Carter – the last respectably flawed president

President Carter is in hospice care. At 98 and in declining health, it seems the curtain falls on the remarkable career of the last respectably flawed president.

Carter is both credited and criticized in excess. His presidential accomplishments – the Camp David accords, the longest nominally peaceful period in modern America, and a reinstatement of decency in the presidency after the Nixon/Ford regime – are few but highly publicized. His failings – stagflation, the hostage crisis, the energy crisis, Soviet invasion of Afghanistan – are equally prominent. Most of his shortcomings have one thing in common: they are failures of omission rather than commission. However, it's also true that the US foreign policy in his administration ended up causing atrocities in East Timor and Palestine. [1]

Without condoning or excusing the violation of human rights one iota, it's possible to view Mr. Carter with compassion and respect; in stark contrast with all the presidents who have thus far followed him.

In many ways, Mr. Carter's pre- and post-presidential careers are more successful than his presidency. There might have been some  other men to occupy that office of whom one or the other of the statements could be said. (Grant, Eisenhower, and Reagan were arguably better at their first careers; Taft in his second.) However, it is difficult to think of another man whose presidency is a footnote to his pursuits as a farmer before; a peacemaker and volunteer afterwards; and a preacher both before and after.

Every human is flawed, and those in positions of power (whether it's thrust upon them or a fruit of their own ambition) are apt to have their flaws both magnified and spotlighted. Despite this, James Earl Carter, Jr. may be the last president whose flaws haven't consumed the respect he deserves.

Thank you, President Carter, for earning our respect.

Notes

[1] https://chomsky.info/199910__02/

Identity

 

I'm not here to be the butt of your jokes,

The anvil to your hammer,

The mortar to your pestle,

The pusillanimous receptacle to your Dickensian humor. 

I'm not created for you to be thankful to your Creator that He created you in His image, 

Not in mine. 

I'm not here for you to count your blessings that you were born into privilege, 

Not into destitution. 

I'm not here for you to misquote John Bradford, 

And proclaim with your vain religiosity upon seeing my face:

 "There but for the grace of God, go I." 

Do you even know how he paid for this utterance?  

By being burned at the stake. 

Would you agree to that? 

Be the singed cinder with which I could scrawl my reply? 

"No, not I."

April 2018

You cast a long shadow

The first thing one noticed was how short and petite she was; how well coiffured her hair was; and how she carried herself, her bag, and even her shoes with an air of uncomplicated, self-assured ease. Simultaneously the opposite of diffidence and vanity, remarkably contained in and exuded from that smallish figure.

My only encounter with Cokie Roberts was when we shared an airport security line, separated by a dozen other travelers. As the serpentine queue of humanity wound itself around the retractable barriers, I was able to observe her a few times. We didn't make eye contact – I was too conscious of not appearing to stare, and she probably too accustomed to being noticed and therefore to ignoring it.

It was long enough ago that I have forgotten the airport and even the year when it happened. I'm rather sure that it was while she was still hosting This Week on ABC. I'm equally sure of my regret at not having my copy of We are our Mothers' Daughters with me when I saw her; as if having it would have magically imbued me with impudent courage to rush at her through the barriers and ask for her signature! Considering that all travelers had their shoes off, it narrows it down to 2001 or 2002. Recalling my air-travels during that period, it was likely at one of Newark, LaGuardia, or JFK airports.

She inspired generations of listeners, viewers, and readers through her nuanced yet uncomplicated analysis of politics. She made us see the possibility of good, virtuous politicking. It came naturally (one may even say genetically) to her; however she made the rest of us believe that politics was not only important, but also a worthy, even noble pursuit.

I distrust some politicians all the time and all politicians some of the time. The fact that I don't distrust all politicians all the time is due in no small part to that petite, self-assured journalistic daughter of career politicians.

Requiescat in pace, Cokie Roberts. You are already missed.

Honoring Mr. McCain

Senator John McCain has died.

“Warrior”, “Maverick”, “Straight Talker” — these are some nouns that have been used for him. One adjective that is used repeatedly is “honorable”. By all accounts, he was that.

He was imperfect and aware of it. That’s more than one can ask of a decent, honorable man.

Thank you, Mr. McCain, for your decades of service, for your decency, and for displaying honor in the face of adversity. You are missed.  

Requiescat in pace.

"Magpie Murders" by Anthony Horowitz

Atticus Puend ... Dust In Teacup ¹

The "story within a story" device has been around since before Hamlet. In Magpie Murders, Anthony Horowitz uses it fully: the inner "book" (a manuscript, really) having its own author's blurb for the fictitious author, a frontispiece including other works by the said fictitious author, and even its own page numbering. The division between the "outer" and "inner" story is almost even: 230-odd pages for each narrative; which makes this two-books-in-one-cover a good candidate for a "buy one mystery, get one of equal length free" marketing slogan.

With two equal-length stories compacted and somewhat intertwined like this, a comparison of each with the other is inevitable. Anthony Horowitz does this himself by using the inner ("fictitious") story to drive the outer ("real") one. The outer story chases the shadows of the inner one in interesting ways -- the most interesting being the list of suspects, the denouement, and the fates of the protagonists.

Given this much overlap and the resultant limit of about 230 pages per story, it's impressive that Horowitz is able to weave in sufficient twists and turns in the inner story (less so in the outer one). There is only so much limelight; so most of it falls on Herr Pünd (inner protagonist) and Alan Conway (outer one). There are the unavoidably serendipitous events that allow Horowitz to quickly make the story flow -- a chance encounter at a train station that catapults the plot of the outer story or the extremely convenient and equally unlikely appearance of a beau to save her woman from dying in an assault-arson.

The inner story is independent enough to be read on its own. Indeed, that's how I first read it: it didn't ruin my enjoyment of the entire work.

All in all, the two stories work sufficiently well enough to make this 460+ page codex enjoyable.

---

1 "Pünd" without umlauts is properly "Puend"; which, happily, also makes the anagram work^↩

The edification of priviliged white people is not my vocation

This is a declaration of purpose, a clarification of intent, and an admission of disinterest.

This not a manifesto of hatred. It is not an expression of patronization towards my own kind: people of color. It is not a plea for anything, least of all for empathy from the very people whose edification it disavows. It is not whimsy, flimflam, spiteful, childish, angry, evil, reprehensible; nor a dozen other names that it shall probably attract but not deserve.

This essay does have the flaw of being paradoxical: by its very existence — and with the few references at its end — it intends to inform. It is difficult to escape this paradox. I won’t try to.

In the second decade of the 21st century, living in the richest country ever to have existed, I’m constantly surprised to find myself in the company of people who are ignorant of the struggle that people of color, people of non-binary gender, immigrants, poor people, and other under- and un-privileged groups go through on a daily basis. This struggle is continual and unabated. It is caused by transgressions both covert and overt, both subtle and coarse, and often perpetrated by the selfsame people who profess ignorance of their own privilege.

In the last few years, I have experienced several incidents that have convinced me that the job of educating white, upper middle-class people is uninteresting and unsatisfying in the extreme:

1. Summer 2013. A white male colleague refers to the US Civil War casually as the “War of Northern Aggression”. He also questions me if I have any principles (because I have opinions different from his) — while we are driving to have dinner at my brother’s house who had graciously invited him as a guest.

2. Summer 2014. A white male colleague — after several notorious incidents of sexual harassment of women at tech conferences have come to light — publicly asks if we really need to support women-in-technology causes.

3. Fall 2015. I get “feedback” at work that states that I’m “too formal with clients”. Upon inquiry, it turns out it reflects my practice of speaking in full sentences using proper grammar. There is no attempt on the part of those giving this “feedback” to discover that I learned English as a second language as an adult, and have constantly worked on overcoming this handicap. The “feedback” also ignored the large amount of literature that indicates that foreign accents (especially those associated with “brownness” or “blackness”) are looked down upon in the United States, and are equated with ignorance.

4. December 2015. In the aftermath of candidate Trump’s promise of a “Muslim ban”, a white male software engineer asks me via Facebook if I’m “planning on blowing anything up while I’m here [in the US]”. (He knows that I’m a US citizen and that this is my home.)

5. Summer 2016. A white male colleague derides me under the guise of feedback that my posture and voice aren’t impressive enough. He can’t seem to see that he’s 6’4”, with a booming voice, and I’m much shorter.

6. Spring 2017. A white male colleague addresses me curtly in public, and later has the temerity to commend me (in writing) for not losing my temper under his verbal fusillade.

7. Fall 2017. A white male colleague jocularly accuses me of plagiarism in public after I recite an all-too-famous piece of literature.

This is just a sampling of the events that white people of privilege whom I know have perpetrated. In the face of such blissful cluelessness, I admit that any attempts on my part to cure this institutional ignorance are bound to fail. Therefore, I resolve to hereby make no more such attempts.

I have been blessed with the friendship, love and support of many friends and family, for which I’m humbly grateful. I will focus the finite capabilities of my limited life on enriching my relationships with these beloved souls. To the general population of privileged people; especially privileged white people; I have nothing left to say.

References

1. Straight White Male: The Lowest Difficulty Setting There Is
2. What I Told My White Friend When He Asked For My Black Opinion On White Privilege
3. This Comic Perfectly Explains What White Privilege Is. The last line says something like “Please educate yourself”. The end.

"Essays After Eighty" by Donald Hall

Donald Hall's composition of essays found me by accident. Looking for Bertrand Russell's "Unpopular Essays" in a library shelf, the fingers and eyes instead got stuck on this delightful little compendium of reminiscences by an octogenarian poet who admits to being abandoned by poetry.

Donald Hall was a poet laureate of the United States for one year. This was a recognition and sadly, a culmination of decades of prodigious poetry writing. (He frankly admits to not being a productive poet during his tenure, and resigned a year later.) He wrote more than 20 books, many (but not all) of poetry. He also wrote for children, on baseball, and on art.

Essays After Eighty is just that: a book of fourteen essays spanning a brief 134 pages. These are memories of a life well-lived and well-enjoyed. From his pre-war youth in Wilmot, NH to his years in France with his first wife, Kirby. From his appointment as a teacher at the University of Michigan to the breakdown of his first marriage and a rather late period of sexual liberation in his 40s (if my math is right). From his meeting his second wife, the poet Jane Keynon (almost a generation younger than him) to moving back to his native New Hampshire. From fighting a battle with cancer and winning --  to finding out that Jane had leukemia and seeing her die of it only 15 months later. From the first signs of fear of old age:

"Earlier, if I was 51 and the [recently departed] cadaver was 53, for a moment I felt anxious. If the dead man was 51 and I was 53, I felt relief."

to the inevitable comicality of later old age for those of us who (may) reach it:

"As I escorted my date to New London's Millstone one night, the hostess asked if my companion was my granddaughter. We both shrieked "No!" and never saw the hostess again. Most of my dates were mistaken for daughters, not granddaughters."

Hall pokes humor at his increasing physical frailty, at the ever-approaching bugaboo (he's much too jovial to justify specter) of death, and at the tragi-comedy of otherwise banal life. His memories are fresh and refreshing despite having taken 85 years to ferment in a 150 year old house built by his great grandfather. There is death everywhere in this book: his parents, grandparents, an aunt, both wives, his dog Gus, a casually killed garter snake -- "I stepped on its head and threw it outside", woodchucks, an almost-pet chipmunk, and almost-vermin mice. There's even time to genially mourn the destruction of a comfortable blue armchair by exuberant firemen. Yet this is a book about mortality, not morbidity. Hall does rue that one day, there will be no one left to remember what he remembers -- which is a lot: from the New England Hurricane of 1939, Pearl Harbor, VE Day, VJ day, JFK, Vietnam to 9-11 and Usain Bolt. However, he never lets the book sink into self-loathing or even self-pity. Even as he contemplates his present life -- living only on the first floor of his ancient house, microwaving Stouffer's TV dinners while inching towards his kitchen with his walker in a knee-brace, and eating these dinners alone with his dentures and a Red Sox game on TV -- he is ebullient:

"My problem isn't death but old age."

Or even more magnanimously:

"Not everything in old age is grim."

It may have taken him the better part of 9 decades, but Donald Hall sure has a poignant insight about the relevance of it all:

"At 16, poets think that if they publish in a magazine that will be it. When it happens, it is not it. Then they think it will be it when they publish in Poetry. No. The New Yorker? No. A book? Good reviews? The Something Prize? A Guggenheim? The National Book Award? The Nobel? No, no, no, no, no, no. Flying back from Stockholm, the Laureate knows that nothing will make it certain. The Laureate sighs."

That's a lesson which we can be thankful to Donald Hall for sharing.