The Voice of Treason

“…According to a recent Gallup poll, fully 70 percent of childless women over the age of forty regret that they have had no children. Such a statistic is reason for great sadness, but perhaps also modest hope.”

– Eric Cohen, “Why Have Children?” in Commentary, June 2006

The theory portion of my class ended yesterday and clinicals will be starting soon. Class field trips to local hospitals have been valuable; some students have already decided that there are areas within the hospital setting they feel strongly about working in. We had a relatively small class and there were only three male students. One knows he wants to work in Pediatrics. He just admitted the other day that he would really like his wife to have another baby. Another student spent a day in the Mother-Baby unit in a hospital and he just knew that this is where he wants to be.

“I’m a real left-brain kinda guy. I’m military. I’m an engineer. I don’t get moved. But the day I was in there with all those babies…I tell you, I was moved.”

The third male student had a similar experience. An eleven year-old girl was admitted to the unit he was assigned.

“She had no heartbeat when she got there. She was dead. But an hour later she was walking out the door.”

“Resurrected,” I said. “That’s one hell of a story for ‘what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacation.’ How many kids can say they died and came back?”

“Man, I don’t know, but I got goosebumps. I still have goosebumps.”

This student has decided to look for work in an emergency room. I’m looking at areas like Cardiology, Oncology, or ICU. There’s a wonderful children’s hospital here and a new one is opening next year. I have a feeling these guys will be considering applying there. In fact, the student who spent a day in the Mother-Baby unit has already asked if the local Women’s Hospital hires male employees.

My tastes run more towards the geriatric. Older patients, patients whose body parts are wearing out. I’m not sure why. I do remember when I was younger, kids would flock around puppies and kittens, but I preferred a quiet corner with the old dog or cat, stroking their fur, rubbing them in those spots they couldn’t reach, and holding them close.

I’ve never mourned the end of puppyhood; I was always grateful that the difficult phase was over. I like puppies, but I love dogs. It might explain why I prefer the larger, more “serious” breeds. I like mature dogs with common sense.

When I visit my mother in assisted living I find myself conversing with many of the residents there and I enjoy listening to their stories. People who have lived through the Great Depression and World War II, and remember every detail about that Edsel they bought are interesting to talk to. They listened to Glenn Miller and actually saw his band when they came to town.

I remember when I was a kid I’d sneak off to Crazy Betty’s apartment and help her feed the pigeons. Maybe it was because I was so shy, so quiet, that I just preferred to listen. I’m still content to listen.

But not to children. Once in awhile there’s one - like the little girl who lives across the cul-de-sac - who’s sharp and well-behaved. I don’t mind her because a person can have a conversation with a child like that. She’s like a fifty year-old in a smaller package.

The Gallup results Mr. Cohen cites are interesting. Some might say that women like me have dogs because they’re child substitutes. No, I don’t have children and I have dogs instead precisely because dogs are dogs. I like dogs and I have always liked dogs. I’ve never been fond of children.

Guess that puts me in the thirty percent.

My state prides itself on its unique culture. No matter what happens here, whether good or bad, it can be attributed to our culture. Drunk driving, litter, poverty, substandard education, crime, arson - whatever it is, we chalk it up to culture.

When did it become politically incorrect to criticize a culture? When did we decide that cultures are good and sacred, and we must cradle them in our hands - embrace them and hold them dear - as if they were half full canteens in the Sahara?

Look at our American culture. It’s changing all the time, for better or worse. What makes ours unique is that people can criticize it and demand that it change. Try that with someone else’s culture and you’re asking for trouble.

Fine. Bring it on. I look at the culture of the Italian immigrants who came here in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. My grandparents came here and I’m not sure my grandmother ever actually saw her new country. She did see a lot of the bedroom and kitchen from what I can gather. She died young, in the early part of the Great Depression, when my mother was just eight years old. My mother had nine siblings - actually there had been more, but they died in childhood. Brother Guido, the family surmised, probably had that Mediterranean blood disease. My grandmother was pregnant most of her life and suffered numerous miscarriages. And she cooked.

Today Italians are concerned because Italian women in Italy are just not breeding. The fear is that if Italian women continue to shun motherhood, the Italians will become extinct. Extinction dramatically changes a culture.

A few years ago a friend invited me to a tamale party. It’s a cultural thing. Tamales are extremely important in the Hispanic culture and friends and family members gather and make bushels of the things at holiday time. T was kind enough to print out a recipe that he pulled off the Internet, and I stopped at the store on my way to my friend’s grandmother’s house for ingredients. I met all the friends, cousins, and everyone else who squeezed into the house for this event.

I was the lone non-Hispanic. My fellow tamale makers were dubious: how can you make a tamale with onions, tomatoes, garlic, and shrimp? To make a long story shorter, I produced the finest tamales of the day and they were gobbled up by the one male significant other in the group. “These are definitely the best ones here,” he announced.

He was the only one eating tamales. The women who were making them did not stop their work to sample the product. My friend explained that when meals are served - by the women, of course - to the men, the men eat first and if there’s something left when the men have finished and moved on, then the women are allowed to eat. I stared at my friend who is young, college-educated, and owns her own home, and I was just about to say something when I remembered that my mother had mentioned that she never saw her mother eat. “She would cook all day, then serve my father and us kids, but she never sat down and ate with us.”

And speaking of food, one of the Filipino women in my class approached me about my dog. “I have a dog, too,” she said. “People in my country eat dogs.” I told her I knew that and I always thought it odd that a Filipino family could have a pet dog, yet keep another dog caged in the kitchen, force feed it rice until it was ready to burst, then serve it for dinner. “But I guess there are people on farms who have special attachments to animals that are considered livestock, and they still eat the animals they raise. Maybe it’s a similar thing.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not the same. Dogs are different. I love my dog.”

I smiled at her and said: “It’s because he’s a family member.”

“Yes, he is family. You don’t eat family.”

But that’s another one of those cultural things. I saw another cultural thing on my drive home today after my final exam. I won’t miss this commute every day because I see so many dead things on the road. One day a beautiful white pit bull who looked like my old Am Staff George; a raccoon (looked like my raccoon, but I must admit all raccoons look like my raccoon); a skunk; a cat; several birds; a few things so splattered I couldn’t identify them; and a porcupine.

The porcupine was there yesterday, too, nestled against the median on a busy boulevard. Today I was behind a vehicle in the far left lane that swerved deliberately to hit that dead porcupine. I always drive with my car windows down and today I regretted that. The porcupine exploded and quills flew everywhere; the smell was appalling.

I was incensed. It was another example of human behavior on display that made no sense to me. I complained to T, who said: “Oh, yeah. They do that. Don’t you remember Peter? Whenever I was in a car with him he’d swerve to hit something dead in the road.”

Whoa - did I miss the day we covered roadkill etiquette in class? I didn’t remember the swerve and flatten maneuver, thank goodness, probably because the only thing I do remember about being in a car with Peter was that he drove with the steering wheel in one hand, and a glass of bourbon on the rocks in the other. And that was the first and last time I got into a car with him.

Another cultural thing I suspect. And before anyone jumps to conclusions and says I’m attacking the Hispanics in our state, allow me to explain that Peter is the biggest WASP I’ve ever met. Well, WASC, actually. (Peter was raised Catholic.) I was talking, if you recall, about our state’s culture.

It’s one I’d like to see change. If it doesn’t, our state motto - the bane of our existence — will continue to be:

“Thank God for Louisiana and Mississippi!”

“The Supreme Court got it wrong in 1989 and 1990, when it struck down first a state law and then a federal law banning flag-burning. The First Amendment protects freedom of speech, not freedom of ‘expression’; and burning a flag is no more speech than nude dancing, public urination, or a barroom brawl — although each of these things may express people’s thoughts and feelings.

– The Editors at “National Review Online,” June 27, 2006

I read this article yesterday on NRO, and there’s more to it than what has been pasted here. As usual, the able staff of NR has presented a thoughtful, well-balanced argument point by point, and as a faithful subscriber I should agree with every word.

And I do agree with their argument; however, I still don’t want flag-burning banned in this country. Humans need to be able to exercise certain freedoms in order for the rest of us to be reminded of how abhorrent they are. Spitting on someone’s grave, raping an infant or eighty year-old nun, stealing candy from a baby, yanking the gold chain off a little girl’s neck, selling your kids south of the border - all those things that can get you a Loogy Award from The V.O.T. Some people look at a flag and see a piece of cloth; others see a symbol but see only a symbol and nothing else. A lot of us see something more. Like the editors at NRO point out:

“…And the flag does not stand simply for an abstract concept of freedom from which a right to burn it can be derived. It stands for a freedom-loving country.”

But they continue:

“…a country that has always allowed the public to take departures from pure libertarianism, to decide that certain exercises of liberty have too little value to deserve protection.”

Well put. But I’m still against a ban. I want Americans to be able to torch a flag whenever and wherever they please. I can’t describe the feeling I get when I see mobs igniting the flag of Denmark or Israel. Do I live in Israel or Denmark? No, but when I see flames licking at the Star of David or the white cross on the “Dannebrog,” I feel I do.

I can’t imagine a time will come when I’ll set fire to Old Glory. But I do know if that time comes, it will have significance. However, if I burn the Stars and Stripes and no one reacts, the significance of that will be much, much greater.

That is the day I dread.

“…At this point, I question a great deal of Bush administration policy, especially on taxes. But Karl Rove is why I am a Republican. He is how Republicans are. Richard Nixon was not kidding fifty-four years ago when he talked about his wife, Pat, not having a fur coat, but instead happily owned ‘…a good Republican cloth coat…’

Real Republicans are not haters. Not ever. It’s just not in them to hate, just as it’s not in any real American to hate any other American who lives within the law.

Anyway, I left the evening just in a state of amazement about Karl. This is the assassin? This is the thug? Wow, do his critics not know him. But you know what? They wouldn’t stop hating him even if they did know him, because that’s who they are, no matter who he is.

– Ben Stein, “Why I Am a Republican,” The American Spectator

The Democrats can hold up John Kerry and deflect any criticism of the man, simply by stating (condescendingly) that Kerry isn’t wrong - he’s just nuanced. No, Kerry is just plain wrong. If the Left is looking for nuanced, they should look no further than Ben Stein.

During the Clinton years I subscribed to both National Review and The American Spectator, as well as an assortment of other periodicals from decidedly Libertarian to libertine. When I felt it was time to let go of some of these commitments to magazines, it was easy to hang on to NR, but it was tough to release TAS - mainly because I knew I’d miss Ben Stein’s Diary. I remember times I would pick up a new issue of Bob Tyrrell’s magazine and find myself sobbing brokenly during one of Ben Stein’s Diary “entries.”

Look at Stein’s resume and you might think it’s a practical joke - or the resume of a schizophrenic. Maybe they used to call people like him “Renaissance men,” but what do you call someone who lists actor, writer, economist, and lawyer on his resume? He worked for Richard Nixon and he does commercials for eyedrops. He’s relaxed and funny, humble and lovable; but he can also be fierce and humorless, self-obsessed, and downright grating.

In three sentences he can say something I both agree and disagree with. And usually it’s two ideas that ordinarily don’t come out of the same person. Or a sane person. But it’s one of the things that makes Ben Stein so endearing. And infuriating. And likable. And annoying. In this instance, the endearing part is the kind words about Rove; the annoying part is Stein’s stance on taxes. He’s been arguing lately that the rich should pay more because they can afford to pay more. Ben, they do pay more. And if you want to, there’s nothing stopping you from paying as much as you like. As much as you think is fair. Write a check. Unlike you, I support the death of the death tax. Why? Because it’s simply not fair to tax people when they’ve assumed room temperature. It’s not fair for billionaires, and it’s not fair for middle class people who have worked hard all their lives to accumulate something tangible to leave to their loved ones. “Wanting to pass on the same great America they knew as children to their grandchildren.” And wanting, Ben, to pass on part of the American dream to their children and grandchildren.

In this recent Diary entry, he nails what it is to be a Republican. The wearers of cloth coats. It’s what makes me continue voting for the GOP. Maybe they don’t wring their hands over the poor and the homeless, and make the people around them feel guilty for having food and shelter, but they quietly donate to charities, tip generously, stuff Salvation Army red pots with bills whether or not they can afford to, volunteer their time, and are kind to dogs.

Liberal friends who lecture about how unfair it is that some people work for minimum wage so the wage should be higher, can take up a table in a restaurant for four hours, run the legs off their server, then leave a crappy tip. One friend just said that he would never take another pet in to be euthanized - he’d rather it ran away or crawled off to die or wandered out in front of a car - because the experience of putting his last dog to sleep was just too difficult. Yet I’m certain we could spend hours arguing about animal abuse, assisted suicide, abortion, and human euthanasia - and then he’d insist that anyone who would allow his dog or partner or parent or child to die a painful death - like wandering out in front of a car - is inhumane.

My liberal friends are quick to say that people don’t pay enough in taxes, and I always find it odd that the Republicans I know who hate the way their taxes are spent dutifully pay them anyway; the Libertarians who insist taxing citizens is wrong pay theirs, too; but the Liberals who are most vocal about how taxes should be higher manage to avoid paying theirs entirely.

Their job is to lecture the rest of us about how we should feel bad about those who work in sweat shops and assemble our cloth coats and those who are so poor they cannot even afford cloth coats…even as they wear fur coats.

I cannot call that person nuanced. But I can call him sociopath.

“…If we believe ‘24,’ we don’t think Bill Buchanan or President Palmer will keep us safe. We believe Jack Bauer will keep us safe (if everyone on the show listened to Jack Bauer, the show would be called ‘12′), but we also believe we are Jack Bauer.

– Timothy P. Carney, “I Am Jack Bauer (What 24 means for homeland security),” NRO

When I was younger I honestly believed that I would always take classes and earn more degrees, listen to the popular music of the day, and go to movie theaters. But once I got out of college and started working full-time, the thought of homework and prerequisites was depressing; the sound of popular music was even more depressing; and the price of a movie ticket, a sticky cinema floor, and the sound of popcorn munching and conversation drowning out dialogue was most depressing of all. I can’t remember the last time I went to a theater to see a film.

I noticed in our Sunday paper that United 93 is playing at our neighborhood bargain movie house. I’m back in school…no, I’m not listening to current music…but maybe it’s time to go catch a flick.

I’d written recently about how many people in America were voting in the last Italian election, and it made me question dual citizenship and wonder if I would continue to vote in American elections if I moved to another country.

I can’t help think if I left this one and moved to another it would be because I’d turned on America. If you break up with someone, do you really care who they’re seeing and what they’re doing after the split? If you do, then maybe you shouldn’t have parted. If I leave the U.S., then my allegiance is someplace else and I should focus on elections in my adopted country.

Interestingly, there are at least 140,000 Mexican citizens living in my state and some are registered to vote in the upcoming Mexican election. Our local paper went out and found citizens to interview about their views on the vote for the presidency.

“Frankly, I don’t have any interest. Mexico is just too bad. Simply put, it’s all about corruption.”

“I haven’t been paying attention because I don’t have a voter ID card to vote. Plus, my life is here now. I do hope they get a good president, though. It’s the only way the Mexican economy will improve.”

“I will vote, and I’m going to be voting for Institutional Revolutionary Party candidate Roberto Madrazo. I think he’s going to offer us more work opportunities than the other candidates.”

“I’m more in tune with politics in the United States - it’s where my life is. I only visit Mexico on occasion to vacation or visit family.”

“I don’t live in Mexico, and even though I could vote, I don’t anymore. The last time I voted for a Mexican president, I was about 21 years old. Now, I don’t think it’s fair for me to vote for a Mexican president if I don’t even live there anymore.”

“I’ll vote for the party of the current president (PAN)…(Lopez Obrador) is very popular, but there’s a lot of corruption in that (PRD) party, and PAN, they’re a little more serious.”

“Vote? For what? I could, but why, when they’ll just keep stealing from us. I prefer (leftist candidate Andres Manuel Lopez) Obrador, but I don’t have much faith.”

“I have citizenship here and in Mexico. I always vote in both countries’ presidential elections. It’s very important to me who is running Mexico because my family and friends are there. I’ll be voting for Felipe Calderon of the National Action Party.”

“It doesn’t matter who wins. They are all corrupt. They all want the same thing: money, money, money.”

“I would like (PAN candidate Felipe) Calderon to win, but my father and family live here…I could go back and re-register, get my registration card, but I don’t think the United States would like people voting there, too. It doesn’t look good.”

“It’s too hard. There was too much paperwork.”

My observations? Mexican voters sound an awful lot like American voters. The parties are a tad confusing, too. The PRD party is the Democratic Revolution Party; the PAN party is the National Action Party. I’ll be paying attention to this race because Mexico is our neighbor and the outcome will affect immigration and our economy. I’ll also be watching because Calderon, whose father helped found the party, is Conservative and he’s not the greatest speaker. Lopez Obrador, on the other hand, is described as the “candidate of the common people,” a leftist, and known to make women swoon when he walks into a room. He has sex appeal, charisma, and stage presence. Sounds strangely familiar, doesn’t it?

It’s George W. Bush versus Bill Clinton, and I want to see which way Mexicans will go. I can’t help think that if they go the wrong way we’ll be seeing a chubby, dark-haired intern named Maria showing up in photos with the silver-tongued “sexy” white-haired guy.

T and I watched a little of the game between Sweden and Germany today. When I mentioned that the U.S. was out because they lost to somebody…Ghana, was it?…he shrugged. One of those if-I-really-gave-a-crap-that-might-be-some-interesting-information-but-since-I-don’t-
thanks-for-sharing-but-please-don’t-feel-like-you-have-to-share-anymore” kind of shrugs. I have spent most of my life trying to develop an interest in soccer. I know one thing: if I can’t find it in my soul to appreciate football, I’m never going to appreciate soccer.

Baseball has become athletic theater: the sport is in its death throes and has already been replaced by football. I told T today - as we were watching the sinewy, tattooed kickers chasing the ball across the grass - that I felt America would never (in my lifetime at least) embrace soccer.

“I disagree. Kids play soccer. That’s where it starts. They’ll grow up, be fans, and it’ll just happen. Soccer will be an American sport.”

Um, kids play in Little League, too, but that’s not going to save baseball. Wondering if T was on to something, I went online to find proof that soccer would become the next national pastime. Instead I ran across an article in The Weekly Standard from Jonathan V. Last. Here’s an excerpt:

“…But there is one obstacle to soccer acceptance that seems insurmountable: the flop-’n'-bawl. Turn on a World Cup game, and within 15 minutes you’ll see a grown man fall to the ground, clutch his leg and writhe in agony after being tapped on the shoulder by an opposing player. Soccer players do this routinely in an attempt to get the referees to call foul. If the ref doesn’t immediately bite, the player gets up and moves along.

Making a show of your physical vulnerability runs counter to every impulse in American sports. And pretending to be hurt simply compounds the outrage. Basketball has floppers, but the players who do it - like Bill Laimbeer, whose flopping skills helped the Detroit Pistons win two NBA championships - are widely vilified and, in any case, they’re pretending to be fouled; they never pretend to be injured. When baseball players are hit by a pitch, the code of conduct dictates that they can walk it off, if they must, but by no means may they rub the point of impact. And pretending you’re hurt? There’s not even a rule against that - every red-blooded American baseball cheater knows nobody would ever do that.

In football, players make demonstrations of their toughness, jumping up after the most vicious hits. In 2002, Donovan McNabb suffered a broken ankle during a game against Arizona. He barely flinched. And he played the rest of the game, too.

That’s the American ideal. You play tough, you gain no advantage from being down, and you never, ever let the other guy see that you’re hurt.”

It’s clear to me, then, that America won two World Wars and saved the world precisely because we are not soccer fans. Mothers should immediately pull their children out of soccer camps and petition school officials to drop soccer from the athletic programs. One can already feel the influence of this vile sport on our foreign policy and how we are fighting the current war. It’s obvious that the staff of The New York Times are all fans of this fowl game.

I predict the question of 2008 will not be “Boxers or briefs?,” but instead will be “What is your favorite sport?” We already have a baseball president; perhaps the parties should start examining high school and college yearbooks for old team photos.

If America intends to win the War on Terror, we need a wartime consigliere. A man - or woman - who knows how to compete, crush the competition, and be victorious in any weather. Blitz, block, bomb, hail Mary, and a two-minute warning to you, too. Condi Rice and George Allen know pigskin.

Anyone on the staff of The New York Times up for publishing on the front page of the Gray Lady his four-number ATM code? Social Security number? Credit card number? Favorite term of endearment? College GPA? SAT scores? Salary? Penis size?

Thought not.

When we brought him and his sister home over nine and a half years ago, they were just six weeks old. They were adorable puppies, but he - like many young dogs - experienced an awkward adolescence. His mother was a Dalmatian, his father a brindle Boxer. The Boxer became more obvious in these teenage years: suddenly his ears grew faster than the rest of his body. One day we looked at his head and those enormous black, flapping ears and exclaimed:

“Nevermore!”

The dog looked like he had a raven on his head and the name stuck. Happily, the rest of his body caught up with those ears and he went from cute pup to downright handsome dog. Good looks - and brains, too. In fact, he was the one who chose his name. I’d had a few ideas about what to call him, but none of the names really fit, so we sat down and took turns reading names out of a name book. Got through all the A names, then the B names, then the C names. Finally, halfway through the D names, he heard one he liked and reacted. We repeated the name and his reaction confirmed it. This dog would officially be Doogan.

He had several nicknames during his nine and a half years. Nevermore, Dooganmeister, Angel Puppy. The most perfect creature, God’s most perfect creation. A messenger from Heaven sent down here to earth to teach us how to be better human beings.

Now Angel Puppy has returned home to teach his new companions how to be more perfect angels.

Doogan
October 17, 1996-June 22, 2006

“Meanwhile Miss Dolly had returned from the kitchen, carrying a little bird which was pecking and clawing at the net in which it had been caught and shrilling incessantly - it was a little bullfinch. ‘You’re a very beautiful little bird,’ Miss Dolly whispered, ‘with lovely soft pink feathers and pretty grey wings. But you’re a very naughty little bird too, tanto cattivo. You came and took the fruit from us which we’d kept for our darling Gabriele.’ She began feverishly to pull the rose breast feathers from the bird, which piped more loudly and squirmed. Soon little trickles of red blood ran down among the feathers. ‘Scarlet and pink a very daring combination,’ Miss Dolly cried.

– from “Raspberry Jam” by Angus Wilson

Thomas Lowell Tucker, 25, of Madras, Oregon, and Kristian Menchaca, 23, of Houston, Texas, are dead. It was yesterday morning when I heard that two bodies had been discovered and there was reason to believe they were the bodies of these two young American soldiers who disappeared and could not be accounted for.

Every news report provided more details. Yes, it has been confirmed. Yes, the bodies are those of the two soldiers. Yes, they were killed violently. Yes, they were tortured. By evening the descriptions of what happened to these two young men were becoming more graphic and more unbearable.

By this morning, the details of the torture, mutilation, murder, and desecration were being openly discussed. Just a reminder that these two soldiers have loved ones who have to hear this. Endlessly.

When I was about seven or eight years old I read two stories - possibly from the same anthology. One was Ray Bradbury’s The October Game, and the other was Angus Wilson’s Raspberry Jam. I’m often reminded of the Bradbury story - especially around Halloween or when I see a sack of candy corn. I smile, because as horrible as the story is, it’s clever and has one of the most perfect endings ever.

“Then…some idiot turned on the lights.”

But the other story, unlike the Bradbury tale, is one I haven’t reread since childhood. The Wilson story haunts me in a way I can’t even explain. Every time I see a bird, part of my mind recalls Raspberry Jam.

The story of Thomas Tucker and Kristian Menchaca, unlike The October Game, is not clever and has no perfect ending. No, instead, the story of these two men is much too much like Wilson’s Raspberry Jam. The difference is that the Wilson story about two crazy aunts was fiction. The insanity we face is not.