The Voice of Treason

I’ve been cut off from the rest of the world. I’m doing my clinicals in a local hospital and I don’t hear any news until I’m back in the car, driving home. So India was attacked again. Mumbai is the commercial hub of India and India has been experiencing positive change. In some parts, we refer to that as success.

It just strikes me as odd that Lower Manhattan was struck - the World Trade Center, specifically - as if someone out there is having an issue with success. It’s sort of like every time something good happens in - oh, what do we call these things now - an “economically-challenged” neighborhood in our city. Someone will clean up an area, plant a garden, create a park, install some art, build new homes, and what happens? Utter destruction. Vandalism. Arson. A message is sent: We don’t want something good here. It must be stopped.

It’s time for India to make it very clear that this is no setback. It’s time for - oh, wait. Breaking news. Jacques Chirac has issued a statement.

“Dear Zinedine Zidane. In the most intense - perhaps difficult - moment of your career, I want to tell you of the affection and admiration of the entire nation. You are a virtuoso, a genius of world football. You are also a man with a heart, a man of commitment and conviction. That is why France admires and loves you.”

Hmmm. Why do I get the feeling France won’t be condemning the attacks in India this week?

If you can’t remember, read yesterday’s posting. (It was Italy.) But all I’m hearing since the final game is how Zidane lost control and headbutted the Italian player. That’s the story. And I’d even mentioned in yesterday’s posting that it didn’t matter what was said - there was no excuse for bad behavior.

But it’s obvious we love bad behavior because that’s all we hear about. And all I can think is how it must have been for Jackie Robinson. Can you even imagine the sort of things he heard each day? And what did he do? Headbutt anyone who said vile things to him? No. Sure, Robinson had a short fuse and he lost it a couple times, but for the most part he showed up every day and did his job and put up with the crap. And what a difference it made.

Okay, let’s take race out of it and look at Lou Gehrig. Can you even imagine the things that were said to this man while he was struggling, his career and reputation slipping away and not being able to do anything - and knowing that he was dying?

Times have changed. Heroes have changed. We’ve changed. And it’s a shame.

I’ve mentioned that my interest in the World Cup is minimal, but I decided to set some time aside to watch the final match between France and Italy today. I sat down with a cheap domestic beer and T asked who was who.

“Italy’s wearing blue.”

“How can you tell they’re the Italians?”

“Easy. Long names on their jerseys and fur.”

A few minutes passed and I suddenly had a hankering for frittata. T said he’d take the dog - who’s recovering from another knee surgery - to the park to stretch out her leg.

“You’ll miss the game.”

“Nothing happens ’til the penalty kicks - we have a couple hours.”

“In that case, I’ll cook.”

A quick scan for ingredients, then a fire under the skillet. First olive oil, then chopped green bell pepper, onion, and red bell pepper. Say, it’s the flag of Italy! Did you know that without bees, we would have no onions or bell peppers? Uh, I digress. Then I threw in my potato, some enormous mushrooms I’d sliced, a little black pepper, some garlic, a bit of basil, some oregano, a little this, a little that, a smidge of rosemary to make it interesting, some fresh spinach, egg — should I mix the egg with milk or half ‘n’ half? Eh, save the half ‘n’ half for coffee - a couple romas, zucchini - nah, save the zukes for another time - and oh, look what we have here…leftover ricotta from the last time I made lasagne.

That’s a lotta frittata. But bread would be good. Don’t have a sturdy Italian bread on hand - French would do in this case - but I can toast a bagel. My mother would always cook eggs, then throw them on top of a hunk of Italian or French bread she’d torn off the loaf. When I was in Massachusetts we had breakfast in a little place in Newton and they served eggs the same way. People often ask why Italians like to tear their bread. Picture a bunch of Italians in the kitchen talking a mile a minute with knives in their hands. A simple conversation could turn deadly. Tearing is good. Keep tearing off hunks of bread, I say.

Now, this is an Italian breakfast so we need a piece of fruit. What’s that brown thing in the bottom of the vegetable bin? Ah. A pear. Slice it four ways and toss it on the plates - we’re done. Back to the game.

“Hey - is that Bill Clinton? Wasn’t he just in Aspen, poisoning Colin Powell?”

“It doesn’t look good for the Italians. The French are playing better.”

“Fine. A ball they can handle. Put them in a war and they roll over.”

T went out for a cigarette, but was back in the room a few minutes later when he heard my screams.

“What the hell happened?”

“Butthead!!! Zidane! He buttheaded him!!!”

“Uh, you mean headbutt. He might be a butthead, but what he did is called a headbutt.”

“He just buttheaded him for no reason! Look - they’ll show it again!”

“Ow.”

“It doesn’t matter what he said - if he said anything. That’s no excuse to butthead him, the French cheat! If it wasn’t for the Medici family, you people would still be in caves!”

PK time. And then Trezeguet approached the ball for the penalty kick (T in the background: “Trezeguet, Trezeguet, ooh-la-la!”) and he misses! Then it’s Fabio Grosso - can he do it? YES! The Italians are world champions!!! Fabiolous!

Uh, but don’t misunderstand. This was simply a Sunday diversion. I am not a soccer fan. Repeat. I am not a soccer fan.

I’m just so out of the loop. I’d mentioned that I’d planned to watch the city’s fireworks display from the driveway (something I do every year), but I had no idea that the event that the city had planned would generate so much controversy. I chose not to participate, but it was tempting. The mayor and city officials were on talk radio non-stop touting the special event and I have to admit it sounded like it was going to be a pleasant way to spend Independence Day. We have connections to sister cities around the globe and representatives from those cities would be providing entertainment. There would also be local musicians and a really big name. Who I won’t name.

The mayor decided early on that there was something not quite right about charging people for water, so water at this event would be free. (Our tax dollars at work.) Not only is it America’s birthday, you see, but our city is celebrating its tricentennial this year (for those of you in government schools, that means this town is 300 years old).

I have a classmate who attended the event, but I didn’t discuss the controversy with him because I didn’t hear about it until yesterday. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been something that I would have been interested in, but now it’s a controversy that is simply - in this, an election year - going to be fun to watch. The issue? There were musical groups aplenty at the event and they performed all day. Sounds great. Ah, but here’s the issue. Most of the songs were sung in Spanish. Some who attended the event were concerned. This is not Cinco de Mayo. This is America’s birthday and we want to hear Irving Berlin (a Russian Jew), John Philip Sousa (born in Spain, from Portuguese and Bavarian parents), and patriotic songs (”The Battle Hymn of the Republic”) sung in English. What’s with the Spanish crap?

Intolerant xenophobic Nazis again, right? Nay, nay. And that’s the fun part. This has managed to tick off even the most liberal in our city. I tell you, I’m shocked. Whatever happened to multiculturalism, inclusion, tolerance, respect for others’ cultures and all that good stuff?

I think we’re at the saturation point. The state is predominantly Hispanic and that hasn’t been an issue until this week. It appears that people wanted to celebrate America’s birthday and our independence in English. Liberals and Conservatives actually agreed on something! Again, I tell you, I’m shocked.

Our city goes to great lengths to acknowledge different cultures. For some time the city has sponsored summer festivals that highlight specific ones. Since there are so many and summer is limited by the calendar, it’s necessary for the city to combine certain cultures at these events. Strangely, I haven’t been hearing much about the events lately so I suspect they’ve been morphed into something else. I’d actually attended one of these things a few years ago and it was fairly awful. I can’t remember now…something like Italian-Polynesian-Armenian night or something just as odd. You could get a slice of pizza, a big pink tropical drink, the ever present burrito and funnel cake, and listen to Armenian folk music.

Peculiar planning on these cultural events. If you’re going to have a party, it’s a good idea to have a theme that makes some sense. These were like a string of mixed metaphors - everyone wandering around confused, clutching their funnel cakes.

So I guess people figured that, for once, we could have an old-fashioned small town American event with flags and fireworks and traditional Independence Day music and hot dogs and hamburgers and for a few hours remember that we are actually in America. Didn’t happen and people are pissed off.

I tell you, I’m shocked. But intrigued. This isn’t going to go away. Like a Tiger Head Brand Red Meteor Rocket, the fuse has been lit and there’s going to be some big noise. This is just the beginning of the fireworks in our little town.

I’m not one of those conspiracy theorists - really, I’m not. But when I heard that Colin Powell was having dinner in Aspen with Bill Clinton, then had to be rushed to a hospital, I couldn’t help think that something was afoot.

First, why is Colin Powell in Aspen with Bill Clinton? Sure, they’re saying he was there for a panel discussion at the Aspen Ideas Festival. And whose idea was that? No, no. Something is definitely up. Two possibilities come to mind. First, Bill has reason to believe that Colin Powell is thinking of running for president. Either he can feel him out and sweet talk him into sharing a ticket with Hillary (he’d be VP, of course), or he senses that Powell has a chance of beating Hillary and therefore must be eliminated. What did he slip into Colin’s dinner, I wonder.

There’s another possibility. Bill says Hillary’s going to be the next leader of the free world: Would Colin be interested in a position in the new administration? People on both sides like and respect him for the most part, and a guest appearance in a Democratic administration would be proof that the Republicans did something to push Powell into the arms of the Clintons. Powell’s been kicked out of the tent for dissenting and now he’s been adopted by the other side. They - the Republicans - were wrong; Colin Powell was right.

About what I don’t know, but that’s not the issue here. Obviously Powell is still breathing, so maybe he isn’t planning to run. Maybe the Clintons were just issuing a warning last night.

Okay, okay. So you think this is lunacy. Fine. Every leftist blogger can post whatever insane theory he wants to, so I figure it’s my turn to throw something nuts out there, too.

Or is it really that nuts? Hmmmmm. Time will tell. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo…

We dropped one on Muammar Gaddafi and he’s kept a relatively low profile ever since. We dropped two 500-pound ones on Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and now his profile is as low as it can go. All I’m asking is this: Is it time to drop a big one on Kim Jong-il?

If he has missiles aimed at Hawaii, why don’t we aim a few in his direction? It’s good to have a friend in Prime Minister Koizumi, an Elvis fan, who would probably not stand in our way if we decided to send Kim Jong-il a hunk a hunk of burnin’ love.

I’d mentioned yesterday that the plan was to stand out in front of the house and watch the city sponsored fireworks display, but the plan started to change once cars started parking in front of our neighbors’ house. Soon cars were blocking our driveway.

“Perfect. They’re going to set fire to the neighborhood tonight, and we’re going to be trapped inside our home because their guests have parked illegally and blocked our escape route.”

T decided to back his vehicle out of the garage, so the cars that were blocking the way were relocated. The neighbor asked if it would be all right to light fireworks and pointed to the street. Our house is on a cul-de-sac (note to self: never buy another house on a cul-de-sac), so T assumed she meant they’d be igniting things on the asphalt. The road.

“Not a problem. Just don’t burn down our house, please.”

Time passed and I saw flickering light through the front window. A police car? No, over a dozen youngsters in our driveway with explosives, leaving scorches on the concrete. I told T and by the time he got to the window, the crowd scattered. Then my phone rang. It was the neighbor across the way with the well-behaved children and the stupendous dogs.

“Did you know there are people in your driveway, setting fire to things?”

I had to laugh. “Yes, I was just explaining that to T.”

“We’re outside in our driveway.”

“Be there in a few.”

We walked outside and our driveway was filled with spent fireworks, soot, children, and rocks from our xeriscape. We asked if the kids would be kind enough to get the rocks back where they belonged. For some reason the neighbors’ kids like to park themselves on our front yard; if we had grass, they’d be permanent lawn ornaments. You’d think rocks would discourage squatting, but no. Why they don’t sit on their own rocks is still a mystery to us.

The neighbor asked if we’d said it was all right for them to use our property to have a party. We weren’t asked; the party just shifted to our side.

“No respect for borders. But that’s fine. We’ll be selling the house - once we locate a nice family from New Guinea. We’ve placed an ad in the Cannibal Gazette. ‘High desert home; neighbors slow moving and tender.’”

The good news is that we got to spend some time with the other neighbors and their wonderful dogs, and then something unusual happened. It rained. In the morning I found a Tiger Head Brand Red Meteor Rocket in our backyard. Red dye washed off it and stained the sand. I was happy that it hadn’t landed on something like…the roof.

It’s a big week for setting off projectiles. NASA shot something into space; North Korea lobbed something else; and the Israelis and Palestinians are whizzing things back and forth, too. You’d think our neighbors would take a break, but this year several of them came out with incendiaries. Usually it’s one or two yahoos, but this year it was like a contest to see who could make the biggest noise and biggest mess. I swear the people down the block took out a second mortgage to finance the stash of explosives they set off.

But, like I said, it rained. And the timing was perfect.

I love Independence Day. I just hate the knuckleheads who come out and try to incinerate my neighborhood. While the rest of the country is under water, this part of the world is like a giant bowl of shredded wheat.

For months, our local politicians have warned us that this is the driest we’ve been in over fifty years. So don’t you dare water. If you use water, you’ll be punished. So just don’t. Or else.

Fine. I’ll just sit here and watch the plants in my yard die slowly and listen to that annoying crunching sound. All I want to know is this: Are we saving the water so we can put out the fires that the knuckleheads with fireworks are going to start this holiday?

I remember standing on the shores of Lake Michigan when I was little, clutching a sparkler and wondering what the hell its purpose was. Years later, when I was about twelve, an errant “Piccolo Pete” leapt from the pavement and struck me on the thigh. I thought my femur had snapped.

And that was when I lost all enthusiasm for incendiaries. I wish I could say the same for my neighbors. I say, leave the explosives to the professionals. They think they are the professionals. My theory is that if they were professionals they’d have someone come out with a broom and clean up the mess they leave behind.

I live on a hill that has a spectacular view of our city. A clear shot of the park where, every year, the city stages an impressive fireworks show. I can stand in my driveway with a cold beer and avoid the crowds, the traffic, the bugs, and the drive home - and just watch from here. That being the case, why do my neighbors feel the need to set these things off every day the week prior to the holiday and every day after until they run out of explosives to ignite?

I shouldn’t complain. At least I don’t live in a neighborhood where people run outside with firearms and shoot at clouds. Or do I?

Maybe I’ll drink my cold beer standing in the garage tonight.

I turned eighteen during a particularly dull time for elections. I had to wait a full two years before I could vote in my first presidential election, but I registered to vote as soon as I legally could. I filled out some paperwork and when I was asked for my party affiliation, I went with “Independent.”

“No, you can’t do that,” said a earnest-looking young woman behind the table. “I mean, yeah, you can, but you probably don’t want to.”

“I think I do. That’s why I just did.”

“Yeah, but, if you do that you won’t get stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Well, yeah. Like in the mail…and stuff.”

“I don’t think I want that…stuff.”

“No, you do actually. It’s like information and, like, sample ballot stuff. If you don’t like actually commit to a specific party, they won’t send you stuff.”

“I’ll live.”

“Yeah, people say that but then the election comes up and they don’t know what’s going on cuz they didn’t get stuff.”

“Then what do you recommend?”

“Check off a party.”

“Okay.”

“No, not that one.”

“Why not?”

“The other one’s just better.”

“Do I get better stuff?”

“It’s just better if you pick this one.”

“I think I’ll just stick with the other one.”

“It’s your choice I guess.”

“Yes it is.”

The earnest young woman wanted me to register as a Democrat. Jimmy Carter was president; there was no way I was going to belong to any club that would accept him as a member.

Ever since my failed attempt so many decades ago to register as an official Independent, I’ve been amazed at the number of Independents I meet. It seems that everyone is one.

“Oh, I’m not a Republican or a Democrat. I’m an Independent!”

“I’m not a member of either of the parties. No, I’ve always been an Independent.”

“There’s no D or R after my name - it’s just I for Independent.”

“I’ve always been an independent thinker. I don’t need any party telling me how to vote. That’s why I’m an Independent.”

What the hell, may I ask, is an Independent? And if you’re an Independent, who the hell do you vote for? It sounds like someone who walks into a polling place, closes the curtain behind him, and - like Chinese take-out - picks a candidate from column A, then one from B, then one from C, then another from this column here, then another one from here to balance out the one from there.

“A Green, a Democrat, a Republican, and a Libertarian. There! I’ve voted.”

It makes me think they voted this way because they never got that stuff in the mail. And now we have Joe Lieberman saying that he’s considering running as an Independent. That’s fine. All I want to know is: Will Independents vote for him?

Like Anne Frank, Nina Lugovskaya was a thirteen year-old schoolgirl who lived during a particularly difficult time in history. But instead of writing about the Nazi threat, Nina wrote about life in Stalin’s Soviet Union. Anne Frank’s diary has been required reading in schools and films have been made; Nina’s diaries have been sitting in a KGB file for 50 years.

It appears they don’t paint a flattering portrait of the Stalin years. It would explain why, in 1937, Nina’s family’s Moscow apartment was raided and her diaries were confiscated by the secret police.

Branded a counter-revolutionary, Nina — along with her mother and two sisters — was found guilty of treason, then spent five years in the Siberian gulag. Then there were seven years of internal exile.

It’s difficult to imagine the purges that took place under Stalin, and to imagine that the private thoughts of a thirteen year-old girl could be threatening enough to imprison her and her family, and that her words could be hidden for half a century.

People exist who continue to defend Stalin and the Soviet Union; how do they justify sending a girl to a Siberian labor camp for keeping a journal of her thoughts and feelings? The diaries, written between 1932 and 1937, will be published in English shortly. I’ll be curious as to how they’ll be received by those who still think that communism, collectivization, and korenization make perfect sense.