More bumper stickers

The New Neo Posted on by

My most recent post was on the subject of bumper stickers (or, rather, bumper sticker). In one of those blogosphere coincidences that aren’t really all that coincidental–after all, there’s a finite number of subjects on which mostly-political bloggers opine–the always-interesting Varifrank has a written a much longer exploration of recent examples of the genre.

Which reminds me of another one I saw here recently that caught my eye, and expresses something about how New Englanders view the rest of the country, “We don’t care how you look at it in California.”

Meditation on a bumper sticker

The New Neo Posted on by

And, speaking of friends—

Here’s a bumper sticker seen yesterday on a parked car in my very liberal town:

Someone’s idea, no doubt, of humor, based on the slogan “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”

But it doesn’t seem all that funny to me, not by a longshot. Although it’s ostensibly being said tongue-in-cheek, there’s a certain hardnosed sentiment behind it, one I’ve encountered way too many times. It’s a sentiment that–although espoused by a person who no doubt would identify him/herself as a liberal–embodies the opposite of traditional liberal thought.

What an interesting idea of friendship, that it must march in lockstep, belief matching belief. What an interesting idea of Republicanism; that it’s something pernicious and dangerous, something from which friends must be protected. What an interesting idea of voting; that it’s something you “let” or “don’t let” someone do.

Yes, I know: lighten up, neo, it’s just a joke. But jokes take certain forms for certain reasons; underneath, they express serious ideas that drive people. What is this particular idea? At heart, it’s one of thought control, intolerance, and demonizing of the opposition.

And now–out I go to be with some friends. And I think I’ll “let” them vote however they please.

Friends: who needs em?

The New Neo Posted on by

Recently Dr. Helen, another psychoblogger, wrote this interesting essay exploring the topic of modern-day friendship.

It’s funny; we talk and think (and sing!) a lot about love–how to get it, how to keep it, what goes wrong with it, what it means to us–but not so much about friendship.

It’s a topic I’ve thought a lot about, though, perhaps because I’ve moved quite a bit in my life and most of my old friends live far away, and I’ve had to make new ones in new communities several times over. I’m one of those people to whom friends mean a great deal. Dr. Helen mentions that perhaps extroverts are more likely to be interested in friendship:

People affect people differently–if you are energized by people and feel pleasure in being with others (a typical extrovert), then friendships can be positive, but if you tend towards introversion, then people can sometimes exhaust you and make you feel blue instead of energized—perhaps more boundaries are needed to maintain your emotional health. However, even an introvert may need other people—even one person who you can talk with and share some of yourself in ways that feel safe.

I don’t think I’m a “typical” anything; I’m definitely some strange chimera, either an extroverted introvert or an introverted extrovert. That is, I’m very contemplative and have a need for solitude, but I also love being around people and talking to them. I don’t spill my guts easily, but I have a stable of friends to whom I can confide in a pinch or a crisis; perhaps six or seven of them (friends, not crises!), carefully gleaned and cultivated over time. And I try to follow the old adage, “To have a friend you must be one.” I’m a good listener, as well, and I think my friends know that.

Perhaps that’s why it was so painful for me to come out politically and have so much friction with people, and even to lose a couple of friends (including one long-term one) over that. But, for the most part, my friendships have weathered the storm, although not without some work.

Long ago, I used to think my need for friends, and the number of them that I had, was typical of most people (perhaps that’s a subset of the common misperception that whatever we happen to feel or want is what everyone feels or wants). But as I got older I realized that wasn’t so. One thing I learned as a general rule—although, of course, as with most rules, exceptions abound—is that women tend to have more friends than men. Or, at least, they tend to do different things with them; rather than be activity-oriented (golf, baseball, hunting), women’s friendships tend to be talk-oriented (problems, relationships, feelings).

I have some friends I’ve known since I was a little girl, and some I’ve kept since college. Some of the former might be people with whom, if I met them today, I wouldn’t be especially friendly. But the long history we share is worth a lot, and gives us a commonality that almost feels as though we’re relatives at this point.

The college friends are still some of the best I have; I think there are certain times in life that are especially ripe for forming fast and firm friendships, and that’s one of them. Another, especially for young mothers, is the period when they’re at home with the babies or the toddlers, and about to lose their minds if they don’t have some adult companionship; I’ve got quite a few friends from that period of life, as well.

The commonality is that these are times or transition and stress, and the bonds forged among those who share the experience can be very strong indeed. Even if they move away—and many of them have; as, in fact, have I—we talk on the phone, and when we meet, often the years fall away and we experience that wondrous cliché , “it’s as though we last saw each other just yesterday.”

I’ve lost some friends, too, and not just to politics: to death. That happens more and more as one grows older. Mercifully, it’s been few so far, but I know as time passes the numbers will inevitably increase. And two of my very best friends have had extremely life-threatening cancers, a very sobering and disturbing momento mori.

When I look back, I think some of my expectations about friendship were formed by my parents—no surprise, I suppose. They were both born, grew up, and lived their entire lives in a single tight-knit community (well, for my mother, not quite her whole life, since she moved from New York to New England in 2002 to be near me—but by that time, she was eighty-eight.)

Their community was an exceptionally social one, social in a way few are today. Not only did my parents grow up there, but almost everyone they knew did, as well—and they knew hundreds, if not thousands, of people. As a child, when I would walk down the street, complete strangers constantly recognized me from my powerful resemblance to my father and would come up to talk to me (another thing that wouldn’t happen today!), saying that they knew him and could tell I was his daughter. As a teenager, I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans when I went out into the community, because it would reflect badly on the family (and remember, my parents were liberals–oh, how the times they have a-changed!)

My parents, and all their friends, used to party. Not as in “get blasted,” but as in “have a lot of fun.” It was not unusual for them to get together with friends four or five times a week—card games, volunteer work, cake and coffee, and full-fledged parties. They often vacationed with from four to eight couples as a group. They took ballroom dancing lessons in their basements.

And they talked—oh, how they talked! As a child one of my strongest memories is of evenings spent up in my bedroom, trying to do my homework, while the siren song of loud and animated conversation wafted invitingly towards me.

Often, I would give in and go down there, to where the adults sat around the large dining room table, eating pastry, drinking coffee, and talking. Arguing, too, at times. Over local things and larger things, including politics and the world. Nor did they shun the opinions of a child; I was welcome at the table, and I was allowed speak up. My parents didn’t monitor my homework–perhaps because they knew I was conscientious enough and driven enough so that they didn’t have to–and so I was allowed to make my own judgments about how much time I would spend partaking of the conversation.

I always thought when I grew up I’d have friends like that. Alas, I don’t—that is, I don’t have a large group of friends who all know each other and get together regularly. They’re scattered, as my life has been scattered, as well; with different eras and varied venues, as well as different groups of friends and individual friends.

I’ve come to consider that what my parents had then was at least somewhat exceptional, even for the time, although it used to be far more common than now. Such a phenomenon seems very rare nowadays, especially in urban areas.

But I value it. And sometimes I think it set the tone for my attraction to blogging, which is a sort of virtual recreation of my parents’ coffee hours. And here I am, still speaking up.

So here, friends, have some coffee cake on me:

Told you so: the New York Times reliving its glory days

The New Neo Posted on by

About ten days ago I wrote this post, in which I speculated about the motivation of the NY Times in publishing its recent national security revelations. My answer to the question of what the Times editors were really trying to do by their actions was that they were hoping to relive the paper’s own “top of the world, Ma!” days, the heady era of their victory in the Pentagon Papers lawsuit of 1971, when the Supreme Court ruled in their favor.

And now I’m only more certain that I may have been onto something. Why? This piece by LA Times editor Baquet and NY Times editor Keller, appearing in the July 1 NY Times, appears to say as much. They refer to the Pentagon Papers case prominently and early in the article, a clear indication to me that the case represents some sort of inspiration for them.

The piece reads as though we are meant to feel sorry for the editors and the terrible anxiety they experienced when making what they refer to as “excruciating choices” in whether or not to cover these stories. Poor dears; sounds dreadful.

Their article is entitled “When Do We Publish a Secret?” and their answer (which could be paraphrased as “whenever we feel like it”), is expressed this way:

There is no magic formula, no neat metric for either the public’s interest or the dangers of publishing sensitive information. We make our best judgment…It is not a responsibility we take lightly. And it is not one we can surrender to the government.

Isn’t that reassuring? It’s awfully good to know that the unelected editors of the MSM are the final arbiters of which secrets to publish, and when, and that they don’t even seem to have guidelines about it, or feel the need to respect the wishes of the experts in national security who advise them on the matter. After all, that’s “the government,” and we all know better than to trust them right? They never have our best interests at heart and, after all, what do they know? Far better to trust Baquet and Keller, our national security gatekeepers.

The Pied Pipers of Palestine

The New Neo Posted on by

Children are being actively recruited by the Palestinians into the cult of martyrdom, which encompasses both the extreme of suicide bombing and other, “milder” activities such as acting as shields for adult fighters.

These children do not get the idea to do this all on their own. Martyrdom is not a natural youthful aspiration, but the plasticity and vulnerability of the very young can be exploited to mold many of them in just that direction, much in the way advertising works to form habits.

There is a concerted effort in many parts of the Arab world–and, most particularly, among the Palestinians–to glorify martyrdom in such a way that it specifically appeals to children. There’s nothing subtle or hidden about this campaign, which uses modern media tools in a most effective manner. It’s another example of the pernicious power of the wedding of new technology with a medieval mindset.

Here, for example, is the transcript of a recent children’s program (June 15, 2006) aired on Egyptian TV. The text is about as far from “Sesame Street” or “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” as it can be:

…when a child is brought up in a good home, and receives proper education in faith, he loves martyrdom, which becomes like an instinct for him. He can never give it up.

Augean Stables has a discussion of the phenomenon among the Palestinians, and notices a recent uptick in frequency. An article from the Jerusalem Post is quoted (which I will quote at some length because I think it’s necessary to get the full flavor of the message, and its enormous and powerful appeal to children):

As Israel enters the northern Gaza Strip, there are signs that the Palestinian Authority plans to renew the tactic of sending children to the front lines as human shields to obstruct the IDF.

PA TV is again broadcasting music videos designed to brainwash young children into seeking death as shahids – martyrs for Allah. Shahada-promoting music videos were first broadcast thousands of times on Palestinian TV from 2000 through 2004.

One of the most sinister of these clips was broadcast twice last week, according to our research after a three-year absence. The clip features a child actor playing the most famous Palestinian child martyr, Muhammad al-Dura – whose death in a crossfire was broadcast to the entire world – calling to other Palestinian children to literally follow him to Child Martyrs’ Heaven.

“I am waving not to part but to say, ”˜Follow me,’” is Dura’s invitation on the TV screen.

The children watching this video are then shown what awaits them if they join Dura in death. The video follows the child actor – “Dura” – joyously frolicking in heaven. He romps on the beach, plays with a kite and runs toward a Ferris wheel.

The children are being told that death in conflict with Israel will bring them into a child’s paradise. Muhammad al-Dura is already in this paradise, tranquil and fun-filled.

This call to children to seek death, coming from the child who has turned into a Palestinian hero, and broadcast to their children by PA TV, is one of the most odious examples of exploitation of children witnessed on PA TV.

THE WORDS sung by the popular singer Aida are as insidious as the pictures. The earth is described as yearning for the children’s death – “its thirst quenched by the gush of blood flowing from the youthful body.”

I would hope that even the strongest proponents of the Palestinian cause would recognize the vileness and moral bankruptcy of this particular campaign. My guess, though, is that some of them will not, and will instead find ways to excuse it and/or blame it on Israel.

(And, by the way, the evidence is nearly overwhelming that al-Durah, the child martyr exploited in these abominable ads, was either killed by Palestinian forces, or that the entire al-Durah incident was faked. Although that’s important, it’s also irrelevant to the subject at hand, which is undoubtedly true: the purposeful recruitment of children into active participation in the cause.)

Movements have often tried to indoctrinate children, and even sometimes used them as traps. In recent memory, this was done during the Vietnam War by the Vietcong, to great effect. Recruiting children is not only a tool for using scarce resources, but a sort of moral jujitsu; a way to turn the “softness” of the opposition–i.e., soldiers’ reluctance to cold-bloodedly kill children–into a way to cause them to feel remorse when they are tricked into doing so against their will (or, if that fails, into appearing as though they’ve killed children, as with al-Durah).

Here’s a description of the way it worked for the Vietcong:

A member of the Viet Cong would later confirm that: “Children were trained to throw grenades, not only for the terror factor, but so the government or American soldiers would have to shoot them. Then the Americans feel very ashamed. And they blame themselves and call their soldiers war criminals.” It was not rare for small children to wave an American patrol into a booby trap or minefield. Additionally, the Viet Cong would use women and children as lethal ploys or ruses to lead Americans into deadly ambushes.

I haven’t been able to discover how these children were recruited. But I doubt it was the same sort of slick media blitz that’s occurring with the Palestinians. One has to reach far back into medieval times to something like the Children’s Crusade to find a campaign approaching this one, and even then the comparison is not really apt. The children there were merely responding to the general call for rescuing the Holy Lands, not one specifically aimed at and targeting children. And in fact, the Children’s Crusade was actually a sort of grass-roots mass movement led by children themselves, all apparently under twelve.

At any rate, that was in the year 1212. Most assuredly, television was not involved, nor did the Children’s Crusade have the blessing of the Catholic Church. But current-day calls in the Arab world to children to become martyrs to the cause are on government-run and sanctioned media, purposely orchestrated and planned by adults (the adult in the Egyptian excerpt linked above is identified as “a preacher at the Egyptian ministry of religious endowment,” for example).

As I was reading all of this, some sort of memory, some association, began stirring within me. Something from literature? Folklore? Poetry? History? Then it came to me, and it turned out the answer is “all of the above:” the story of “The Pied Piper.”

As a child, I’d heard the tale, as did most of us. I also owned a comic book based on the famous Browning poem on the subject, and it became one of my favorites. I read it over and over, charmed by the rhymes, but frightened by the disturbing, ambiguous, and powerful ending. Folktales and fairy tales are often dark, but this seemed one of the very darkest of all. There was no redemption at the conclusion, just children disappeared into the side of a mountain, and devastated and bereft adults left to grieve.

Do you remember the story of the Piper (and see this for speculation about the historical incident of 1284–including, among other things, whether a children’s crusade might have been involved–that inspired it)?

It goes like this: leaders of the medieval town of Hamelin, plagued by rats, hire a magical piper to rid the city of the pests. But when he succeeds in seductively using his music to lead the vermin into the sea, where they drown, the people of Hamelin renege on their deal and fail to “pay the piper.” In anger, he takes revenge on the townfolk, and what a revenge it is! The Piper plays his pipe again–a different tune–and this time lures the all the children in the town to a door in the side of a mountain that mysteriously opens up and closes behind them. They are never heard from again. Only a few handicapped children survive to tell the tale; in my comic book version it was a lame boy on crutches who couldn’t catch up with the others.

One of the ambiguities of the story is what actually happens to the children. It’s clear that the Piper’s music is a sweet song, promising wonderful and glorious experiences if the children follow him. The fact that this is a lie, and that they are following him to death, is implied but never unequivocally stated, and as a susceptible child myself I puzzled over the conundrum and the mystery. Would I, too, have followed? Was the little lame boy blessed or cursed in not having gone with the others?

As an adult, I think the answer is clear that the Piper was up to no good. But as a child, I wasn’t quite sure, and I was well aware of the seductive power of the Piper’s promise.

Many parts of Browning’s poem are funny, particularly the earlier passages, and the rhyme scheme is inherently light. But this part chilled me then, and it chills me still–his description of the way the beautiful music called the children, and what it spoke to them:

…Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter….

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,–

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

The similarities, I think, are clear, even in the prominent use of music in present-day Palestinian child recruitment videos. And I think it’s no coincidence that, in the one featuring the child actor playing al-Durah, he is shown saying, Pied Piper-like “Follow me.”

How to stop the Pied Pipers of Palestine? The first step is to recognize, publicize, and condemn what they are doing. This is my small part in that effort.

More on the knotty question of assimilation

The New Neo Posted on by

Yesterday I offered some thoughts on immigration and assimilation.

I always try my best to make myself clear. But as is often the case, some commenters seemed to think I was saying something I was not (see the comments section of yesterday’s post if you don’t know what I’m referring to). But I’ve become resigned to this, because–as Gerard Van der Leun of American Digest quotes Karl Popper as saying, “It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood.”

Indeed. And it’s especially true if people are determined to set up strawman arguments in order to make a certain point they want to make, whatever I may be saying. But here’s my attempt at clarification of the admittedly complex issue of assimilation, nonetheless.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I celebrate cultural diversity. You can see that if you actually read my previous post carefully. Ethnic food? Love it. I not only have no desire to take away the cous cous and the kim chee and the baba ganoush and the chow fun and the coriander and the curry, I revel in them.

So, celebrate your holidays and dress up in national costume at times, more power to you. Continue to speak your ancestral tongue; I wish I knew more of mine. But don’t let that stop you from integrating the values and customs of your new country, the US, into your lives in a deep and meaningful way. As a key path to that goal: learn English, and learn it as quickly and as well as possible.

As commenter J.H. Bowden wrote here, “Becoming an American isn’t embracing a culture, but embracing a set of ideas.” That might be one of the more singular aspects of this country as opposed to more homogeneous nations. A Frenchman is a Frenchman by virtue of birth and ancestry, but that’s much less true of Americans, who are meant to be united by the ideas expressed in the Constitution, which are in turn based on the principles of the Enlightenment.

The French themselves have been experiencing the problems inherent in assimilation–or, rather, the difficulties associated with its lack, or its partial application–in their country. The vast numbers of Moslem immigrants to France are mostly from North Africa, and they have remained for the most part in poverty-stricken enclaves, encouraged in many ways to keep key elements of their own culture that clash with those of the French. Some of this French discord and confusion has been played out in the furor about French laws banning the wearing of religious symbols and garb in the schools, for example, customs which are seen as violating the separation of church and state in a nation wary of church influence on the educational system.

The question about assimilation is where to draw the line, and how? What are the consequences of a failure to adopt and adapt to the mores of the prevailing culture–especially if one has customs that run counter to principles of that culture?

We have a tradition of respecting the rights of minorities–that’s part of the reason so many immigrants want to come to this country, and do. There are even groups who have been here quite a long time who have continued to isolate themselves from the mainstream in many aspects of culture and dress–the Amish are a good example of this, as well as the Mennonites (see this for a discussion of their beliefs and origins).

So, have these groups “assimilated?” Not exactly. But the ways in which they are in accord with the basic belief system of this country are more important than surface differences in dress or the use of the automobile. They are peaceful and respectful of the rights of others. They may speak another language at home, but they are all fluent in English and use it with outsiders. They are dedicated to religious tolerance, both for themselves and for others–that’s why they originally came here, in fact.

However, it’s interesting that there are restrictive aspects of Amish life that would appear to violate some of our beliefs, such as, for example, the fact that education for Amish children only goes up to the eighth grade. I suppose that this might be more controversial if it were more widely known, or if the Amish themselves were seen as a threat to anyone, rather than a quaint and harmless group.

In researching the Amish for this post, I ran across the following fascinating tidbit:

Some Amish groups practice a tradition called rumspringa (“running around”). Teens aged 16 and older are allowed some freedom in behavior. It is a interval of a few years while they remain living at home, yet are somewhat released from the intense supervision of their parents. Since they have not yet been baptized, they have not committed to follow the extremely strict behavioral restrictions and community rules imposed by the religion. They may date, go out with their friends, visit the outside world, go to parties, drink alcoholic beverages, wear jeans, etc. The intent of rumspringa is to make certain that youth are giving their informed consent if they decide to be baptized. About 80% to 90% decide to remain Amish.

This indicates to me that, despite the restrictions of Amish life, and their differences from the mainstream, they retain a surprising amount of dedication to freedom of choice and belief which is in line with principles for which this country stands.

The major problem with lack of assimilation lies when there’s a clash with such principles, and yet a concomitant demand for protection for such a belief system. This yields the contradiction involved in tolerating the intolerant.

Tolerating the intolerant; it’s a conundrum I’ve written about before:

Tolerance applied without any distinction can become a trap. That way lies madness–not to mention the seeds of the destruction of tolerant societies themselves.

For the Fourth: on liberty

The New Neo Posted on by

[This is a repeat of an old post.]

I’ve been visiting New York City, the place where I grew up. I decide to take a walk to the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights, never having been there before.

When you approach the Promenade you can’t really see what’s in store. You walk down a normal-looking street, spot a bit of blue at the end of the block, make a right turn–and, then, suddenly, there is New York.

And so it is for me. I take a turn, and catch my breath: downtown Manhattan rises to my left, seemingly close enough to touch, across the narrow East River. I see skyscrapers, piers, the orange-gold Staten Island ferry. In front of me, there are the graceful gothic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge. To my right, the back of some brownstones, and a well-tended and charming garden that goes on for a third of a mile.

I walk down the promenade looking first left and then right, not knowing which vista I prefer, but liking them both, especially in combination, because they complement each other so well.

All around me are people, relaxing. Lovers walking hand in hand, mothers pushing babies in strollers, fathers pushing babies in strollers, nannies pushing babies in strollers. People walking their dogs (a preponderance of pugs, for some reason), pigeons strutting and courting, tourists taking photos of themselves with the skyline as background, every other person speaking a foreign language.

The garden is more advanced from what it must be at my house, reminding me that New York is really a southern city compared to New England. Daffodils, the startling blue of grape hyacinths, tulips in a rainbow of soft colors, those light-purple azaleas that are always the first of their kind, flowering pink magnolia and airy white dogwood and other blooming trees I don’t know the names of.

In the view to my left, of course, there’s something missing. Something very large. Two things, actually: the World Trade Center towers. Just the day before, we had driven past that sprawling wound, with its mostly-unfilled acreage where the WTC had once stood, now surrounded by fencing. Driving by it is like passing a war memorial and graveyard combined; the urge is to bow one’s head.

As I look at the skyline from the Promenade, I know that those towers are missing, but I don’t really register the loss visually. I left New York in 1965, never to live there again, returning thereafter only as occasional visitor. The World Trade Center was built in the early seventies, so I never managed to incorporate it into that personal New York skyline of memory that I hold in my mind’s eye, even though I saw the towers on every visit. So, what I now see resembles nothing more than the skyline of my youth, restored, a fact which seems paradoxical to me. But I feel the loss, even though I don’t see it. Viewing the skyline always has a tinge of sadness now, which it never had before 9/11.

I come to the end of the walkway and turn myself around to set off on the return trip. And, suddenly, the view changes. Now, of course, the garden is to my left and the city to my right; and the Brooklyn Bridge, which was ahead of me, is now behind me and out of sight. But now I can see for the first time, ahead of me and to the right, something that was behind me before. In the middle of the harbor, the pale-green Statue of Liberty stands firmly on its concrete foundation, arm raised high, torch in hand.

The sight is intensely familiar to me–I used to see it almost every day when I was growing up. But I’ve never seen it from this angle before. She seems both small and gigantic at the same time: dwarfed by the skyscrapers near me that threaten to overwhelm her, but towering over the water that surrounds her on all sides. The eye is drawn to her distant, heroic figure. She’s been holding that torch up for so long, she must be tired. But still she stands, resolute, her arm extended.

For the Fourth: the Great Escape

The New Neo Posted on by

[This is a repeat of an old post.]

I was thinking about memorable Fourth of Julys (Fourths of July?), and the first thing that came to mind was this:


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Fans of the movie “The Great Escape” (and I must confess that I am one, big-time) will recognize this photo as the Fourth of July celebration scene, featuring the incomparable Steve McQueen on the left, playing the flute; James Garner on the right with the drum; and I-don’t-know-who in the middle (help, anyone?). I consider it astounding that I could locate a still of the scene–isn’t the Internet great?

Anyone who hasn’t already seen the classic 1963 action movie should rent it and settle in with some popcorn for the long haul. I was a teenage girl in 1963 when I saw it on the widescreen, a stirring combination of male pulchritude (not a female in the cast, and what a cast!), suspense, wit, ingenuity, and tragedy. It’s long, but not overlong, and the score is memorable, too.

Amazingly enough, although the film merges a number of actual people into single characters, and takes a few liberties with time (and invents the fabulous motorcycle chase in which McQueen gets to strut his stuff), it is historically accurate in the extreme, especially for a Hollywood flick. Oliver Stone, it ain’t–fortunately. The makers of the film were dedicated to making it as true to actual events as possible. The screenwriter had been a prisoner of war in a Japanese camp, and a former prisoner and expert tunneler from the actual prison camp depicted in the movie worked as an advisor to the director. Follow the link to read just how much of the film was actually true to life.

Donald Pleasence, who played the going-blind forger Blyth, had been a prisoner of war in a German camp. Hannes Messemer, the German actor who managed to bring an extraordinary humanity to the role of the Kommandant of the camp (a person who in real life was apparently well-liked and respected by the prisoners), had been a prisoner of war in a Russian camp, as had several of the other German actors in the film (these facts are to be found here).

“The Great Escape” was one of the first films I ever saw that defied my expectations. There was so much humor in it, so many likeable characters, and so much Hollywood-type action that I assumed it would have a Hollywood-type ending, too, in which all turned out well. It doesn’t.

But the Fourth of July scene is delightful. Watch McQueen and Garner and that other nameless guy, the only three Americans in the camp, drink the booze they’ve distilled, react appropriately, and then celebrate (with a bunch of mostly Brits) that long-ago American victory over the Brits. Apparently, all is forgiven, but not forgotten.

Fourth of July weekend: assimilation at the park

The New Neo Posted on by

I’ve written before (here and here) about the park near my house, where I so often walk.

Fourth of July weekend is a big holiday there, especially when the weather is lovely, as it has been this year (and, after all the rain we’ve had lately, it seems almost miraculous). Not only is it a beautiful vista–ocean and rocks and lighthouses and waves and boats and islands–but there are picnic tables and spots to barbecue, and the park is big enough that it never really seems very crowded, even on holidays.

Saturday I was walking there, and when I got to the picnic area I saw that there were at least seventy people there, an unusual but not-unheard-of number. I couldn’t tell whether they were all part of one big group or whether they represented a series of unrelated groups. But almost every picnic table was in use, and there were fires going in the grills and the luscious smell of cooking wafted across my path as I fast-walked by, making me want to stop, sit down, and beg for a bite.

I noticed that all the people there seemed to be foreign, but not all from the same country or even area of the world. There were vaguely Mideastern-looking people, a well as some who seemed to be from Eastern Europe; others undoubtedly hailing from Africa, as well as Asians of different persuasions. I could hear language after language, none of them recognizable to me, and the smells of the grilling meat contained spices and herbs that seemed especially exotic and alluring.

And children–lots and lots of children. There were bikes and frisbees, laughter and shouting, smiling parents watching fondly, older teenagers looking standoffish and cool. As I passed the younger people, I noticed they were all speaking unaccented English, and even their body language was different than that conveyed by their parents–less constrained. You might say they seemed more free. Of course, part of that is the difference between children and adults. But part of it seemed to be something more.

Who were these people, and why were they all here at the same time? Was it a coincidence, or had they been bused in together, members of some society for immigrants? I have no idea, but it struck me that the group was an especially appropriate one for Fourth of July weekend.

We’re a nation of immigrants, as it’s often said. Lately, immigration has become far more controversial, but we forget that it’s often been so. Each new wave encountered some antagonism, especially beginning in the latter part of the nineteenth century, when the country was getting more crowded and there was increasing arrivals from countries that seemed especially “foreign” to the predominantly Western Europeans who were the earlier settlers.

In those days, immigrants faced the dilemma of assimilation, as they do today. But back then most people who came to this country were eager to assimilate–or at least they thought they were. The process might have been difficult, and they didn’t like all the changes that occurred when their children dropped the old ways and became Americans, but it’s my impression that there was a certain widespread acceptance that this was almost inevitable.

The parents didn’t always manage to learn English all that well–in most families, we know of tales of children translating for parents who never really did make the full transition. And the older generation had to deal–sometimes with great difficulty–with the intermarriage of the children, and their dropping of the old ways.

I remember an incident I observed many years ago. I was sitting in an Indian restaurant, waiting for my food, and noticed a family group nearby. The parents were clearly from India–I could tell by their accents–but the two children seemed to have been born in this country. There was a girl of about six and a boy of about eight. The boy was wearing his baseball mitt on one hand and throwing a ball into it with a little repetitive thwack! with the other while he waited for his food.

When the dinner finally came, he started whining. “I don’t like this stuff!” he said, although I must say the restaurant was fabulous and the food especially delicious. “I want a hamburger!”–the refrain of the American-born child of immigrant parents.

And this age-old process of acculturation and assimilation continues apace. I could see it in the park the other day. But it seems to me that, for many immigrants lately, it’s been arrested and stunted by programs intending to respect cultural diversity that discourage the transition to a new language by making it too easy to cling to the old.

There’s another relatively new factor, as well. Although I’m not aware of any statistics on the matter, it appears that more of today’s immigrants (and/or illegal aliens, who are growing in number) consider their move to this country to be either temporary or conditional or both. The goal is not necessarily assimilation at all, but sometimes the establishment of a sort of “separate but equal” enclave in which the cultural mores (and even traditional dress) are retained intact at the same time the economic benefits of being in this country are reaped.

You might say that was always the case–new immigrants would cluster in certain neighborhoods when they first arrived, and stick to their own. But it’s my impression, at least, that it used to be considered more of a practical and temporary situation, and not the ultimate goal of the immigrant experience.

If I were to have taken a poll of that group on the grass and under the tall shade trees at the park the other day, I wonder what I would have found. How many of the adults were in basic acceptance that their children would become part of American culture? How many were hoping–and taking strong steps to ensure–that their children would resist? How many of the adults were determined to learn English? How many were legal, how many illegal; how many expected a temporary stay, how many a permanent one? How many were happy to be here, how many not?

I don’t know the answers. What I do know is that they looked happy–but of course, it was a lovely day, and a vacation time at that–and the children were all speaking unaccented English. And I know that the vista, to me at least, was a pleasant one, and part of what I consider to be the age-old American dream, on this Fourth of July weekend.

Making a mockery: terrorism in Iraq

The New Neo Posted on by

Today there was a car bomb attack in Iraq characterized as the largest terrorist act there since May, when the new government took office. Over sixty people were killed in the blast, which occurred in a street market located in the troublesome and poverty-stricken Shiite area of Baghdad known as Sadr City.

This is just business as usual for the terrorist “insurgents” of Iraq. And no one should be the least bit surprised, for it’s been said time and again that these attacks will continue for a very long time.

What struck me–other than the tragic human cost of the ongoing struggle to set up a relatively democratic government in Iraq–is the fact that attacks of this magnitude used to be much more common. That seems to represent progress, although I have no illusions that the situation couldn’t reverse itself. The truth is that car bombs are relatively easy to set and difficult to intercept. The fledgling government and security forces in Iraq are up against a group that is not going to go gentle into that good night; and so we can expect more of this. I say “we” but, of course, it’s the Iraqi people who suffer.

Terrorists themselves know that the odds are in their favor as far as successfully mounting an attack: those who defend against terrorism have to be lucky (and smart) all the time, and terrorists only have to get lucky once, or occasionally. That’s one of the appeals of terrorism, and one of the reasons it’s called asymmetrical warfare. And it doesn’t take a giant brain to figure that out.

Those who would fight against terrorists have to–they must–keep this in mind. But when I read the linked Reuters article that began this post, I wondered about what the journalists at Reuters are keeping in mind when I saw the following sentence [my emphasis], “No one claimed responsibility for the attack but it had the stamp of al Qaeda and made a mockery of a three week-old security clampdown in Baghdad.”

The increase in the sort of editorializing represented by the phrase “made a mockery,” occurring in a straight news article, is one of the reasons many of us criticize the MSM, including Reuters. And it’s not just that the statement seems out of place; it seems unintelligent and simplistic, at best. A security clampdown in the sort of atmosphere that is present-day Baghdad is, by definition, not going to be perfect, and anyone who expects it to be is naive and unrealistic.

Yes, it would be wonderful if no bombs were ever to kill innocents in Iraq again. But to call this particular attack a “mockery” of security efforts is precisely the sort of thing the terrorists are aiming at, and represents an almost hysterical overreaction that, unfortunately, makes a mockery of coalition and Iraqi efforts to reverse the situation–efforts that have been showing some slow, difficult progress lately.

Blog talk

The New Neo Posted on by

Last night I went to a meeting of the Boston bloggers.

It’s really the New England bloggers, since not all of us live in Boston (I don’t, for example). We’ve gotten together a couple of times before and it’s always been fun. Because, you know what? We bloggers are fun people. Strange perhaps, but fun.

I’ve written before on the topic of meeting bloggers. The New England group shares the general blogger characteristic of being a bunch of talkers. Two things in particular seem to be the most salient characteristics of bloggers: ideaphoria, and an especially energetic way of expressing themselves.

Some, no doubt, would call us a bunch of blowhards. But I say no; we are intense and thoughtful, as well as articulate.

For many of us, I suspect, we’ve been this way our entire lives, and never found a really good outlet for the type of thinking we do and the personalities we seem to have. For many of us, I suspect as well that the minute we discovered blogs we realized that it was a good match. And so that’s why, when bloggers get together, there’s often a certain “here I am, with my peeps at last” feeling wafting through the air; a real zest and zing.

I’ve been a writer of sorts for many years, and I’ve participated in writing groups for about fifteen of those years. I remember a similar feeling when I first joined one: here were people who, if not of exactly like mind, were somehow of a slant of mind that was akin to mine.

This doesn’t always happen in life; for instance, I only sometimes feel it among fellow therapists. But when the feeling does come, it often means you’re in the right place, doing what you were meant to do, with people who understand and share that feeling.

Is blogging a calling? That’s way too pretentious a way to look at it. But sometimes I feel that, for most bloggers, we didn’t choose blogging so much as blogging chose us. And, for most of us, it’s a labor of love, requiring us to do work without a great deal of remuneration–except, of course, for the wonderful rewards of saying one’s piece and even being heard and responded to in thoughtful and meaningful ways.

My guess is that many of the commenters here may share some of the same traits as bloggers: lots of ideas and the need to express them. And now, with blogs, we don’t have to bore our friends and relatives silly–we can entertain each other.

[Whoops–forgot the links. Present and accounted for were: Sissy Willis of sisu, Richard Landes of Second Draft, Sol of Solomnia, Teresa of Technicalities, Harry of Squaring the Globe, Marybeth of Miss Kelly, New England Republican of blog of same name, and special guest Jeff Jacoby of the Boston Globe. Regretfully absent but ordinarily a regular: Daniel in Brookline.]