Polite protest letters don’t get no respect

The New Neo Posted on by

A year or two ago, I went through a phase of energetic protest letter writing. I sent outraged (but always polite) missives to the NY Times, the New Yorker, and CNN, pointing out to them just where they might be going wrong. But I never heard back; not a word. Which, in retrospect, is not really much of a surprise.

One letter with which I took particular pains was a lengthy tome to Amnesty International, outlining in some detail why I, a twenty-one-year dues-paying member in good standing who still supported the work they did to help bona fide political prisoners, could no longer stomach the organization’s misplaced emphasis and was resigning (it was the focus on campaigns such as this that did the trick).

What did I get from them in return? A form letter, thanking me for my continued support, and asking for another donation.

I sent off another letter, more detailed and more furious than the first, angry at the added injury of having had my first letter ignored. And what did I receive in reply? Another request for money, and a free Amnesty International Calendar. Just the thing.

In praise of memorizing poetry

The New Neo Posted on by

I think it may be a lost pedagogical device, but when I was in grade school, we were forced by our teachers (mostly elderly women, as it happens) to memorize poetry. Lots of poetry. Most of it doggeral, but not all of it, not by any means.

There was an old-fashioned quality to their choices: patriotic and seasonal verse, concerning Presidents and holidays (“If Nancy Hanks came back as a ghost, seeking news of what she loved most”; “There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood”).

I was a good poetry memorizer. I’m not trying to brag here, since I don’t think this ability implies any particular merit on my part. But no sooner had I written the thing down, copied from the blackboard on which the teacher had slowly and laboriously written it in her beautiful handwriting, then it was firmly ensconced in my head.

And there much of it stays. To this day, actually. Fortunately, along with the Edgar Guest and the others (“It takes a heap o’ livin’, in a house t’ make it home”) we were assigned some very fine poetry, mostly in junior high. Shakespearean sonnets and Wordsworth and Milton, some Robert Frost and Shakespeare, the Gettysburg Address (not poetry, but it might as well have been).

Much of this I simply memorized by rote. I understood the basic meaning, but it had no real significance to me, no depth. I had no context for it.

But since it had been filed away, somewhere, I experienced a curious phenomenon later on. I found that in crises or emotional times, a line of poetry would suddenly come to me—a phrase I’d never paid much attention to before—and I’d have one of those “aha!” moments.

At one point I sustained a serious and chronic injury. My physical limitations were such that for long periods of time I could not work, nor even read or write in any sustained way. I took to visiting a park near where I lived and slowly walking around a track there. Nearby was a small wooded area, and it was wintertime and snow was on the ground. Looking at the trees, the following line suddenly came to my mind, unbidden, (“Whose woods these are I think I know…”) memorized so long ago, and hardly thought of since.

But the words were all there, waiting for me, and when I came to the lines, “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep” they hit me with the force of near-revelation. Frost seemed to be talking about wanting to give up, to surrender to something dark and restful (what? death?) in a time of great weariness such as I was experiencing. And then the next line came, too, offering hope and resolution, “But I have promises to keep…”

This sort of thing kept happening to me. Keeps happening to me, actually. In situation after situation, a line or passage of poetry will announce itself—something that I’d apparently held in my mind, in suspended animation as it were, without any true reflection or understanding—and suddenly, it would be freighted with deep and poignant meaning.

So I’m hereby declaring myself in favor of the practice of poetry memorization in schools. I know there are many many children—adults, too—who hate poetry. I don’t think that will change; I’m not imagining that poetry will gain a lot of converts from the mere act of children being required to memorize it. But for the rest, I think there’s great value to be had in carrying around a small library of poetry in one’s head, to draw upon in the hard times—or even the joyful times.

Right after 9/11, Yeats’ “The Second Coming” was the poem that kept swirling around in my brain. It doesn’t really offer any comfort; it’s a very bleak vision, after all. But for me, even the act of recalling the lines, somber and frightening as they are, had its own sort of solace, saying to me, “Others have had this fear, others have passed through terrible times of chaos,” and, paradoxically, lending words of great beauty to the description of that terrifying state:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…

A mind is a difficult thing to change: interlude

The New Neo Posted on by

Part 4 is percolating. But this isn’t it; not yet. I’m finding it slow going, perhaps because it deals with the Vietnam War. Astounding how that event casts such a long shadow even now–or perhaps especially now.

I think Part 4 will be out soon, soon. But, in the meantime…

I was thinking about whether there were any formative defining political events that occurred in the years between the 50s and the commitment of regular US troops (as opposed to Green Beret advisors) to Vietnam. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was Kennedy’s assassination. But I’m not going to deal with it in any depth because, although it was certainly a dramatic and heart-wrenching event, I don’t think it was an event that caused any sort of political change. The ramifications of Kennedy’s assassination had nothing to do with policy or changing parties or political beliefs. Most of us reacted on an intensely personal emotional level.

I think it must be difficult for anyone born afterward to understand the profound shock inherent in Kennedy’s assassination. Those of us who’d grown up in the 50s were well aware–perhaps hyper-aware–of the threat of atomic war (as I’ve discussed in Part 3), but I think I can speak for most of us when I say that something on the order of Kennedy’s death was almost literally unthinkable, right up till the day it happened.

I was fifteen years old at the time, and, like most others, I can vividly remember the exact moment I heard the news. The details are not interesting–I was a sophomore in high school, in school when I heard he was shot, then sent home early to have my mother tell me the news that he was dead–but the sense of fear and unreality and downright sorrow were profound. In fact, I cried almost unceasingly for four days, right up to and through the funeral, and I was hardly alone.

What was I weeping for? Many things, including Kennedy’s wife and children. But I think it was really lost innocence–my own–that I was weeping for. Despite the atomic fears of the 50s, and then the Cuban missile crisis, our sense was that all threats would come from outside. We had a sense of security within this country, a sense of internal personal safety from our own countrymen, that was as powerful as it turned out to be false. Kennedy’s death tore the veil away and exposed the ugly reality–violent death, hideous and bloody, could come unawares, even on a sunny untroubled day, even to the great, powerful, young, and beautiful, even without a missile to be seen in the sky.

Life magazine published stills of the Zapruder photos, but in those far more protective days they left out the most horrific ones, the frames in which Kennedy’s head seemed to explode. But we had seen Oswald murdered, live, on TV, and that was a further assault on our sense of security. It seemed that the world had opened itself up to chaos.

We had heard of assassinations before; after all, there was Lincoln. But that was fusty old history, not reality. But now the two intersected, and now–even though we would never have described it that way–now we, too, had entered history.

Where we remain, today.

[ADDENDUM: For Part IVA, go here.]

Kofi Annan: is his “press pass” getting a bit frayed?

The New Neo Posted on by

The Oil-for-Food UN scandal has been one of those long slow excruciatingly drawn-out stories that, somehow, hasn’t gotten anywhere near the coverage it should have. Over the last year, Claudia Rossett of the WSJ and Roger Simon in the blogosphere have been instrumental in not allowing the story to die.

But recently it’s been showing more signs of life, sort of like those little green shoots poking out of the snow in my garden. Now Roger writes that the NY Times’ response to the interim Volker report on Kofi Annan’s involvement is to claim that the report largely exonerated Mr. Annan of personal corruption in the awarding of a contract to a company that employed his son. But, as Roger points out, the report merely stated that no evidence has yet been found of such involvement. The report is by no means either definitive or final.

So, what about Kofi’s “press pass”? (see definition of the term here). It’s a bit frayed, but still intact, apparently. The mere fact that the Times has been forced to write about the scandal is a good sign, but the way it is writing about it still leaves a lot to be desired. The word “exonerated” is certainly not appropriate at this time; the Times is extremely premature in using it. But the Times knows exactly what it’s doing. Words are its business, after all, and it chooses them very very carefully.

Women and the tsunami

The New Neo Posted on by

The chilling news of another large earthquake in Indonesia, and more deaths there, has reawakened memories of the cataclysmic tsunami of late 2004. Fortunately, there was no tsunami this time, although I’m sure the people of Indonesia were terrified of a repeat.

Norm Geras recently linked to a BBC report discussing the fact that women were disproportionately represented among the victims of the December tsunami, in a ratio as high as 4 to 1 in some areas. Reading the report, I expected to see a reference to something I’d read about before (unfortunately, I have no recollection of where I read it): that women in third-world countries are less likely than men to know how to swim.

In addition, if one thinks about it, women–even strong women used to physical labor–tend on the average to have less upper body strength than men (please, folks, don’t Larry Summersize me here). Since many of the survivors used their arm strength to hold onto something stable to resist the incredibly powerful force of the water, this could also have been part of the reason so many women died as compared to men.

I did a search on all of this and haven’t come across much information specifically about the swimming issue, but I did find this extremely PC report with some other speculations as to why women died disproportionately. It makes quite sad and disturbing reading.

The idea is that women’s social conditioning may have been a good part of the reason. Here’s just one example:

As the first wave raged through the women’s’ huts, the force of the wave ripped off their clothes- disrobed them. It is culturally against the social mores for a woman to be allowed in public without clothes, so the women never ran! The women never left their huts, and in the next waves, they chose (?) or were conditioned to die in their houses paralyzed by fear and custom rather than be seen in their nakedness and live. Apparently, nakedness wasn’t an issue for the male population.

The entire thing bears reading. I haven’t a clue as to how reliable this information might be–but hey, it’s the Sisters of Mercy talking, so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.

Don’t cry for Mikalah, Argentina (or America)

The New Neo Posted on by

I know I’m a little slow on the uptake here, since she was voted off last week. But those troubled by the elimination of Mikalah from the American Idol lineup can be comforted by the fact that the perfect position for her has just opened up. She can play Fran Drescher’s long-lost love child–the role for which she was born, IMHO–on Ms. Drescher’s new series, conveniently beginning on April 8.

When one door closes, another opens.

Condescension and leaving the political fold

The New Neo Posted on by

In my “about me” description (see upper right), I mentioned that I’ve faced some ostracism within my circle of friends and colleagues for my political views. This was especially dramatic beginning with the buildup to the Iraqi war and ending with the 2004 Presidential election.

It hasn’t been pretty, and I’ve lost some of them, perhaps forever—sometimes merely by dint of saying something as mild as, “I disagree.” It’s not as though I insulted them—at least not knowingly or intentionally—but many have nevertheless acted as though they’d been insulted.

The situation would usually arise in the context of a party or a dinner or some other get-together among friends. I’d be at the table, chatting, joking, having a good time, and someone would bring up politics, the war, Bush—something. Then the vitriol would start, with the assumption that of course all of us agreed on these things: Bush was an asshole and a liar, the war a disaster and a crime, and so on and so on and so forth.

I’d be faced with the choice of speaking up or keeping silent. Sometimes I chose the latter, depending on the company, how long the conversation went on (passing remark vs. lengthy gabfest), and how strong I might be feeling that day.

Whenever I did decide to speak up, I tried to be quiet and respectful, and above all simple. I’d start by saying that I’d been a liberal Democrat my whole life (I’m one of you, not one of them, so don’t hate me, please!). I’d say I’d never voted for a Republican in my life (true). Then I’d say, in the mildest of voices, that nevertheless I happened to have come to agree with George Bush on quite a few aspects of his foreign policy.

First there was usually a stunned silence. At one party the person I was addressing asked me, “What did you say?” three times before she actually could process my answer and even understand the words I had said, much less react to them. Yes, every now and then people would be curious to hear what I had to say, and we would have a decent discussion. But far more often the anger would erupt, often instantaneously—and I mean rage, the like of which I had never before encountered with friends or acquaintances. A closed-mindedness, and a refusal to even listen to me. Most of these people had always seemed to respect my intelligence before, but now I was considered to be very very stupid—or evil. Gone over to the Dark Side.

Attacks. Name-calling: “imperialist,” “colonialist”—and, in one rather memorable case, “Dan Quayle lover,” although I certainly hadn’t breathed a word about any passion for him. Many of my friends were noticeably cooler to me after these exchanges, and a couple of old friends actually severed our relationship (permanently, so far).

There are a host of reasons this happened, I suppose. But at the time I didn’t see it coming, and it was extremely shocking and disturbing to me. But now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I think that I actually would have gotten a better response from them if I’d skipped the “I’ve always been a liberal Democrat” intro. Because there are few things more hated than an apostate, a turncoat, a traitor.

Someone who leaves the fold is much worse than someone who was never in it. There’s a special rage reserved for those who have rejected the ideas that others hold dear. I don’t think I ever said anything condescending to any of these people, but time and again they told me I was being condescending.

But when I thought about it, I realized that this perception of condescension was inevitable and unavoidable. After all, I was saying “I used to believe ‘A,’ but now I believe ‘B,'” and I was addressing people who continued to believe “A.” Under the circumstances, how could they fail to see me as condescending, whether I was really conveying that attitude or not?

Inherent in the idea of anyone changing his/her mind from one position to another is that the person must think the second position is superior to the first—else why the change? So, whether or not the changer intends to be condescending, the reader/listener hears condescension because in fact it is implicit in the situation. No way out of it, I’m afraid.

One more thought about the Schiavo case

The New Neo Posted on by

I’ve pretty much said all I want or need to say here, which is that the case is essentially a family dispute gone very, very bad.

But today I read a piece posted on the blog Horsefeathers that articulated a couple of points that seem not to have been said as yet by anyone (although that’s hard to believe, I guess, with all that’s been written on this one case).

The docs at Horsefeathers are atheists, so they’re not coming at this from a religious point of view. But they still come down on the side of preserving Terri’s life. Here is the quote I find particularly interesting:

We come down on the side of Mrs. Schiavo’s parents. They have, it seems to us, earned the right to assume the burdens of caring for their daughter. They can’t move on to find another daughter, as Mr. Schiavo can move on to find another wife.

I think this is one of the many reasons people find this case so troubling. The idea that a husband–especially one who, as in this case, has “moved on” and begun a new life quite a while ago–can take a child away from parents who cannot “move on” quite so easily, if at all, is, quite simply, heartbreaking.

The invasion of the body mikes

The New Neo Posted on by

Ann Althouse’s speculates here about the influence of the show “American Idol” on the current style of singing in Broadway musicals. I agree with Ann that “American Idol” really isn’t the culprit, but I have a different one in mind: the invasion of the body mike.

If I do say so myself, I’m somewhat of a minor expert on Broadway musicals of the 50s and 60s. My parents were big fans, and as a young child I was taken to every single one that was suitable for children–which turns out to have been just about all of them. We also went to all the City Center revivals of the classic musicals from the 40s. I loved the theater, and these shows were absolutely magical for me.

Later on, I stopped enjoying Broadway musicals so much, and for me there’s one glaring reason (a reason not mentioned in any of the articles Ms. Althouse cites): the aggressive amplification that’s been standard in all musicals on Broadway for decades.

I don’t know whether I have especially sensitive ears, or what it is, but I noticed the difference immediately, and I didn’t like it. One of the greatest things–if not the greatest thing–about the Broadway musical was the sense of being in the flesh-and-blood presence of real people singing to you, the audience, and that is shattered (for me, at least) by hearing amplified voices. They might as well phone it in, or CD it in.

Yes, the old-style performances included belters like Ethel Merman, who could be counted on to be heard, unamplified, in the furthest reaches of the balcony, and wasn’t exactly subtle. But she was the exception. The rest of them–and their names are not necessarily famous, except for Julie Andrews and a few others–were both subtle and refreshingly human. There was a person-to-person immediacy, a communicative intimacy, that simply doesn’t exist today.

And if this propels me into curmudgeon status, so be it. These present-day performers from something called Broadway Unplugged seem to agree with me, anyway. Here’s a representative quote, from singer Mark Kudisch, about the benefits of singing off-mike:

This evening’s going to be so fantastic because people will actually get to hear people’s voices, their real energy, their color without it being messed with by someone else’s technology. There’s nothing more frustrating than when you sing quiet, they turn you up; when you open up, they turn you down. It all sounds the same out there…I’m not barred down by a mike, and what hand the mike is in. We just do what we do. There’s a freedom involved. It’s you, it’s your energy, it’s your actual resonance that gets to the back of the house. And for an audience, it requires them to actually sit up and partake, to listen, to actively be a part of what’s going on. It allows every individual audience member to personally become a part of the evening.

In Lebanon, every day is Flag Day

The New Neo Posted on by

Amidst the exhilaration of the Lebanese demonstrations and the blogospheric hooha about the liberty babes, there has been one burning unanswered question that has tormented me: where did the protesters get all those flags, and how was it done so quickly?

The Lebanese flag has to be one of the most beautiful flags ever, with its red stripes and the green cedar in the center. It was hardly ever seen before the Hariri assassination–and then, afterwards, it suddenly seemed to be everywhere, a veritable cedar forest.

Had everyone been hiding one under the mattress, waiting for the signal to come? Was there a special mobile flag factory, seeding them around the country? Or were they imported for the occasion (although most assuredly not from Syria)?

Did anyone else wonder about this, or was I all alone in my obsession? I googled it, I asked my friends; no one seemed to know or care. So I resigned myself to the mystery.

But help came from an unexpected source, the NY Times. Imagine my delight when I came across this 3/22 article (unfortunately, according to NY Times policy you have to register to see it, and then after a week it gets archived and you have to pay to get it) entitled “Banner Days for the Lebanese (Ask the Flag Makers).”

It turns out that the entreprenurial spirit is alive and well and positively thriving in Beirut. Like Santa’s elves in the weeks before Christmas, like accountants leading up to April 15, there has been no rest for the weary flag makers of Beirut:

In a cramped two-room apartment here, a group of men and women toil day and night to produce a most improbable symbol to emerge from the country’s popular demonstrations: the Lebanese flag. Seven days a week, 22 hours a day, employees of the Bourj Hammoud flag factory cut and sew, working feverishly to meet the nearly insatiable demand for flags since the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri on Feb. 14. The workers sleep in shifts, a few hours at a time. On a good day, the factory’s seven employees turn out 5,000 Lebanese flags, but it is not enough….The Bourj Hammoud factory, which had been making Valentine’s Day T-shirts, switched to flags on the 15th and has not stopped since.

And yet, questions remain. We may never know the identity of the mysterious caller who phoned Mr. Gassan, a flag distributor, the day before the demonstration and ordered 40,000 of them. That’s a lot of flags, but Gassan estimates that three-quarters of a million have been sold since Hariri’s assassination. That’s an awful lot of flags. Even at the rate of 5,000 a day, it doesn’t add up, but who’s counting? They’re beautiful, they’re everywhere, and the flagmakers are very, very happy.

Long may they wave.

The Althouse challenge: explain inconsistent compassion

The New Neo Posted on by

Okay, I’ll bite.

Ann Althouse challenges the blogosphere to answer the question Ralph Nader posed on “Crossfire” the other day: why aren’t Republicans and Democrats consistently compassionate?

Three reasons:

(1) Because they are human beings, and human beings are not consistently anything–except, perhaps, inconsistent.

(2) Because they are politicians, and many of their decisions are strategic rather than moral, designed to get themselves elected and then re-elected.

(3) Because (when they’re not following rule #2 above) they believe that adherence to certain overarching principles will lead to a greater good for all, and therefore they are ready to sacrifice compassion towards certain individual cases at the altar of this common greater good.