it is personal, and calls for reason in their bitter struggle are useless. This is not about morality and justice, it’s about winning. What we never learn is that all such victories are pyrrhic. Look it up.

          Following are the declared heroes, but as in Homer’s epics, their wounds and gripes are grievous: Achilles pouts in his tent, Hector is dragged around Troy, Agamemnon goes home to be off-ed by his wife and her lover, Cassandra knows the truth but no one believes her, a Horse is treated like an elephant in the room–and full of mischief for all who deny it. And Helen, the cause of it all, is lost in the chaos. Others are:

          Jeff Flake: aptly named and loved by no one; owing nothing to his Party, his voters or to Trump—all of whom had already rejected him and forced him to retire, he was dealt the perfect hand for this poker game but squandered it by bidding too low. Now his face is as sad as the little man that he is.

          Susan Collins: cagier than imagined, playing both sides of the political game as well as any man in the Senate, and can bait-and-switch with the best of them. She masterfully angled for her fifteen minutes of fame, took an hour instead, then deftly said it wasn’t about her. Sadly, she opted for the wrong side of history.

          Mitch McConnell: he taught us something we didn’t know—that all it takes is one man to hold up a Supreme Court nomination, and keep it in storage for a prez of his own liking. There’s a civics lesson in that, maybe one to be looked at by the Supremes.

          Lindsey Graham: whoever remembers him as an independent thinker can think again. Once the “McCain, Jr.” of the Senate, he’s now presidential lapdog. Why? He already told us that AG Sessions is not long for this world and, hello!—he wants Jeffy’s job; so his righteous indignation lacks, well, righteousness.

          Democrats: if anything proves Seth Moulton right, it’s about Dems needing fresh faces. Schumer and Pelosi don’t need to go away, just move over. New blood is having to wait in line longer than necessary, so any Blue Wave needs to raise their boats. And please stop talking about Impeachment, whether of Trump or Kavanaugh. That’s a sink-hole. Take back Congress, if not both Houses, at the Mid-terms, thus de-claw and de-fang Trump, shut down his playpen, and watch all his rats jump ship.

          Sarah Sanders: It don’t git no better’n than havin’ the world’s elite journalistic corps lectured by Hillbilly Huckabee, queen of the Arkansas mountains. A master of minimalist press conferences, she even dares to say they’ll soon be things of the past, when it’s her we want to go away, not them.

          Evangelicals: the reason why Jesus and Saints Peter and Paul are turning over in their graves. They think God is using Trump to better America, but Donald is using them to make us a world laughingstock.

          Kavanaugh: this little frat boy will have to hide his partying from here on out, as he takes his place at the shallow end of the gene pool wherein swim the Supremes; Thomas and Gorsuch are already somewhere to the right of the Sheriff of Nottingham and Bret’s now their drinking buddy. The new game in town will be who can make nice with Brett, offer him a beer and see if he can stop at one. If he starts throwing ice at us, then we can start thinking of Impeachment.

 

           

         

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Sep
08

             Should this be deemed a bridge too far in current political discourse–don’t even get started with me.

          Fallout from the Trump presidency has dumped a ton of filth on our national conversation and I will not allow high ground to be claimed by political thugs whilst they shame others for naming names.

           I’ve not been happy with many press secretaries but their infractions have been at worst bad judgment in the heat of the trench warfare in which they toil, a pressure-cooker not to be wished on anyone loved or held dear.

          Often they bolt from the blue of happenstance encounters with a political comer, then morph into his face and voice, as did Jody Powell, a southerner from near Jimmy Carter’s peanut farm in Georgia—and whom I did not so much dislike as felt that Carter could have done so much better. At times a shrewd party hack gets the job and becomes further proof of the Peter Principle when elevated to facing the nation’s press; or like Marlin Fitzwater, who served both Reagan and the elder Bush but later was suckered into a disastrous interview with Ali G that hurt his brand and cost his chance for the Congressional Gold Medal. Dana Perino served George W—she of the missing sparkplugs and lackluster demeanor, though at times such actually serves one well in politics.

          Robert Gibbs, an Obama choice, merrily took on Barack’s critics, calling them the “professional left” and suggesting they all be drug tested. What made each different from the current podium-holder was that on the whole they respected the press corps, regardless of the battles and scars, dutifully taking their lumps while answering virtually all questions.

          Not Sarah Sanders, proud product of Oauchita Baptist Coll—er, now “University” in Arkadelphia, near the Ozark Mountainss. The website advises us it’s to be pronounced, “Wash-Uh-Taw,” though I needed no prompting, given my familiarity with a pack of them who once descended on a grad school in Kansas City.

          This Sarah, not be confused with Palin, may not see Russia from her house but she’d have us think she knows-it-all, and why not, as daughter of Mike Huckabee, Baptist preacher and liar-in-chief of the southern wing of the GOP, thereby giving both God and religion a bad name in those parts. You’d think Sarah had a Ph.D from God himself as she snubs a press corps that is galaxies beyond her intelligence, a fact lost on her as she dismisses questions, promises to “get back to” or to “keep posted” the press corps when she has no intention of doing so. She pouted at being denied restaurant service shortly after praising a bakery’s refusal to make a cake for a same-sex wedding. The days of Sean Spicer are made to seem halcyon by comparison—though just as I said those words aloud, my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth.

          Sarah is the embodiment of the old Ozarkian joke about a woman much like her in age and appearance, clad in a flower-sack dress and puffing up a dusty lane pursued by a 13-year old hickseed who, when called out by a passerby to leave the woman alone, yells back, “But her’s my ma—her’s weanin’ me.”

          In the interest of full disclosure, I’m native to the Ozarks, on the Missouri side of the line. To some, the trick is somehow to escape that culture by dint of education—or just get the hell out to save one’s soul: I’ve lived and worked all over the U.S. and with hindsight sadly reflect that too many Ozarkians and Ouachitans have addictions to their own ignorance. God bless those who remain and manage to keep their sanity.

          In sum, that is Sarah Sanders—silly, sad and sorrowfully over her head; dumb as a post, arrogant in her benightedness, and a perfect fit for the man who said he’d hire the brightest and best, then hi-jacked every knucklehead heretofore unknown and unheard of to be the face of government in these United States.

          Look not for Sarah’s visage on a future postage stamp or any biography to grace the Best Seller list. Any references to her current tenure will say much more than I have here, and in darker, bolder terms, and at best found in the Humor section of out-of-the-way bookstores.

          On the other hand, it may be that an authorized autobiography will come to anchor a bookshelf of that renowned bastion of high culture in Arkadelphia, in the section labelled Sacred History.

                              

Aug
02

          You would think Donald Trump was doing the Lord’s work. As with all messiahs who show up now and then, everything seems to go his way, regardless, as it hath been down through history. His GOP base increaseth in its love for him, edging towards 90% of support for anything he says or does, calling to mind the adage that when even two people think exactly alike, one of them isn’t thinking.

          Everything we’ve known as fair play, decent and good is out the window, and it’s everyone for himself and the devil take the hindmost, Donald being both “himself” and the devil.

          He struts like Mussolini, complete with facial expressions, at his iconic “campaign” rallies, and unlike prior tyrants who unleashed goons with orders to beat up opposition, elements of his base need no instructions, feeling authorized to do so on their own, after all, this is a democracy. And don’t even get started with me about poor li’l Sarah Sanders being denied restaurant service—she’s all-ok with bakers who won’t make cakes for gay weddings.

          So what does Donald have to fear—only fear itself? Well, it’s a start. Here’s a guy whose colossal ego needs neither God’s forgiveness, nor the asking for it, as he asserted long ago, and who loves our enemies and hates his own countrymen: imagine the goodwill he may have merited by giving credit for predecessors’ building-blocks from which he has benefited, such as Obama’s economic bailout, and even Barack’s earlier call for NATO nations to up their ante on mutual defense.

          Let’s go back to Aristotle, one of many dead poets, so to speak, who got everything right the first time: his definition of tragedy was that when such folk, by hook or crook, become apparently unstoppable—they end up doing in themselves. The ego finally goes too far and they, being blind to it, serve up the means of their own destruction. A man of moderate temper might catch himself before a fall, but not an ego-maniac, not when he thinks he’s God himself.

          It was Aristotle too who long before had proposed the idea of a mixed-constitution that got its first test during the Roman Empire, which became a Republic along the way. Ari knew all the forms of government—rule by one, the few and the many, ergo, monarchies, aristocracies and democracies. He imagined a combo of them and the Romans did just that. They didn’t always have emperors and when they didn’t there were consuls who indeed had absolute authority, but only in war and in national crisis.

          Their senate was not elected, but chosen, from elite families and outstanding heroes, which implied breeding, experience and, necessarily, the benefit of age and the wisdom and judgment for big decisions made in foreign policy, going to war and making treaties. Last were popular assemblies who voted to place people in office—including the two consuls—along with determining rewards and punishments.

          And it worked. On occasion it got stretched, sometimes shrunk, but overall an elastic system that helped them to survive at times the worst of tyrants. Actually it was better than anything the Greeks or Spartans had managed in Ari’s own day.

          And, aye, here’s the rub for now, but only if Donald’s rants aren’t drowning it out. We’ve got a guy not elected by the majority but by a well-placed minority (our so-called and controversial Electoral College); who thinks he’s god (as did the emperors); and who’s broken the balance-of-power via political sycophants (the U.S. Congress—both Houses). A recipe for temporary success—and ultimate disaster.

          I’m old enough to remember 20th century tyrants, notable for having everything go right for a time; their growing approval by a populace who thought he could do no wrong; but in time were swinging by their heels or avoiding judgment by killing themselves and/or their own children, and in rather short periods of time. We don’t work that way here, at least I hope so; we just want a plausible outcome, a democracy that bends and flexes, swings and sways, but always holding together—and always one of laws, not of men, however good or bad.

          Thus, as so many of us flounder, feeling dis-empowered and regularly insulted by our own president, there’s a message herein for the leader himself:

          Fear nothing now. But fear the future. And fear yourself. And then be very, very afraid.


         

Aug
01

[A Father’s Day Meditation]

     Here’s to all men who love and support families, including children who have come to you perhaps from far away; and to those who do daddy-things for kids not theirs but who know that little guys and gals can always use another trusted male figure to care about them and to consider them special.

     Mr. Ancel never had a son of his own and took special interest in me as someone to whom I could throw my smokin’ fast-ball for hours on end. My father was a good provider, but had no time for such things, and Ancel became a dad of sorts in those precious times of “catch.”

     I’ll avoid smarmy sentiments at risk of offending that select race of what is called, “manly men.” It’s taken eons to cultivate an image of uncaring and unfeeling brooders who leave all nurture to the female of the sex. But all manner of forces have pressured us to reduce our iron and flinty surfaces and to crawl into inner spaces and mine our feelings.

     For millennia boys grew up frightened of their fathers, and in turn would damn well ensure that their own kids would be frightened of them.

     To Robert Frost, his father as a hero of sorts, but hardly perfect–a man who died young and was glorified to his children by their mother. He had graduated with honors from Harvard and named his son after Robert E. Lee–and a man who met the doctor at home’s door with a pistol to warn that if anything happened to his wife during delivery, the doctor would “not leave the house alive.”

     You’ll guess, correctly, that young Robert had a punitive father, doling out punishments unpredictably but otherwise with little time for his children. His dad’s form of play was to tease and push the kids, sometimes hurting them severely. Not surprising also that the poet became somewhat the same kind of father.

     But e e cummings adored his father, with long elegies to the latter, a clergyman and sometime teacher at Harvard but good at a lot of things, practical endeavors that he shared with and taught his son.

     Of this came the son of great poetics who was detained in France near the end of WWI for refusing to say he hated Germans–due to a friend of that nationality, and his father secured their release by writing to President Wilson.

     In the musical, Les Miserables, the song, “Master of the House” is total brain candy and at this mention will be planted in your brain till tomorrow. The subject ran an inn and tavern from whence he fleeced customers by all sorts of hidden and extra charges, you know, like today. Today there is more than one master of the house whether we are speaking of the modern home or the larger environment of which men must be custodians, as well as women.

     So how goes it with the “master of the house” in 2018? Shamefully, at times it’s best not to have a man or father in that role, and we all know why, if we but watch the news.

     We have a problem being not only fathers, but men, for our self-image is changing and not by our own rules. Garrison Keillor in “The Book of Guys,” said manhood was once a chance for achievement but is now a problem to be overcome. Those who may have painted the Sistine Chapel or composed Don Giovanni are now just trying to be “Mr. O.K. All-Rite”–who can bake a cherry pie, converse easily about intimate things, cry, be vulnerable, passionate in a skillful way, and yet one who totes them barges and lifts them bales.

     Ironically, the “mother” of Father’s Day was inspired by what a preacher didn’t say in a Mother’s Day church service: while extolling mothers, not once were fathers mentioned. Sonora Louise Smart, then Mrs. Dodd, and whose mother had died ten years earlier, marveled thereafter at her father’s labor and devotion raising her and her six younger brothers. She lobbied for fathers to be honored on June 5, her dad’s birthday, but it became instead the third Sunday in the month.

     The marketplace has its own unique reasons for promoting this, and Mother’s Day, long beyond your and my days on this mortal coil. But knows, someday they may be combined into a Parents Day.

     This is no perfect world. Humans of whichever sex are both exemplars and in-excusables. Many people feel that one parent or both did terrible things to them, and parental oppression makes for both sinners and saints, not to mention good theater.

     Robert Frost saw the world as he did, due perhaps to his father, and wrote insightful masterpieces like the ingenious “Fire And Ice,” about destruction from both heat and cold.

     But cummings’ father stands out in his son’s poetry:

     “…though hate were why men breathe–

     because my father lived his soul

     love is the whole and more than all”

     May children be welcomed into such homes, and know the joy of such masters of the house–men who are masters of themselves as well.

Jul
31

          Regardless that Mother’s Day is an entrenched observance in America, it’s swirled in conflicting emotions, the mixed feelings many have regarding one or both parents, as if they have done something terrible to hurt us, perhaps to scar us for life, but it’s safe to say that women in general and mothers in particular are the real heavies of the world.

          An  interview with mother-daughter Goldie Hawn and Amy Schumer teemed with much joy and so many laughs but we all know that in the best of such relationships are wink-wink ugly moments, ones best not to put out for public consumption; after all, they were selling a movie. And a TV series reminded us that there always was a price for working women whose girl-children, in both cases, fried Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in livid print, as if to cancel out the mothers’ huge successes.

          Trump supporters to whom he seemed an unlikely model for a dad, cast their ballots for him after daughter Ivanka showed well on the campaign trail. Not a word, of course, was mentioned of mother Ivana, who surely had something to do with that perceived success. Daddy Don, we all know, is a Type A workaholic since he first opened his mouth to insert pacifier and found it already filled with a silver spoon. And don’t tell me that before Twitter he used 3 a.m. to walk a screaming baby. It’s hard to get in mind a firm image of his being around much at all, so why does Darling Daughter gush so on his behalf? Firstly, he’s put her in the lap of luxury since day one and, gosh, look what goes with that now.  Talk about #ToTheManorBorn.

          And by the way, when there is a wailing infant in your fave restaurant, who gets the old stink-eye for such public nuisance, dad—or mom? And when Junior is a high-school sports hero, do we not automatically celebrate dear old dad —until we may learn there isn’t one? Or to make that hurt a tad more, who still gets the nod when the family girls excel–in anything?

          A child’s first year in our mainstream is the occasion for near-ceaseless parental worry as to whether their fledgling attempts are dooming baby to a lifetime of emotional wounds. And it’s usually mom who’s found snatching all she can from bookshelves of advice and re-reading it, as if a sentence overlooked will cancel all wisdom gained—along with dollars spent in abundance at maternity stores and from catalogs.  Add classes taken before and sometime after birth and, of course, a Vesuvius of advice from people worthy—or not.

          The takeaways are multiple: one, the gnawing suspicion that all this has little to do with kids themselves; advice that appears unworkable; and a parent overwhelmed more than helped by so-called experts.

          After all the misguided effort, Save the Children reported that the U.S. ranks not first but 11th among developed countries as best for motherhood. Part of this are disparities in access to health care, which men of the GOP hope to widen by killing Planned Parenthood—thus increasing our maternal and infant mortality that is already higher than the ten top countries. We never take lessons from, say, Scandinavian nations, which always are lined up in the top five—after all, they’re a bunch of damnedSsocialists, so nothing to be learned there.

         Or try being a mom in the lowest-ranking countries, where women die in childbirth at 600 times the rate of those in developed nations, and infants are 27 times more likely to perish in the first year of life. Guess not much use to stop at this point and say Happy Birthday.

          I grew up when women, and moms, had it even worse and Mother’s Day was an unspoken joke for getting its traction from the retail industry that had things to sell, not just to those really wanting to gift mom, but to all the rest who would look bad and feel guilty for not following suit. Same for Father’s Day, which limped along after. Grandparents Day didn’t take hold as the public simply thought enough was enough and it whimpered to a calendar no-show.

          Certainly we should honor unceasingly all those who’ve birthed and nurtured us, many of whom were just kids themselves when they took us on. One day doesn’t hack it; consideration should be continuous and sincere. People who love us are irreplaceable, and no few people aren’t able to gain it on their own except for those moms and dads who held and always will hold that job by default.

          Mothering “heights” have as many if not more depths. So next time someone says with exasperation, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!” someone oughta slap them.

         

         

Apr
28

          I knew something was very wrong when Easter and April Fool’s fell on the selfsame day–an omen that all is not well, anywhere. Nor did it take long to come to fruition, having begun only Nov. 8, 2016—the day the most unkind and misbegotten of leadership species acceded to the presidency of the free world.

          April Fool’s Day doesn’t go anywhere, it’s always smack-dab the very first of that month. Easter is another matter, which is why this year’s confusion was bound to happen, given enough time. Christianity had swept the world and the emperor Constantine joined in the fun but in his ignorance split the Empire by establishing a new capital named after himself. No harm was meant, it was just his way of trying to nail down Latin influence everywhere, but then came its unintended consequences, known thereafter as the Eastern and Western Churches.

          At first, everyone followed the Lunar Calendar in setting the date for Easter—the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (remember that). So far so good, but way later, the West changed to the Gregorian calendar, set a fixed date for the equinox, and now the two Churches have Easter falling as many as five weeks apart. But who cared, unless you lived either in Rome or Constantinople and took issue with what those other people were doing by celebrating Resurrection on the wrong day. Anyway, there you have it, and this year we had it on a day celebrating All Fools. Sort of a nasty confluence: Is it “He is Risen!” or “April Fool!” Apparently, to each his own.

          Now for the other joke—a president who hasn’t drained the swamp but has turned the world upside down. Before, I’ve likened him to Thomas Hobbe’s “Leviathan,” the “strongman” to whom lily-livered folk, in tense times, would trade their freedom for his promise of security. Then I thought of  Louis XIV, the “sun king” of France, big spender and thus creator of busted national budgets—and his palace of Versailles, the Mar-A-Lago of its day, where his groveling minions, from outside its windows, were allowed to watch him feast sumptuously on stuff they could only lay eyes on.  For this privilege they would keep Louis’ poll numbers up whilst he bankrupted the country and mortgaged its future.

          Trump is equal parts of those two, but there is another part, sort of an unholy trinity, if you will; a toxic mixture that all of us, sadly, are becoming heir to unless we can turn around this errant train known as the Trump presidency: I’m thinking Henry VIII of England, all ass-and-appetite, and abused of the notion that he should have anything he wanted–you know, the Silver Spoon Syndrome.  Ol’ Hank knew how to push the boundaries, as we well recall, even starting a new religion because he wanted to bed another woman, and got away with it. Radical as that may seem, Henry also had enough sense to know when to back off and on many occasions he did.

          Trump has no clue of that. For him it’s full steam ahead—everything for himself and the devil take the hindmost which, regrettably, is us. And that, we may predict, will be his doom. Every tyrant in the world, name any of them, ancient or near-past, appeared to be doing the Lord’s work until their Hubris took over with a vengeance. And to get real personal in this case, those of you who say “Let him do what he wants as long as my stock portfolio goes up,” better have another plan when Donald brings us all down.

          When that happens, there may be no resurrection, at least anytime soon thereafter, and the least problem with Easter will be the date it falls on.

          So what’s happening today is something we’ve seen before, though we’re much less students of the past than we should be. Still, we’d best heed the truism that those who don’t know history are doomed to its repetition.

          You know, Groundhog Day all over again. For now, it’s the new normal.


         

Apr
27

          Something there is,” said Robert Frost, “that doesn’t love a wall.”

          I’m with him, whether they keep others out or in. I won’t live in a gated community, and I hated the Berlin Wall. I’m okay with the low, decorative masonry that borders the state park across my street, but it neither hems in nor excludes.

          Keep in mind that Berlin’s no longer exists. So the most notorious of the contemporary sort is planned for our southern border. People who love the idea are quick to point out that Berlin’s partition kept people in, whilst ours shuts out undesirables. Yes, our neighbors, actually, and what do we have against them? First we took half their country—or, as Texans like to say, “we stole it, fair ‘n square.” The Bracero program, begun while our men were fighting World War II, begged Mexicans by the thousands to work here, many of whom were mistreated, put in woefully substandard temp-housing and whose pay was often held up, or withheld, to boot. We were lousy and ungrateful employers.

          We were at it again last century and this one, as in Arizona, when greedy farmers and companies hired undocumented laborers to put roofs on home developments because local buckos refused to do so under the hot sun. Worse, medical help was withheld and they were fired without pay if they fell off said roofs and suffered injury. When the workers complained, employers threatened to report them to Immigration. Catch-22 all over again. And don’t say that didn’t happen: I spoke directly with many of those bung-hole bosses.

          Now along comes Donald Trump with his misogynistic message; migration had already slowed but we weren’t through doing our worst to them, hence a Wall now to reduce any influx to zero; ICE to enter, arrest and separate folk of innocent families; and big birds to take them back to where they came from. God love us for our hearts of gold.

          If we look for a difference twixt our Wall and Berlin’s, it’s that when East Germany started it, it was a pathetic sight: bits of barbed wire here and there, hedges when the wire ran out, and so forth. The Reds began it as a provocation, and fully expected us to raze it in its early stages. By then, however, the West felt enough easterners had flooded the city and decided to let the wall stay—and give the Commies a big, fat black eye at the same time. The rest was history; we already had all the scientists and other skilled migrants and the East was left with all the poor souls who had nuttin’. To save face the Reds had to keep building it. For us, it was a political coup and one we milked for decades till it came down in the ‘80s.

          Now we’re the suckers. But how we love to hear Donald talk about it—his “big, beautiful Wall” that in truth is the ultimate ugly duckling, no architectural marvel like the Great Wall of China: that one, built over centuries (the earliest spans of which are gone and the Ming phase the one we ooh-and-aah over) was indeed to keep enemies out; but Mexico is not our enemy though Trump Nation is dumb enough to believe it. After all, as one wag said, it’s a cult and he’s the cult leader.

          China’s great wall wasn’t a continuous span of solid material but interspersed with natural barriers, and used as well as checkpoints for Customs, hence a money-maker. We, not Mexico, will pay for ours though Donald with some sleight of hand will try to make it appear otherwise.

          Here’s the clincher: that little price tag of $12B is now estimated by Homeland Security at twice that and has this in common with Reagan’s proposed Strategic Defense Initiative, or “Star Wars”—Ronnie’s would still be under construction and long ago have wrecked our economy. Our wall’s projected dollars should be going for infrastructure, education and the like but instead will be a future monument otherwise known as Trump’s Folly.

          So the old Commie Wall in Berlin-town is gone and we get one on our southern boundary—and the black eye that goes with it.  Welcome to #MakingAmericaGreatAgain.

          Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. This one or any other. It’ll be a Wall to Nowhere and something to hate, now and forever.

          

 

 

 

 

As I See It

by John Burciaga

 

                                 THE WALL TO NOWHERE

 

          “Something there is,” said Robert Frost, “that doesn’t love a wall.”

          I’m with him, whether they keep others out or in. I won’t even live in a gated community, and I hated the Berlin Wall. I’m okay with the low, decorative masonry that borders a side of Maudslay Park, but it neither hems in nor excludes.

          Keep in mind that Berlin’s no longer exists. So the most notorious of the contemporary sort is planned for our southern border. People who love the idea are quick to point out that Berlin’s partition kept people in, whilst ours shuts out undesirables. Yes, our neighbors, actually, and what do we have against them? First we took half their country—or, as Texans like to say, “we stole it, fair ‘n square.” The Bracero program, begin while our men were fighting World War II, begged Mexicans by the thousands to work here, many of whom were mistreated, put in woefully substandard temp-housing and whose pay was often held up, or withheld, to boot. We were lousy and ungrateful employers.

          We were at it again early this very century, as in Arizona, when greedy farmers and companies hired undocumented laborers to put roofs on home developments because local buckos refused to do so under the hot sun. Worse, medical help was withheld and they were fired without pay if they fell off said roofs and suffered injury. When the workers complained, employers threatened to report them to Immigration. Catch-22 all over again. And don’t say that didn’t happen: I spoke directly with many of those bung-hole bosses.

          Now along comes Donald Trump with his misogynistic message; migration had already slowed but we weren’t through doing our worst to them, hence a Wall now to reduce any influx to zero; ICE to enter, arrest and separate folk of innocent families; and big birds to take them back to where they came from. God love us for our hearts of gold.

          If we look for a difference twixt our Wall and Berlin’s, it’s that when East Germany started it, it was a pathetic sight: bits of barbed wire here and there, hedges when the wire ran out, and so forth. The Reds began it as a provocation, and fully expected us to raze it in its early stages. By then, however, the West felt enough easterners had flooded the city and decided to let the wall stay—and give the Commies a big, fat black eye at the same time. The rest was history; we had all the scientists and other skilled migrants and the East was left with all the poor souls who had nuttin’. To save face the Reds had to keep building it. For us, it was a political coup and one we milked for decades till the Wall came down in the ‘80s.

          Now we’re the suckers. But how we love to hear Donald talk about it—his “big, beautiful Wall” that in truth is the ultimate ugly duckling, no architectural marvel like the Great Wall of China: that one, built over centuries (the earliest spans of which are gone and the Ming phase the one we ooh-and -aah over) was indeed to keep enemies out; but Mexico is not our enemy though Trump Nation is dumb enough to believe it. After all, as Andrew Sullivan has remarked, it’s a cult and he’s the cult leader.

          China’s great wall wasn’t a continuous span of solid material but interspersed with natural barriers, and used as well as checkpoints for Customs, hence a money-maker. We, not Mexico, will pay for ours though Donald with some sleight of hand will try to make it appear otherwise.

          Here’s the clincher: that little price tag of $12B is now estimated by Homeland Security at twice that and has this in common with Reagan’s proposed Strategic Defense Initiative, or “Star Wars”—Ronnie’s would still be under construction and long ago have wrecked our economy. Our wall’s projected dollars should be going for infrastructure, education and the like but instead will be a future monument otherwise known as Trump’s Folly.

          So the old Commie Wall in Berlin-town is gone and we get one on our southern boundary—and the black eye that goes with it.  Welcome to #MakingAmericaGreatAgain.

          Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. This one or any other. It’ll be a Wall to Nowhere and something to hate, now and forever.

            (John Burciaga of Newburyport writes on politics and social issues. He blogs at Ichabod’s Kin on WordPress and may be reached directly at Ichabod142@gmail.com)

 

 

 

 

Dec
23

          A tsunami of accusations and allegations are charges that the male race is up to no good.

          So what else is new? They never have been. From the beginning of time a woman, we’re told, seeks deep, heartfelt connections with a man, while for him it’s about one thing only, of which he’s damn proud—and at best a seeker of overnight relationships, meaningful or not.

          It is believed men got this from other men—sometimes peers, certainly from dear old dad, which begs the question: where was dear old mom in all of this? Ostensibly she was powerless, regardless that #TheHandThatRocksTheCradle ostensibly rules the world, if one is to believe Will Wallace’s poem or a Glen Campbell song. The ode was writ at the end of our Civil War and its many rapacious manifestations; and the song makes no sense at all, calling for “a hall of fame for mamas” based largely on thankless sacrificial service to their sons ere the latter trotted off to, or from, their foreordained mischief.

          It’s been a sorry equation that men have been quite free to do as they please, at home or elsewhere. It is more than men’s behavior in general, however, but about specific outrages in relation to matters sexual.

          The “@MeToo” movement was either the match or the fuse that blew the lid off all the offenses with which women have put up for eons; and one is tempted to begin with Adam and Eve and connect the dots till now, to track down the long ugly line of sacrilege in that regard.

          And how shall we define terms? “Harassment” is the word most in use now, but how is it like, or different from, sexual “advances”—which might embrace “flirting”–or sexual “suggestion,” or “groping” or plain old “hugs”? Who’s old enough to remember when therapists told us to “loosen up” and submit to, or extend, hugs on demand; today such must be done carefully, while watching precisely where one’s hands go.

          And exactly how does one flirt these days?—and if that is disallowed in current circumstances, how long will the prohibition last before it is relaxed again and everyone feels stupid for going too far with that? And surely all of us have given, and been treated to, unwanted kisses.

          I’m not here to dismiss the seriousness of today’s enormous issue, but to issue a clarion call for definition of terms. Certainly the halcyon days of “If it feels good, do it” are quite over, and rightly so. The problem also is that things that tend to rise quickly tend also to fall at equivalent speed, and one wonders when the tipping point will be. In truth, it may already have arrived: women have begun to disagree with other women over the issue–even Meryl Streep is not sacrosanct, given what is deemed her blindness to Weinstein and supposed hypocrisy for now wishing to wear black at next Awards ceremony. And Matt Damon, a genius at script selection is now cast into outer darkness for clueless comments.

          Let’s be clear: after this First Wave of awareness, with its attendant paybacks towards the high and mighty in society, will come successive waves of retaliation aimed at lesser men, with less careful investigation, leaving some held hostage to rumor and its ruination–also known as “collateral damage.” The end result may be that everyone will be shooting at everyone else, and what may be gained by that is anyone’s guess. But keep in mind this too was women’s fate for longer than recorded history.

          Here’s my @Me Too: what shall I do about Phyllis Schlafly’s endless, overt and sexless flirtation with me whilst I sought an interview, and reduced to begging that she sit down in very public circumstances to do so—something I reported in a previous column before the harassment scandals even began?

          What shall I do about Betty Friedan’s consenting to interview but constantly touching me and complimenting my clothes till I wondered if perhaps she wanted me to know how it feels to be objectified? Whatever it was, at my first and serious question as to why she preferred the Women’s movement to exclude lesbian concerns, she up and walked away.

          What should I have done years ago about the female physician who kept her hand on my upper leg during the appointment? Or the male colleague who also touched and “propositioned” me in distasteful terms?

          I get it: I made no report because I was not powerless; but women have been, in similar circumstances, since the beginning of time.  And how would a woman know if she has sexually harassed a man? An inappropriate touch or big mouth on mouth smooch would be welcomed by most men, and heaven knows they would never complain–except to brag maybe.

          Nonetheless, the current wave of objection from women is claiming high and deserved ground. In time it will have also its extremes and its moments of harsh revenge in situations that have no equivalence.

          And it’s a time where men have truly “asked for it,” as they long said women did by simply showing up.

         

Feb
14

          However NFL commissioners are removed, this one needs to go, whether for mis- or malfeasance in office.

          The attempt to hang Brady and, by extension, to hamstring the Patriots, was a put-up job from the beginning. Goodell’s not the only rat in this: other team owners went along when they should have spoken out, but it was to their advantage to hobble the Pats, and silence became their cowardly response. We already know what price the Indianapolis Colts—those sad whistle-blowers—have paid: natural justice has seen to that, and not only has their recent past been a sad one, but their future too is at risk.

          It is a sad commentary on our times that the way used to stop the unstoppable, especially when they are winners, is to criminalize them. I was already deep into GOP political websites when they admitted they couldn’t stop Hillary without convincing the public she was a felon. Sadly, in her case it worked, though the email hoo-hah, like Deflategate, was and always will be a red herring.

          Such was the sorry stab at stopping Brady. First let us admit that the reason they hate him is he’s beautiful—and an incredible winner. New York sports fans think they’re automatically entitled to the Champion brand because, well, because they’re New York. But before the Super Comeback of recent vintage, Boston was already the Sports Capital of the World with nine championships spread over four pro teams. And this makes the tenth.

          In the minds of Pats-hater, this had to be stopped, and using the lame accusation served up by the Colts, Goodell, with plenty of other Patriot competitors cheering him on, declared Tom a criminal. And think about it: that would have stuck if Tom hadn’t stuck it to the Commish with his onfield heroics.

          Sad it was, in a way, but a comeuppance of rare vintage, that we all got to see Roger tug at Tom’s jersey to force a handshake on the post-game winner’s dais after the big game—then to not let Brady’s hand go as if to plead that his be a quick death, and not a slow, painful torture. (#RogerKnowsWhat’sComing). Okay, fine, just get the hell out, Rog; that’ll be penalty enough—and spare us all the impeachment process, just resign and we’ll all be good.

          But Tom and the Pats org are bigger people than I am. Brady allowed the post-Bowl public intrusion by Goodell when by all rights he could have simply grabbed the trophy and turned to the crowd with exultation, leaving Goodell with Falcon eggs all over his face. Belichick too was a bigger man than Roger will ever be, and only defensive coordinator Matt Patricia spoke for our collective pique by debarking the team bus wearing a Goodell clown-shirt because that’s what the Roger is. Matt can be forgiven for that by merely hanging the shirt next to the commissioner’s list of unsportsmanlike failings throughout the nightmare of enflatement charges, and see which is worse.

          But back to Brady. Every team in the NFL wish they had one like him or, in another universe, had Tom himself. But they didn’t, they don’t and they won’t. He’s self-effacing, spreads credit all around, knows who’s boss (Belichick), trains exhaustively, is a family man and just all around beautiful. Too many other superstars are glory-hogs and playboys, however talented or overrated, like A-Rod, for Exhibit A. Not Tom. He’s just beautiful—like the kind of guy you wish your daughter brought home to marry. And that’s what steams Tom’s critics so much, they can’t hang a thing on him. All they could do is declare him a cheater, and always will, regardless: “See, he didn’t have to cheat, so why did he?” How about: Because he didn’t. But that’s all they had to work with: a rumor, and a crook of a commissioner.

          Oh, and that brings up Roger again and, hopefully, for the last time. Go away, Rog. We gotta keep American sports clean and you’ve dirtied it, and yourself.

          One last thing. Donald Trump will want the Pats at the White House and we all know what he’ll do. He’ll say they have the kind of spirit he has, with which he’ll make American great again.

          False narrative. Alternative fact. No, Donald, you’re not the Brady, Belichick and Patriot of our time.

          You’re the Roger Goodell. And we’ll catch up with you in time too.

          As they say in radio and the military: Roger that.

            (John Burciaga can also be reached directly at Ichabod142@gmail.com)

 

Jan
13

          Comes the big day that Donald J. Trump is sworn into the highest office in the land, and he, Congress and Donald’s minions pick up their lottery check.

          Neither he, Congress nor his True Believers expected him to win. But like a lottery, where winners don’t earn or deserve all that money, but wake up rich, all who wear ball caps backward, the take-this-job-and-stick-it crowd, and all who’ve longed to poke fingers in the public’s eye, feel that God or good luck has smiled on all of them.

          The GOP Congress, having steeled themselves for a November downsizing, suddenly were heard to crow like roosters at daybreak. Paul Ryan’s sullen look ahead at eight years of playing second fiddle to a Democrat, turned to clucking around Congress as if he’d climbed Everest, when in truth he fell into it due to no credit of his own. He should worry now that Donald might Tweet him some 3 a.m. with remembrance of things past—like how Ryan deserted him during the campaign—and announce Paul’s new job as doorman at Trump Tower.

          For his part, the Trump-ster flitted about on Victory tours, zinged Arnie the Terminator about his old reality show, and traded slaps with Meryl Streep—all so “presidential.” Obama, by contrast, was allowed no victory laps, not even for getting bin Ladin, not for his good-bye speech—witness Sean Hannity’s tirade afterward on Fox.

          Certainly we shall long remember Donald’s list of miscreant words and behavior: You can’t un-see and un-hear things said and done on his campaign trail; they are the stuff of ugly legend and regrettably part of history’s indelible archive.

          The White House, if nothing else, is #TheHomeOfBadLuck, and our Commanders in Chief are sorely tested ere they can warm their new seat in the Oval Office. North Korea’s manchild, Kim Jong Un, will soon brandish a warhead-on-a-stick at us and Donald will find such people, crazy as they are, and wielding real power, can’t be stiffed the way he did his real estate investors.

          The latest signs that his will be a stormy tenure are his conflicts with both the Intel community and the press; a third front lingering in the background is his coming war with Congress itself which, after all, neither supported nor elected him, leaving that instead to voters who don’t like their Reps any more than they do Hillary and Democrats.

          Trump’s recent press conference is the gold standard of miscues. Whoever thinks CNN’s Jim Acosta was out of order should think again: from the top, Donald called out that network as one of “fake news,” thereby inviting a follow-up from Acosta, but one that Trump refused to take or to answer, and his press secretary warned the correspondent that he would be thrown from the press corps for future “outbursts.”

          Then Kellyanne Conway, the newest Pretty Little Liar on TV, pressed the matter in a long interview with CNN by conflating its news coverage with that of the notorious BuzzFeed source and for having given credence to Russia’s hacking claim, both of which are blatantly incorrect. But such is Team Trump’s strategy to discredit the press—which we follow to our peril: it is rather the public’s main safeguard against governmental tyranny.

Along the way Donald continues to flip-flop on campaign promises whilst Conway assures us that her new work-hubby seldom means what he says. We’ll see if she can spin him out of a looming cloud of Russian hacking may have compromised her boss himself.

          Sadly, Donald may, amid his pique, take it all out on anyone he dislikes, or who don’t “treat him nice,” and begin to use police powers to teach them a lesson. If so, mark it as a sign of the Apocalypse.

          We deserve better but, when ours is ancient history, a latter-day poet may discover Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias” and liken it to a future American wasteland where “…two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert…(and) half-sunk, a shattered visage lies” with “…frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command…” and the cold postscript that “nothing beside remains ‘round the decay of that colossal wreck…”–then perhaps a footnote referencing to an arrogant billionaire confidence man in a day when people voted away their freedom for tempting fleshpots of hoped-for “change.”

          For now, Inauguration day cometh, and the world will see Donald in all his glory. Next day, cometh a Reality Show the likes of which he never dreamed.

          What distinguishes America, said Walt Whitman, was that here, presidents tip their hats to the people, not the other way around. Keep an eye on Donald’s “Make America Great” cap in coming days, and learn to bow before it.