The Voice of Treason

“Words matter. Words mean something.”

– Rush Limbaugh

“Actions speak louder than words.”

– Author disputed

“Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth.”

– John 3:17,18

“Action speaks louder than words but not nearly as often.”

– Mark Twain

Ah, all The Great Debates revisited. Church v. State. Words v. Actions. God v. Man. Old Testament v. New Testament. Right v. Left. The Big Question: Is God – if he exists – a political animal? I think many people believe, as I do, that God is just this seasoned, hardworking conservative guy who produced a good-natured, long-haired, sandal-wearing hippie son. They might not see eye-to-eye on everything, and certainly they employ different methods, but their relationship still works.

I’m reminded of growing up in Chicago in the 1960s with my lapsed Roman Catholic Italian-American mother and my sister, the Conflicted Conservative. A misanthrope, who often made Florence King look like Mother Teresa, she was also the most generous, kind-hearted, least racist person I’d known. But what she said sometimes didn’t always jive with what she did or how she conducted herself. Uh, perhaps she was nuanced.

A “for instance.” I’ve mentioned we lived in Rogers Park – a “safe” neighborhood. I imagine, looking back now, that this was code for a neighborhood that was white. In truth, it was mixed, diverse even by today’s standards, yet predominantly Jewish. Mixed, yes, but not mixed with blacks. This was Mayor Richard J. Daley’s Chicago, remember, where whites lived on the North Side and blacks lived on the South Side. An undisputed fact of life. That was Rogers Park in the mid-1960s. Times have changed and so has the neighborhood.

Shortly before we left Chicago for Prescott, Arizona, my mother flirted with the idea of moving us into one of those new apartment buildings the city was putting up for lower income families. Read: The Projects. I clearly remember her enthusiasm. My older sisters were married, my brother was off to an Air Force base in Texas, and it was just me, my sister, my mother, two cats and a raccoon. She had paperwork and glossy brochures.

“We could live on the 20th floor! Or the 22nd! Or the 24th! How exciting would that be?”

My sister, about fifteen at the time and always the voice of reason where my mother was concerned, looked at me – I was almost nine – then at my mother.

“You want her raped in the elevator?”

Again, the most generous, kind-hearted, least racist person I’d known until I met T. He was eighteen, wore heavy metal T-shirts and ringlets down to his waist, and he and his brother had been raised by their single mother on the Berkeley campus. Polar opposites? Not really. I observed him at work and thought to myself: This boy is conservative and doesn’t even know it. And the first person I’d known who truly evaluated each person he met on the content of his or her character and not skin color, economic status, or nationality. Eighteen years later, that hasn’t changed.

And so it was interesting to hear his assessment of Michelle Obama after a CNN profile that likened her to Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy Onassis: “She’s ghetto.”

This statement had little to do with the color of her skin. I’ve been watching Mrs. Obama for some time and every time I see or hear her I’m reminded of one of the more colorful expressions my mother learned from my father: “Her shit don’t stink, but her farts give her away.”

Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama was born in 1964 and raised on the South Side of Chicago. I was born a few years earlier and raised on the North Side. On the surface, one might think Michelle could have been envious of me. I was a white girl with straight honey-colored hair and (then) blue eyes and I lived in an apartment on a tree-lined block just steps from Lake Michigan. On the surface, however, I believe I probably would have been more envious of her. She had what I didn’t have: two parents with dual incomes, fewer siblings, and – frankly – probably less competition in school. At my school, I was up against some real super-geniuses – not only the Jewish kids, but also the Asian kids and a lot of the European immigrants. The most super of the super-geniuses, in fact, was a quirky, high-strung Scots-Irish girl named Karen. That kid was Bill Buckley in Mary Janes.

My parents had been separated as long as I’d known them. Michelle’s parents were not. My mother waited tables to support us. Michelle’s dad had a good job with the city and her mom worked for Spiegel. (I just loved the Spiegel catalog when I was a kid.) And Michelle only had to share her parents’ affection with one sibling – a brother who was very close to her age. Gosh, her life sounded so normal. So different from what I had and so close to what I’d always wished for.

Which brings us to the current issue of the Obamas and Trinity United Church of Christ.

“Racism is so deeply ingrained in this country that he (Barack Obama) could be flawless in terms of his policies. But he’s still a black man in this country which has a sorry history in terms of how it sees African-American males. That’s my 65-year-old, jaded perception of where this country is.”

– Reverend Dr. Jeremiah A. Wright, Jr., March 2007

Relatively tame stuff compared to the videos from the pulpit. My, the response to those sermons! Shocking? No, disheartening. Obviously the people who are so wide-eyed over this never listened to Ray Taliaferro during the Reagan-Bush years. This is old hat, folks. And disheartening because it’s a clear sign that a large segment of the black community has not progressed. Yes, there is racism. But racism is changing. The country has been changing. Hearts and minds have been changed. Well, some, anyway.

What caught my ear when listening to Reverend Wright was the part where he chastised blacks for killing other blacks. What should be asked is this: If blacks shouldn’t be killing blacks because blacks aren’t “the enemy,” then who exactly is “the enemy” and who should blacks be killing? The Obamas have been attending that church for twenty years; perhaps they have the answer.

This “controversy” reminds me of when I was in class with a middle-aged woman who suddenly snotted up in the middle of the session and confided that her life had been turned upside down because the pastor of her church where she’d been a member for most of her life said something about homosexuals that she just didn’t agree with. With tears in her eyes, she asked me what she should do. Torn to bits, she felt that the right thing was to leave her church, but she had a history there, had made dear friends, and loved and respected many of the parishioners. These people were family. But then this something was said, and it challenged her beliefs. Clearly a problem for this woman because it made her question her religion, herself, and everything she had believed about her world.

I never belonged to a church or a particular religion, I told her, so I probably wasn’t the person who should advise her. I belong to a political party and I don’t agree with everything every member of it says, but that’s politics and not religion. If what your pastor said is so offensive to you, perhaps you should find a pastor who believes what you believe. You chose your doctor, your dentist, your hairdresser, and your bank. You can choose another church and still maintain the relationships with those people you consider family. If they truly are your family, they’ll understand and accept your decision. And if they don’t, then maybe you’ll learn something. But what do I know? I subscribe to a political party and not a church. Politics isn’t religion, right?

One would think. As for Reverend Wright, the more I listen to him the less he sounds inspirational and the more he sounds like a run-of-the-mill politician. Coincidentally, the same can be said of his longtime parishioner, Senator Obama.

Tony Blair has been “received into full communion with the Catholic Church” by the Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor. This means that the former PM has converted officially and is now a Roman Catholic.

Senator John McCain and Senator Joe Lieberman have been appearing side-by-side, smiling like dual Cheshire Cats, on all the cable news shows. This means that hints are being dropped like the turkeys from WKRP over Cincinnati that the two might share a ticket.

The Saudi king has pardoned “The Girl of Qatif.” This means that the poor girl who was brutally gang-raped by seven Saudis and then sentenced to six months in prison after 90 – no, 200 – lashes, gets “a break.” Say, how ‘bout a pardon for her unfortunate male companion who was also gang-raped?

Politicians are proposing a $5000 tax on human breeding. Does this mean I can expect a $5000 check from Uncle Sam for not breeding?

Mike Huckabee is about as clear on Cuba as JFK was. Jack would have been better served if he’d spent more time looking at world maps and less time romancing starlets; Mike would be better served if he spent more time thinking about the forty-nine states and the numerous countries surrounding Arkansas. (Didn’t Ross Perot try to make this point in ’92?)

Rudy Giuliani was eviscerated by both Tim Russert (on Meet The Press) and Florence King (in National Review) when she described him thusly:

“… Embarrassingly unfunny and made unfunnier by his big grin because he looks like a skull from a Vincent Price movie when he grins.”

Ouch. And that image is still not as scary as the dream I had about him (don’t ask). I think this means trouble for the Mayor.

I watched a Republican debate in Spanish without subtitles and discovered that Ron Paul has seventeen (actually eighteen) nietos. This means I can never get those ninety minutes back. Or those eight years I wasted in school studying French.

The Left accuses Romney of flip-flopping and changing his views, and this means that when George Bush doesn’t change his he’s stubborn. This also means that neither, according to the Left, are nuanced like John Kerry.

The Left is also wringing their hands over the CIA tapes. Clearly, they insist, these tapes were erased to protect the identities of CIA employees. I thought they wanted the identities of CIA employees protected. Who’s to say that Valerie Plame wasn’t torturing enemy combatants on those tapes? Threatening to pour peroxide in their eyes? Look, we aim to please, but obviously you people are never satisfied.

What does all this mean? It means it’s Christmas and it’s time to tune into Barney Cam to try to regain some holiday spirit before it’s all sucked out by the MSM. Pop that ham and green chile cornbread in the oven and grab the sloe gin and Sprite – it’s going to be a bumpy 2008!

My advice: Concentrate on the menu and adult beverages. As always, a very merry Christmas to all.

“Nobody can be exactly like me. Even I have trouble doing it.”

– Tallulah Bankhead

T and I decided to take advantage of global warming down here in Nuevo Mexico last week, so we took a long walk on what looked and felt like a beautiful spring day – well, as long as we didn’t pay too much attention to the color of the autumn leaves. Anyway, I brought up Hillary and the mild kerfuffle generated by her campaign trail hoarseness.

“I can’t believe how few people got the reference. I mean, people actually said they’d never heard of Tallulah Bankhead.”

“Who’s Tallulah Bankhead?”

Okay, maybe Obama really is onto something with that “generational” strategery, who knows? But the whole thing was still nagging at me. Why Tallulah? After all, there are plenty of other women with low, husky voices that Hillary could have compared herself to. Why not good Democrat Lauren Bacall or Kathleen Turner? Barbara Stanwyck, perhaps. Peggy Lee. Oh – and wouldn’t Mercedes McCambridge have been an interesting choice? And can you just imagine what would have happened if she had paused, cleared her throat, and said:

“Hmmm. I sound like Jeane Kirkpatrick.”

One doesn’t get the impression that Senator Clinton is spontaneous, so why Tallulah? Miss Bankhead was a woman who had more layers than an onion. Still, parallels can be drawn: She liked children, baseball, moved from a Southern state that starts with an “A” to New York, and reportedly had conversations with Eleanor Roosevelt. But these weren’t really the things Tallulah would be best remembered for. Again, why Tallulah?

Just a throwaway line? Perhaps, but doubtful. Some interpreted Hillary’s remark as a shout-out to the LGBT crowd, and that’s certainly a possibility. Others disagree: Why would she want to dredge up old rumors? Frankly, if I were married to Bill Clinton, I might be turned off by men, too. But I doubt that Hillary made the comparison for that reason. I mean, look at me. I am an unmarried woman of a certain age who drives a Subaru Outback and has been seen tossing 40 pound bags of kibble into it. I wear sensible shoes. Since shaving my head two years ago, I’ve consistently worn my hair cropped short. Because I’m tall, have shoulders, and my arms are long enough to tie my shoes without bending over, I tend to keep an unusual number of men’s shirts in my closets. I like baseball, big dogs, and sturdy beer. I adore Florence King and have been known to listen to k.d. lang. Am I bisexual? A lesbian? Uh… no. I admit women can be interesting to watch, but then so is decomposition.

I’ll cut Hilldog some slack here – I might have said Tallulah, too. Why? Quite simply, because I have always appreciated the woman’s quick wit and what I like to call her “Algonquinisms.” So why Tallulah? I think Hillary just wanted to prove that she really is a fun girl. As fun as decomposition, perhaps, but fun nonetheless.

Which reminds me of something Chris Matthews said at that Miami Book Fair over the weekend. He suggested that Hillary could win because “men listen to women.” Well, it’s hard to avoid it, Chris, because we’re always talking at them. But his point was, I think, that women would make the lives of the men around them miserable if they didn’t vote for the girl. Then came the “wink, wink, nudge, nudge, you know what I’m talkin’ about guys” thing. I tell you, it sent a chill up my spine.

Is Chris Matthews suggesting that American men are that whipped? I hope he’s just speaking for himself here. Look. T and I usually go to the polls together when it’s a big election, and we generally review the ballot together before we head out to register our votes. But once we get there something happens. We separate. He goes into a booth, I go into a booth. We vote separately. We vote alone.

After all these years of being legal, one of the things about our system that still energizes me is that I can go into a voting booth and choose whatever I want. Whatever I want. None of this “I’d really like to order the cheesecake, but I know I should get the melon slice.” No, I can enter that booth and have that cheesecake. Outside that booth I can say one thing, then go inside and do another if I want to. Not that I’ve ever done that, but knowing that I could is what’s exciting. And then I don’t have to tell anyone – anyone – what I’ve just done. It’s the only real secret left.

So what the hell is Chris Matthews saying? Are there women out there who actually stand outside the booth then demand to see their partners’ ballots? “I want to see proof that you voted the way you were supposed to!” It wouldn’t even occur to me to violate T’s privacy that way. He’s an adult. Unlike the average Floridian, he understands how the ballot works. He is capable of doing research. He is capable of forming opinions. He is capable of making decisions. His own decisions.

I used to hear stories about women who said they voted the way their husbands “instructed” them to, and I always thought that was odd. Have that many women become those men? Gee whiz, what kind of harridans does Chris Matthews associate with?

“I never expected any sort of success with Mockingbird. I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of the reviewers but, at the same time, I sort of hoped someone would like it enough to give me encouragement. Public encouragement. I hoped for a little, as I said, but I got rather a whole lot, and in some ways this was just about as frightening as the quick, merciful death I’d expected…

… It takes time and patience and effort to turn out a work of art, and few people seem willing to go all the way. I see a great deal of sloppiness and I deplore it. I think writers today are too easily pleased with their work. This is sad. There’s no substitute for struggling, if a struggle is needed, to make an English sentence as beautiful as it should be.

I want to do the best I can with the talent God gave me. I would like to leave some record of… small-town middle-class southern life. All I want to be is the Jane Austen of south Alabama.”

– Harper Lee, interview, 1964

The South has produced more than its share of talented writers: Harper Lee is one of them. Florence King is another, but I suspect she won’t be receiving a Medal of Freedom any time soon. (I also suspect this doesn’t keep her up nights.) As for Lee, I was pleased to see that she came out for this one. For years there were those who asked why she didn’t write more books after Mockingbird. She didn’t have to and she was smart enough not to. Others, in a variety of disciplines, would do well to follow Lee’s example. (M. Night Shyamalan comes to mind.)

The President bestowed medals on a worthy group: Miss Lee, Gary Becker, Oscar Elias Biscet, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Francis Collins, Benjamin Hooks, Henry Hyde, and Brian Lamb. From President Bush:

“For nearly 30 years, the proceedings of the House of Representatives have been televised — unfiltered, uninterrupted, unedited, and live. For this we can thank the Cable-Satellite Public Affairs Network, or C-SPAN. And for C-SPAN, we can thank a visionary American named Brian Lamb.

C-SPAN is not what you’d call exciting TV, though some of the call-in shows do have their moments. It is, however, a tool that enlivens democracy, and informs and educates citizens of all ages — at all hours.

C-SPAN channels fill 17,000 broadcast hours a year. But you can watch for years and never hear anyone say the name Brian Lamb. Even Brian never says it.

With his low-key manner, this native of Lafayette, Indiana likes to stick with substance. He’s not there to provide commentary, or give much reaction either way. Yet vast numbers of Americans consider themselves fans of Brian Lamb. A writer from The Washington Post called it a ‘cult of non-personality.’ The truth is, we’ve all seen him, and he’s conducted some of the most fascinating interviews we have ever heard. As one C-SPAN watcher said, when you listen to Brian ‘You feel like he’s just like you, only smarter…

The network Brian Lamb created has been called ‘scrupulously nonpartisan, [and] inherently patient.’ Committee hearings, and campaign events, and conferences, and rallies are shown from beginning to end, without editorial comment or interpretation. C-SPAN has no agenda, and only one assumption: that interested viewers are intelligent, and can make up their own minds about what they see and what they hear.

An informed citizenry has been the strength of America since the days of the New England town hall. C-SPAN has revived the town-hall spirit for a modern, continental nation. For his enormous achievement and his personal modesty; for his high standards, and his contribution to our democracy, America is grateful to Mr. Brian Lamb.”

Well put. Bush may have some trouble communicating sometimes, but he’s often at his best at these White House functions. The mood is warm and fuzzy, but the words cut through the fluff and make sharp points felt. Messages are delivered along with the medals. In this event, with each recipient, within the gracious introductions, there were zingers.

It would serve the administration well to use more of these “happy daggers” in these, the final days.

“Never regret anything you have done with a sincere affection; nothing is lost that is born of the heart.”

– Basil Rathbone

There’s been a lot of talk lately about Halloween – how it’s changed and become more of a holiday for adults and Neo-Pagans than for youngsters. There’s grumbling about objectionable costumes and kids who are too old to trick-or-treat, and then there are the adults who are trying to steal the fun and make the holiday all about them. Yes, of course, I’m talking about those Boomers. It’s another slippery slope: Nothing destroys a holiday faster than cynicism and I was becoming more than a tad cynical.

Every year, T asks me why I continue to distribute Halloween candy. I admit it. I kinda like to see little kids dressed up as insects and animals. My problem is that I don’t think they should limit their disguises to Halloween. Truth be told, I would prefer to see small children dressed up in costumes all the time. Charles Krauthammer, a trained psychiatrist, most likely has a technical name for this, but I’m certain the condition is harmless. I just think kids are more appealing when they look like furry little creatures. I like them as flowers, fruits, and vegetables, too, come to think of it. In fact, they look better when they don’t resemble children at all. Who knows — perhaps I continue to distribute candy because I’m trying to encourage the chiiillldrunnn to stay in costume 24/7.

As for distribution, I like the “wow factor” that comes with a full-size treat or a well-stuffed goodie bag, so every year I commit to a selection of fine candy products and hope that none of the little bastards are disappointed. I’ve been doing this for donkey’s years, yet I always stress. Will I have enough? Will I have too much? Will they like my choices? Will they be even greedier and more obnoxious this year? Will I haul off and smack one of them and be sued?

I had decided on and purchased my bags of assorted Hershey products just two days before I stopped at a local supermarket to pick up some garlic (for a leg of lamb – not to ward off vampires) and saw that a local Eagle Scout candidate had set up a collection drive for the troops. It’s wonderful to pack up and send boxes to the troops, but the cost of shipping is prohibitive. Organizations that collect items from you, then take care of the shipping for you are an absolute godsend. I grabbed a list of items and showed it to T when I got home.

“Rats. I think I’d rather give candy to our soldiers than the obnoxious teenagers who show up at the door. What if we just hand a little card to each kid that explains we’re not giving out any candy this year, but instead we’re using the resources we would have used for tooth-rotting, diabetes-inducing, pimple-producing, sugar-saturated treats to buy much-needed items for the troops? You know, that we’re really thinking of the chiiillldrunnn. Not only are we protecting their teeth and helping to prevent diabetes, we’re looking out for their futures. How? By supporting the troops who are risking their lives and missing Halloween just so they can ensure that the chiiillldrunnn will live to see adulthood. Sure, no candy today, but a brighter future tomorrow!”

“Won’t fly.”

I was suddenly depressed. How did it come to this? When I was a kid my favorite story was The October Game; my heroes were Karloff, Hitchcock, Cushing, Price, and Lee; the day I couldn’t wait for was October 31. But now I was wondering how I could avoid it all. I always start off with the best intentions, spend a small fortune on candy – and it’s never crap, mind you – and I put up with the terrible inconvenience for myself, T, and the dog. I’m generous with the treats but I’ve got kids analyzing them; then once they realize it’s the good stuff they demand more. Little shakedown artists. And how do they show their thanks? They trample our property and drop sticky wrappers all over it. And when it’s all over and I think I can turn out the lights and just look forward to next year, there’s just this sinking feeling. Is that all there is?

See, I have these great memories of Halloweens past. Not all the memories are good, mind you – there was a lot of really bad candy and the enormous rats in that one apartment building — but even those were good memories in a way. Some kids would get dusty old Easter candy and curse the supplier, but my sister and I always imagined that there was a good reason. Maybe this was an elderly woman who had very little money, or perhaps she was infirmed and couldn’t get out to get fresh treats, but she still wanted to contribute something. We always said thank you, we were always respectful and gracious. Some children, you see, can learn a great deal from trick-or-treating.

I’m certain I’ve written about the best Halloween of my childhood – the one in Prescott, the one just after my eleventh birthday. We knew two sisters who knew a wealthy spinster – and this reminds me of a lovely article in the latest issue of National Review. I digress, I know, but John Derbyshire has written about one of Florence King’s favorite words – “spinster” – and by the end of the article I was hunched over and weeping. I can’t explain… you’d have to read it yourself. Anyway, this “spinster” lived in an exclusive neighborhood and invited us to spend Halloween with her. This, coincidentally, was the Halloween I remember because it was the first time my mother showed her domestic side and helped create a Raggedy Ann costume for me. My sisters helped, too, and painted my face. But it was my mother who sat and sewed red yarn onto a piece of sheet to create the most wonderful wig ever. Who was this woman? Certainly not the Scrooge I was used to.

But then… well, there was this house. It was so dark that night that I stumbled on my way up the winding path to what looked to my eleven year-old eyes like the quintessential haunted mansion. I saw its silhouette against the night sky, but couldn’t really make out any particular style. There were trees all around and above me… leaves rustling and crunching under my feet… strange sounds from inside the house. And then I knocked on the door. I heard the twist of the knob and saw the door opening so slowly… it creaked as it opened… and then I saw a candle in an antique holder and the hand that held it. And that was probably the moment.

I don’t know who this person was who lived in this house. I like to think that he or she might have been on the stage in London or New York, or maybe even worked in Hollywood and then retired to Prescott. This person is very likely dead now, but it’s been 37 years and I still remember… and I can’t even describe it. Was it makeup and costume, a bit of special effects – or was it real? All I know is that whatever it was it was a spectacular bit of theater and it made an impression. I only wish the person responsible could know that what he or she did that night was one of my most cherished memories ever. Thank you — whoever you were.

I have no idea what kind of candy I received – I just remember that thrill. Yet, for reasons I’m not sure I can even explain, I never returned the favor until this year. One night, T drove us to a pumpkin patch at a local church and we picked out two pumpkins. I named mine Parish. This was odd, I thought, because T, like my mother, is an absolute Scrooge when it comes to holidays. Why, I wondered, are we going to carve jack-o’-lanterns? Not only that, but we roasted their seeds in the oven. And then – and this is really peculiar – when I was choosing candy, T came along and actually made the final decision. And he helped me assemble the goodie bags.

But the very strangest thing of all was when I walked into the kitchen a few hours before the kids were due to arrive at the door and I found him standing at the counter with the burlap bag from our basmati rice.

“I have an idea.”

Working quickly and on the cheap, between his creativity and my theatrical background, we put together a Halloween that scared the livin’ beejeezus out of the neighborhood kids. The response was incredible, and parents were posing their kids for photos outside our house. They thanked us and one Mom even said when she realized we were distributing candy:

“Oh, I didn’t know there was a treat, too — the trick was enough!”

And then it all made sense. Not one kid analyzed the candy. It wasn’t about the candy at all. It was about providing something that really didn’t cost us a lot of time, money, or energy. And maybe – just maybe – 37 years from now, one of those kids will return the favor and keep the thrill alive.