Fool Me Twice

In the laundromat today, the back of a shirt worn by a fellow loading a washer caught my eye.  At the top, in large letters, I read “Stop…”

Couldn’t see the object of that most demanding verb, but I thought I knew.  Younger I would likely have confronted him, but futility appeals not to Older Me or to My preoccupied state of mind on laundry day, if not every day.

All I craved was to transfer my laundry from washer into a dryer so I could set up shop with Lenovo and a Costa Rican roast at the coffee shop next door.  Maybe I’d write about the idiocy of the “Stop the Steal” movement, especially now that a Supreme Court justice is flying its flags.  Or maybe I’d put it in my 2S2BW file–Too Stupid To Bother With.

In the coffee-shop, I went right to a recent blog awaiting its turn to appear on social media. My first film review in a couple of months with the headline, “Better Not to Dwell on It.” Couldn’t help but laugh out loud at how well that fit the laundromat scene I just described.  In fact, I paused for a moment thinking I might find another headline and save it–only to realize that, in so doing, I would be dwelling on it.

So, onto the feed it went just above another post as arresting to my eye as the word “Stop” in the laundromat.  Actually it was a re-post of a meme showing a smiling young woman, an Olympian, holding a medal she had won.  The text began with a newspaper headline:

Wife of a Bears’ lineman wins bronze medal today in Rio Olympics.

Below that, the person who posted the meme added:

You spelled ‘3-time Olympian Corey Cogdell-Unrein wins second bronze medal today in Rio Olympics’ wrong.

Yes, having delved into sarcasm myself, I’m a sucker for it.  At first, I was fooled and all in favor of the correction.  Why should anyone’s identity depend on a relationship to someone else?  But then I noticed the identity of the original poster at the top of the meme, just above the woman’s smile and medal and the text I just quoted:

The Chicago Tribune.  How else could a headline or caption say “Bears” and let readers assume it is Chicago’s NFL team?

Quickly, in hopes of leaving the first comment (and perhaps convincing my friend to delete the post before it spread), I typed the Olympian’s name into a search engine.  It was all I needed.  Here’s the comment I left:

The newspaper is in Chicago. The Olympian is from Alaska. Her husband plays for a team based in Chicago. The editor needs a “hook” (i.e. a connection) between the bronze medal and the readers (residents of Chicago & northern Illinois) or the story doesn’t even run–as it did not in, say, Boston, Baltimore, Philly, etc. The husband is the hook. Hence, the headline.

I might have added that this is why right-wingers laugh at us.  The meme is a triumph of political correctness over practicality and natural tendency.  If this were a national publication, then, yes, the headline would be sexist and offensive–not to mention that it would get an F in any journalism class for naming “Bears” without “Chicago” in front of it.  As is, the meme makes us (liberals) look petty and uninformed.

Done with the lesson in Journalism 101, I swilled down the Costa Rican, shut down the Lenovo, and returned to get my laundry.  Before re-entering Village Washtub, I spotted the “Stop” shirt, stood still for a long sigh, looked at the sky, rolled my eyes, exhaled, and said under my breath, “No, don’t do it!”

Even at that, I didn’t know if I’d do it or not or even what it was I would or would not do.  Nor will I ever find out.  As I entered, the fellow walked toward the door, left to right until directly in front of me, but then turned the other way, giving me full view of his back.  His shirt read:  “Stop Making Sense.”

Well, how can I argue with a fellow fan of the Talking Heads? How can I object to the title of their legendary 1984 concert film re-released last year when I watched it every night I projected it? Like faulting a newspaper for making a local reference in a headline, it wouldn’t make sense.

Or is not making sense what I am now supposed to start?

-599-

Corey Cogdell-Unrein and her medals for Trap Shooting. Photo courtesy of Athlon Outdoors. https://alaskasportshall.org/inductee/corey-cogdell/

Better Not to Dwell on It

You can’t take your eyes of Coup de Chance no matter how unsettling the story is, and like many Woody Allen films, it is that.

As one of my students said of American Beauty, a 1999 sensation, Coup is “a couple hours of watching people do things you wish they wouldn’t do.”

Actually, it’s just over an hour and a half. What may make it seem longer is that, before it ends, there are at least three moments when you think it will end.

What makes it seem shorter has to be the rapid pace of an energetic cast–not one of them known to American audiences–working with a crisp script, and a sizzling jazz soundtrack well established during opening credits. Many in Screening Room audiences sit through the end credits to hear it full tilt.

If that’s not enough, plot twists still surprise you no matter how much you expect them from Allen.

Yes, it is in French, and I have a theory that Allen wanted a film in subtitles for a very specific reason. Something in it I’ve never seen before, but I can’t say what or even where that is for fear of spoiling the effect.

Coup reminded me most of his 2005 film, Match Point, in part because both are about infidelity, but more because both films illustrate a frequently cited enigmatic quote from “The Mat-Maker” chapter in Moby-Dick:

Chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.

As Allen himself told an interviewer: “You’re very dependent on chance and luck in life, more than you think.”

-598-

Held over at the Screening Room: Thurs 5/23, 7:00 pm; Fri & Sat 24 & 25, 4:30 pm; and Wed & Thurs 29 & 30, 7:00 pm.

With No Effort Whatsoever

Glad to report that I’m finally back to the daily walk that proved so beneficial last fall during the annual athletic event diguised as a Renaissance faire.

Must admit, I have a ton–well, maybe up to 70 pounds, whatever I can get off–of catching up to do after months of, um, inattention, but I’m already packed to leave pretty soon for the gym.

Yes, today is in the 80s, too hot to endure the unshaded road into the Reserve. Another advantage is that those treadmills have dashboards with readings for calories, distance, time, and pace that seem to motivate me more than looking at the license plates of passing cars and adding up the numerals as if they were cribbage hands. There’s also those sidebars that reduce the weight on my otherwise hopelessly abused feet.

On Monday, it was overcast with a most comfortable breeze off the marsh, and so I took my water-bottle to that bench where I like to sit for as long as I walk either way. It’s a 2.25 mile roundtrip, the same as I’m now walking in the gym where it takes about 50 minutes–and where I work up much more of a sweat because I’m not sitting down for 45 minutes in the middle of it.

I’m no speedster in the gym, clocking averages between 2.3 and 2.6, but I’m at my slowest on the road. So slow, that an elderly couple across the road went past me about a Canadian football field (with both its 30-yard endzones) away from the bench ahead of us and scored a touchdown before I reached mid-field–or the 55 yard line as our northern neighbors call it.

Though my fingers were crossed that they’d pass the bench, I watched them cross over and take seats when I was still more than a Canadian endzone away. Oh, how I missed a treadmill’s sidebars!

But I arrived and saw that they were at one end, something that I always do so that other strollers or bicyclists will feel welcome to sit down without asking. Of course, I did ask, as all who have ever joined me on that bench have always done.

In their greetings, I thought I detected a German accent. “Guten tag!” I hailed, and then to their invitation to the bench: “Danke schoene!”

For a moment they gave me blank looks until the woman responded, “That’s German. We’re from Sweden.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, “Welcome to America!” But then I did it again, adding, “Willkommen!”

Two more blank looks, but they were grinning as he said, “That’s still German.”

We had a nice chat about the similarities of climate, which led me to believe they must be from the south of the Scandanavian Peninsula, and of climate change–a reminder that while languages may not cross borders with much ease, weather patterns cross them with no effort whatsoever.

After they continued their walk, I recalled my two-weeks in Hamburg, Germany, 45 years ago when I learned that everyone in Western Europe is at least bi-lingual, often tri-lingual, and that English is almost always the second language. In Hamburg, I met teenagers who spoke English with far more of a vocabulary than many teenagers back here. With that in mind, I laughed out loud at my absurd and all-too-American idea that anything I thought close would do.

The couple didn’t go much further before turning around. As they approached, I was determined to offer a farewell in unmistakable English. “Enjoy your vacation” came to mind, immediately followed by remembering that Europeans don’t use the word vacation. They call it holiday.

Well, now, which is it that my new friends would prefer to hear from their would-be Yankee host?

“Enjoy the rest of your stay here in America,” I called out.

They smiled and sounded quite pleased. “Enjoy your charming island,” she said to his nodding agreement.

-597-

Swedish, German, American, or anything else, this is your view from the bench on an overcast day.
Photo by Christopher Hartin: https://www.flickr.com/photos/hartin/with/530158221/

Tiptoe through the Tombstones

Put on my “Newburyport Stands with Ukraine” T before going to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription.

Behind the counter a young woman I’d never before seen talked into a phone, looked at me, and put up an index finger as if to say one moment.

Seconds later she put the phone down and, before saying Hello or asking Can I help you? sang quite cheerily, “I like your shirt!”

Not sure if I was more charmed by the idea of someone so young taking an interest in Ukraine or triggered by an opportunity to spread the word.

Another possibility: With blonde hair, a very light complexion, and wide features, she may well have been surprised and pleased to see someone wearing the name of her ancestral home.

I had fished it out of a closet where it was buried under my ever-increasing number of Herman Melville shirts–Call me Ishmael, I Would Prefer Not To, New Bedford Whaling Museum–and shirts for about every brewpub within a 25-mile radius.

I knew that, later on, I would be at an outdoor gathering of a hundred or so Newburyporters for a ceremony on the side of a cemetery near downtown.

Honored were African-Americans enslaved before the practice was abolished in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1783. Once freed, according to archival records, they lived full, productive lives here–only to be buried in unmarked graves.

Newburyport historian Ghlee Woodworth was able to to determine the general location, a slope of the Old Hill Burial Ground facing west, but not specific sites.

Not until she heard of a new laser technology. With it, she and fellow local historian, Geordie Vining, located 18, all of which graves are now marked with headstones saying simply, “Once Known,” with a historical plaque at the top of the slope to explain them.

My shirt may seem disconnected from the event, but the previous night I heard the report that the seven-month delay of US aid to Ukraine caused by House Republicans has caused severe setbacks and the loss of territory to the Russians.

Last fall, Ukraine’s forces were pushing the Russians back to the borders they had crossed.  Since then, the fronts have been incoming.

Just weeks after the initial invasion, pro-Ukraine shirts were sold as fund-raisers.  As opinionated as I’ve always been, I have avoided shirts or hats as well as bumper-stickers with political messages, but the entirely unprovoked invasion of Ukraine broke all rules.

As one elderly friend puts it, I was overcome by “that 1939 feeling.”

To me, a shirt–or hat, jacket, etc.–with a message is an invitation to conversation or, more often, a nod of the head or a knowing smile.  Messages you don’t like or which are of no interest, you can ignore.  No imposition, no foul language. Or you can question, and anyone wearing one should be prepared for debate.

After last night’s report, I wanted that shirt to serve at least as a reminder. And, as grave leads onto grave, it seemed right for yesterday’s local commemoration.

Pretty safe bet that most everyone there sides with Ukraine over Russia, that none of them ever fell for the social media fraud fueled and fanned by Fox Numbs that Zelenskyy bought himself two luxury yachts with American money–a claim repeated as fact by Republicans on the floors of both House and Senate. Or that any of them would want any US alliance with Putin as most congressional Republicans, their presidential candidate, and Fox openly crave.

As must all be true of the young woman who expressed approval while dispensing my Terazosin.  I responded with a reflexive “Thank you.” After the transaction was complete, I added:

“And so, come the first week of November, you know what we need to do…” I tailed off.

Her face turned into a question mark.  Well, a few minutes had elapsed while she located the bag and then while I answered the annoying questions on the technology-for-technology’s sake screen. I grabbed the middle of my shirt and gave a tug. “And tell your friends!” I added.

Question mark turned exclamation point:  “Oh, yes!”

-596-

Photo by Lenovo.
Photo courtesy of Newburyport Preservation Trust via Facebook.

Older I to My Younger Me

There’s a picture I like to send friends whenever our talk veers into the nostalgic fantasy of “What advice would you give your younger self?”

Before the photo, however, two pieces of advice are immediate:

As soon as you hear the word “hurry,” the answer is no.

Putting the second piece aside, the real question here is unavoidable: “What if you had it all to do over again?” Whether “it” refers to a time of life, a day, a decade, or the whole post-puberty show, we’ve all wondered what we might do with the ultimate mulligan, take-back, or do-over.

We’ve all speculated on what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.

While the specifics are all personal, we share the overall themes.  What if I took that job, did not quit that other job, attended that school, moved instead of staying put, remained in a distant place rather than returning home?

You’ll no doubt notice that I’ve left out marriage, as well as the dreaded R-word.  Problem is which one?  If I scrolled through all the close calls, I’d have no time to consider the remote possibilities.

At times it was the remote possibilities that steered me away from the close calls. More often it was my addiction to specualtions of past and future, all while trying to make sense of the present. Often I seem distant even to myself. Writing is a solo performance.

Which may be the point of the question that we ask ourselves and with which we tease each other.  Shakespeare, a master of revisionist history (just ask the Ricardians), might call it what stuff as parlor games are made of, while Vonnegut, a frequent pilgrim to both past and future (his 1997 novel is titled Timequake), might recognize it as strange travel plans for a trip already taken.

Sometime between those two, Dickens may have had this in mind when he subjected Scrooge to the three ghosts.  Nothing the old man could do about the past, but by showing him the future, the third ghost made the present seem a past in which Scrooge was present, and the old tightwad took the hint. More to our present point, however, when confronted with Fezziwig’s party in his distant past, what does the old Scrooge do but attempt to advise his younger self?

The time-warping game (or trip) is most entertaining when expressed as advice:  What would you, you old goat, you geezer, you burned-out Boomer, what would you say to your own bumbling, bonehead teenage self?

This is why I have that picture.  Taken when I was between eight and ten nearly two thousand miles south of anywhere I had ever been, it shows an old and wizened Ernest Hemingway chatting up into the inches-away ear of a young, jet-black haired Fidel Castro.

No, I’d never be mistaken for Hemingway now or Castro then, but at a glance, close enough.  More than the resemblance are the expressions: Hemingway intense, Castro with a slight smile.

Well, if that isn’t my life in something worth a thousand words. It’s likely that an advisor as serious as I can be now would be laughed at by me then.  But I’d rather think Hemingway is cracking a joke, as I always prefer now, and that Castro is simply doing his best to keep a straight face–just as I often did then.

Lately, there’s a commercial for an  investment company in which old people sing to their younger selves, “Don’t let your older you hate you!” The youngers cringe as if begging for impossible forgiveness while the olders resume their forced labor to supplement inadequate pensions.

Forty years ago, the late Massachusetts senator and presidential candidate, Paul Tsongas, while battling cancer, insisted on this: “No one ever died saying they wished they spent more time at the office.”  Don’t know if such records are kept, but that may have been the most quoted line in 1997. That’s when he died and his 1984 book, Heading Home, was re-issued following his long bout with the disease.

So which is it? Work all you can while you can and turn your sunset years into uninterrupted vacation? Or party all you can when you can and keep working till you drop?

Put me in the latter category.  My twenties (the 70s) were years of frequent moves, under-the-table jobs, changing jobs, aborted college degree programs, resumed degree programs, eventual completion of two of them, a stint with VISTA, various fruit harvests, jam sessions, busking, and what I called “improvisational travel.”

Put another way, I may have put more hitchhiking miles on my thumb than I put dollars into Social Security.

Since then, however, I managed enough so that, now, in my seventies (these 20s), my expenses are covered.  A day a week projecting films, and another day driving a delivery van are all I need to break even.  Both roles suit me:  Driving long distance lets you think long thoughts; throwing a few switches before and after a two-hour film is just right for writing those thoughts down.

At the risk of sounding–and being–hopelessly naive, I believe I can live like this well into my eighties (the 30s).  Far from hating the younger me, Older I is grateful that Younger I didn’t just spend so little time at the office but avoided offices entirely since my thirties (the 80s).

Admittedly, I still wonder what life would have been like in Salem, Oregon, or Hamburg, Germany. Or on either end of US 1, Fort Kent or Key West. Or grad school in El Paso or Flagstaff or Cairo, Illinois. Or college in Denver or Pittsburgh. But I’m ever-thankful for the choices made, including all the years at Salem State and in both Dakotas.

And I’m thankful for what I dodged, especially a public relations post for Polaroid along the most miserable commute on Boston’s beltway. That one involved upsetting a friend who set it up and his wife, my cousin, who hasn’t spoken to me since. Which brings me to the second piece of advice I’d give my younger self, the one my daughter, upon graduating from Vassar, called the best advice she ever received:

You have to be willing to piss people off.

-595-

Ernest Hemingway and Fidel Castro in Cuba in 1960. Photo taken by Roberto Salas. (Via NBC News.)

A Cloudy Clarification

A local tale for fans of George Orwell, George Carlin, and others anywhere who skewer what might today be called “alternative language”:

When the president of the Newburyport City Council said that investigate is “too strong a word” and offered “look into” as a more accurate term for what one of its committees was newly assigned, Daily News readers started clicking into on-line dictionaries.

As just about everyone I ran into that week asked, “Doesn’t ‘investigate’ mean ‘look into’?”

Dictionaries tell us it means to look into closely, carefully, methodically, thoroughly. Surely, Councillor Ed Cameron did not intend to swear off care and thoroughness, so what was the method to his cloudy clarification?

Perhaps, he took the lead of Trump advisor Kellyanne Conway who coined “alternative facts” and is introducing us to alternative language. Call him Kelly-Ed Cameron.

In the interest of full disclosure, I hasten to tell you that I was among the signatories of the petition requesting said investigation of City Hall’s Human Resources Dept.

Yes, I signed and I continue to write about NPL because, although what happened cannot be undone, the city can retract never-specified charges made against the volunteers.

More importantly, the public should know what happened, who suffered from it, and who is trying to hide or dismiss it.

Many wrongful acts—ranging all the way from domestic to international—can never be undone, but that cannot be a reason to stop investigation of them.

My guess is that Cameron thought only that “investigate” implies the very existence of guilt and hoped to reinforce the committee’s claim to neutrality. Unfortunately for him, “look into” implies an easy going, kid-glove approach to accusations as serious as those of bullying and verbal abuse that were publically broadcast without ever a hint of proof.

Not only that, but his minced words fit a pattern that has been present from the very beginning when Mayor Sean Reardon claimed he was “suspending” the volunteer program.

No. After eleven months and counting, “suspension” is nothing other than a euphemism for “erasing” the volunteers.  Even if a new volunteer program begins, the former vols will not be welcome back—certainly not if the defamation of their character remains unproved and left to stand.

The purpose of euphemism, as always, is to cover up or excuse. In Newburyport City Hall, it also serves a more specific role: To minimize.

When speaking of the Archival Center, Reardon and his chief of staff, Andrew Levine, always acknowledge its importance and the need to preserve it. But they always add mention of the “small percentage” of the public who use it–by which they mean, set foot in it.

No mention of neighbors who benefit from one resident digging out a deed or a document showing property lines. No mention of those who attend public presentations of historians who frequent the center, or who read the books and essays written by them. No mention of researchers who call or email the center and had information sent to them.

Certainly no mention of at least 30 books in which the center and archivist Sharon Spieldenner are credited in the acknowledgements.

A talent for minimizing may well be why newly appointed NPL director, Kevin Bourque was chosen for the job. His summary of a recent library survey reported just 37 comments regarding the Archival Center.

By ignoring no less that 57 other comments supporting the volunteers, all while mouthing the “importance” of the archival center, Bourque may well have out-Reardoned Reardon.

Recognize all this for the lip service that it is, and Cameron’s “look into” can be called eye service.

Other linguistic stunts go unnoticed by anyone unable to pay full attention. For instance, City Hall keeps saying that the former archivist was “approved for administrative leave,” implying she was the cause of controversy. Specifically, it was Family Medical Leave.

They say she “retired,” implying that it was her decision and she, age 60, felt it was time. No, it was forced resignation, as any honest person who has paid any attention will tell you.

At every step, in every sentence, with every casual glance, the intent is to minimize and eventually dismiss. Whether he thought of it or not, this is the context for Kelly-Ed Cameron’s replacement of “investigate” with “look into.”

Question remains: Will Cameron and the City Council keep following Reardon’s deceptive script.

-594-

Note: This is a slightly longer version of a column that ran in the Newburyport Daily News on May 15 under the headline, “Paying eye service.”

Hoping to Drop and Hop

When I attended a meeting of Newbury Democrats for the first time in my 41 years as a resident of the town, I thought of it as a minor item to check off my bucket list.

All these years I have endorsed Democratic candidates, especially progressives over moderates in primaries, always from the arm chair or beach chair from where I write, never in the nuts and bolts of canvassing, knocking on doors, or even licking envelopes.

Hey, writing takes time, and even that has to be carved out of the time it takes to make a living.  And I can claim to pay some dues by writing for a paper that, though it may be published in foregone-conclusion Massachusetts, circulates in the fairly well-populated southeast corner of up-for-grabs New Hampshire.

But I’m slowing down as I age, and so much free time has me looking for less-physical things to do.  Must admit that when I saw that the Newbury Dems were looking for delegates to a convention, I thought the reference was to the national event in Chicago.  For me, that would spell major bucket list.

Took me no more than a minute in that first meeting to realize that they needed bodies they could send to the state convention, June 1, in Worcester, about 80 miles away.  For much of the meeting, we listened to speeches from those who were vying for selection to represent us in Chicago.  All were people who had paid real Democratic Party dues, even the 17-year-old senior from Ipswich High who emphasized that he would give Biden and Harris “a message from youth.”

Then came our own selection for Worcester.  I was content to let the party veterans have every slot, but there weren’t enough volunteers.  Volunteer? Before I knew it, I was voluntold, and how could I say no?

A few weeks later, I arrived at Peabody High School where delegates from all the congressional district’s gathered to vote for six people–three male, three female per state party rule–to join the Massachusetts delegation in the Windy City come July.  Just four men, including the Ipswich High senior, gave their five-minute pitch before a vote.  Five women then did the same, and then two women for one alternate designation.

I found it honestly painful to leave any of them out, although I just as honestly wouldn’t mind a last-minute cancellation that would force one of them to find some retired geezer who could drop what little I have to drop and hop on a flight to O’Hare.  Or would I jump in my Nissan and use the assignment as an excuse to drink beer and reminisce for a few days coming and going with my cousins in Akron?

But there was one woman, Diann Slavit, whom I wanted to send west more than any others. In her earlier emails and in her handout in Peabody, she didn’t simply mention, she emphasized immigration:

As a full-time immigration attorney, I work daily with immigrants from all over the world… I have seen the devastation in the immigration process that former President Trump left behind.

In Peabody, we heard her talk of guiding immigrants through the naturalization process, of working for the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals Act, better known as DACA, and of putting undocumented students on paths to citizenship.

When I arrived home, I wasted no time finding a link to my Daily News column written just before the 2022 mid-term elections. All Republican candidates were demonizing immigrants in the most contrived ways. Fox News (sic and sick) was running videos of chaos and mayhem–some of them from other countries–on loops, deliberately creating the impression that America was under constant attack the entire length of the Rio Grande. Words such as “invasion” and “crisis” and “caravan” implied that the effort was organized, and that American forces were engaged in armed combat–and were vastly outnumbered.

The fraud was so immersive that, over a year later, a Republican US Senator from Alabama could deliver a response to the State of the Union Address on a national telecast carried by all networks and several cable stations and blame Joe Biden for crimes committed in Mexico, 600 miles south of the border, when George W. Bush was president.

Back in November, 2022, I happened to be reading a book Herman Melville wrote in 1849, a few years before Moby-Dick. Rather than a whaling ship, Redburn is set on a merchant vessel which delivers cargo from New York to Liverpool. The return trip is a boatload of immigrants whom Melville treats at length in details so real and descriptions so humane that it would be ridiculed by the MAGA movement as “whining” and dismissed as “woke.” In the column, I quoted one lengthy passage that is as close as the English language has ever come to the Eight Beatitudes.

When I forwarded it to Slavit, I noted that, although there was no question whom the convention would nominate, there was a platform to be written, and that immigration should have a more prominent plank than other Democrats may favor–one that is pro-active like her own stand on the issue. Perhaps, I offered, Melville’s assessment might help in the formation, even in the wording.

Next day, my in-box offered this:

Thanks so much for your support!  I take the plight of immigrants very seriously and have dedicated my life to it!  Thank you for sending the piece you wrote.  I will share it with the rest of the Massachusetts National Delegates! Diann

I may not be ticketed for Chicago this summer, but I’ll have my say. Something always at the top of all my lists.

-593-

What Melville saw in Liverpool:

By James Frederick Smyth for the Illustrated London News in 1850, one year after the publication of Melville’s Redburn. Caption reads: “The Embarkation, Waterloo Docks, Liverpool.”
“Quarter Deck on an Immigrant Ship – The Roll Call.” Also by Smyth for the Illustrated London News (ILN), 1850, as are all of the sketches shown here. Worth noting that illustrations first appeared in periodicals in 1832. First published in 1842, the ILN was a huge, immediate success with wood-engraved drawings, a technique still considered new and experimental in 1850.
“Scene Between Decks.”
“Dancing Between Decks.” Melville’s Redburn includes an account of an Italian concertina player named Carlo among the mostly German immigrants who made their way to Liverpool. He sang laments and they shed tears for homelands and families they thought they’d ever again see. But he also played dance tunes, and they laughed and kept time.
“The Departure.” Melville’s estimate of 300 immigrants on The Highlander–modeled on a merchant ship named The St. Lawrence on which he sailed in 1839–seems quite plausible.

A slightly longer blog version of the Daily News column I sent Diann Slavit who forwarded it to the rest of the Massachusetts delegation to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago:

 

Welcome to the Finish Li-i-i-i-ine

Always wanted to join a marathon, and I toyed with the idea half a lifetime ago.

In my mid-30s, I was running five to six miles a day, and about once a week I would unwind twelve running from where I live on Plum Island all the way to Sandy Beach, the southern tip, and back.

On a sunny day in June, 1986, I ran it on firm, low-tide sand in the morning, and then watched the Boston Celtics beat the Houston Rockets with Island friends over nachos and chicken wings, drinking only grapefruit juice, before walking to and from the North End. That round-trip of six made for an 18-mile day.

Unable to walk the next few days, I made it my last end-to-end-and-back effort, and thoughts of running a marathon faded. But I did join one in 2020 of all years. On the weekend after New Year’s, two months before Covid shut everything down, I had a ten-minute passage in the Moby-Dick Annual Marathon Reading at the New Bedford Whaling Museum. Never occurred to me until this past weekend that, if you add the hour-or-so of ceremonial introductions to the time of reading the book, 25-or-so hours, you will match a running marathon’s 26.2 miles.

But, no, I do not kid myself. Those runners that I met at the finish line of the Maine Coast marathon yesterday had to stay on their feet and in motion for the track’s full length. I need only to stay awake for a chapter’s ten minutes. Another difference is in the signs that supporters hold up for runners:

When Portland heard that the event organizers needed volunteers to help pass out water and medals at the finish line, she suggested we meet there, go to dinner and catch up with each other later. Might even get a free t-shirt, she enthused. And so, there I was just after 10:00 am, 50 feet behind the line aside the path with stacks of bottled water in front of me, ready to hold them out for thirsty, exhausted runners, wobbly or not.

First runner came in at 2:35 of the race, and second place was another seven minutes, with third and fourth at yet another five. All had water before reaching me, and I was soon re-assigned to “pizza duty.” Yes, I lit up like a pinball machine at a chance, but not for the reason you may think. Immediately behind me at the finish line was a large speaker blasting whatever it is that passes for rock-and-roll in this art-forsaken 21st Century. And we wonder why so many people don’t notice the unrelenting hysteria of Fox News? Later, at a distance, it became a joke when we kept hearing the event’s host as runners started coming in. The guy turned one-syllable words into bars of sweet melody: “Welcome to the finish li-i-i-i-ine!” Longer words filled stanzas: “Co-ooooooong-graaaa-chuuuuu-u-u-ooooooooo-laaaaaaaaa-sheeeeeee-unnnnnnnns!”

Away from the finish li-i-i-i-ine was an open-air structure with about two-dozen picnic tables where runners could sit and gather with supporters. We were off to one side of it, where for a good 20 minutes another vol and I put slices on paper plates atop a table and then stood there regretting that they were just getting cold. Before long, however, runners started finishing in clusters.

At first it seemed gradual, but our pace turned into the sprint with which many of our customers liked to finish. And it was non-stop. I would open the boxes and separate the eight slices while she separated the plates. I would then put slices on plates as she held them toward me, one by one. We had the boxes in front of us in two stacks, as high as twelve a stack, one cheese, the other pepperoni. When one was empty, she’d grab it, close it, and flip it atop the pile against the wall behind us. Meanwhile, I’d open the top box on the other pile, and the sequence would repeat.

When a pile of boxes was low, other volunteers, overseeing the distribution of bananas and granola bars would take another dozen out of the thermal bags keeping them warm. For what seemed like hours, but what may have been less than one, the plates disappeared as soon as we put them on the table. Early on, I noticed that, while cutting the slices, the chef (at Romeo’s Pizza up in Scarborough, Maine) might have become as loopy as we were dishing them out. Some were so narrow that we put them two-to-a-plate, others so wide that my partner would pronounce any runners who took them “Lucky One.”

“Lucky One” was what I silently said to myself everytime a hunk of melted cheese and a slice of pepperoni stuck to the paper and came off the slice that made it onto the plate. Couldn’t let those go to waste. Anyway, we were all invited to enjoy a slice or more, and in the (I’m-willing-to-bet) over-100 boxes we emptied, I may have had the equivalent of two bread-free slices for my “or more.” Romeo’s may have gone haywire with the slicing, but not at all with the preparation or the baking. Absolutely delicious!

As for the marathoners, all of them were staggering to some degree, but with very few exceptions, they were smiling no matter what they felt from the hips down. Mostly content with a single plate, very few asked for seconds. Some even looked for the smaller slices, one being snatched up before my partner could add another thin one to it. Of course, there were also boxes of bananas that made the opposite corner of the structure look like a Caribbean port. And displays of granola bars and trail mix that might make you think that the vols handing them out were members of the Appalachian Mountain Trail Club. (In the case of Portland, the woman who talked me into this, they happened to be right.)

She, with her camera, was fascinated by the oddities of the event: A man dressed as a lobster, a bulldog dressed as–I don’t know–Barbie at age four?

Lady Mildred, aka “Milly,” wearing her Sunday best while waiting at the Finish Line for her mom. Photo & caption by Carla Valentine. 
Photo by Carla Valentine. Why the costume–or the photo–is anyone’s guess.

I, without a camera, am still fixed on the image of a young Asian-American couple with a small boy and girl, maybe 3- and 5-years-old. The boy took a slice of pizza but left the plate, then walked around waving it in the air. I immediately bet he’d drop it and inevitably lost the bet. Mom took the girl, recovered the boy, and all three sat at a nearby table facing us while Dad estimated and gathered what he and they needed.

He wore a faint, tired smile and a soaked, dark shirt. His wife and kids looked to him, all three in bright, light colored shirts that read: “Run, Dad, Run!”

-592-

Whole World’s Watching

Got a call from Fort Myers Friday night wishing me a happy 53rd anniversary.

For most people that would be a wedding anniversary, but for us it marks the date of our arrest in Washington, DC, in 1971. Instead of marriage and the risk of divorce and custody battles, we were taken into custody ourselves, and risked no more than banging our knees or foreheads while being pushed into the police wagon before meeting bail.

Yes, we also risked having a rap-sheet that might have been detrimental to chances for future employment, but back then employment opportunities were abundant, and an arrest at an anti-war demonstration might put your application in a fellow peacenik’s hands somewhere down the times-they-are-a’changing road. All a moot point as all records were soon expunged when the Nixon Administration imploded in a blaze of inglory.

As two of the 7,000 people arrested in a single day in any one place in the US of A, we also helped set a national record that stands to this day.

Memories are more vivid this year than in any year previous. The Occupy Movement in 2011 and the Pink Hats donned atop Orange Head’s inauguration offered us some nostalgia. In fact, Fort Myers attended the January, 2017 Women’s March with her daughters. Did she remember to show them the intersection where we blocked traffic 46 years earlier? Any parade down Pennsylvania Ave. has to cross it. (19th Street?) When I brought my then-14-year-old daughter to DC in 1992, that intersection was on the list with memorials for Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln.

But now, in 2024, we’ve hit a jackpot we’d rather not have. Protests on college campuses around the country set the stage for Mayday 1971 in DC, as did the protest-turned-riot at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. The only palpable difference is that, back then, America had boots on the ground. But genocide is genocide no matter whose feet are in the boots carrying the weapons that inflict it. And with weapons paid for and supplied by a government that acts in your name, you–we–are responsible.

Yes, a terrorist group called Hamas committed atrocities against innocent civilians, as did groups of Vietnamese in their fight at first against the French and at length against we Americans. No one disputed that then. No one disputes it now. The dispute lurks in the question no one dares ask: What causes those acts? The answer is what Palestine now and Vietnam then have in common, no matter how much of a technical definition might deny the use of the word: Colonial rule.

In Vietnam, the French gave up a colony, and we willingly took over the role of colonizer. Why? “Tin and tungsten,” as Pres. Eisenhower openly admitted. In Gaza, the Israeli government insists on playing the role, and we willingly assist. Why? The Israeli lobby, as no public official can admit due to fear of being branded anti-semitic.

Open admissions or not, what does matter–indeed, what’s most impressive–is that today’s youthful protesters do not need a draft hanging over their imminent future to act. Nor do they need a war that would ever put them in combat. Still, they do risk their degrees, as well as a rap-sheet in an America that is far less forgiving than it was in the days of Gerald Ford, Margaret Chase Smith, Ed Brooke, and George McGovern.

As the academic year draws to a close, we might consider this round one of a contest condensed and being played in reverse of what Fort Myers and I find so nostalgic today. Whereas protest songs dominated Woodstock and all the music festivals of 1969, and whereas campus protests, including Kent State, proliferated in 1970, it was a party convention and a national election in 1968 that set the chaotic stage for all of it. Perhaps because both formed round one in our time, Fort Myers and I can look back and, with many others of our generation, agree that Hubert Humphrey would have been a better choice than a Republican who claimed to have “a secret plan to end the war.”

We blew the choice and dealt with the consequences.

Today’s students are addressing consequences with the choice yet to come. That choice should not be determined by one ill-fated foreign alliance, but by preferences regarding civil rights, reproductive rights, labor rights, consumer rights, economic fairness, judicial nominations, access to health care and education, climate change, and an immigration policy that takes into account the need for seasonal, agricultural workers.

Who knows how today’s protesters might approach the convention? One thing from Chicago 1968 I’d encourage them to repeat–as loud as they can– is the chant as relevant today as then:

The whole world’s watching!

Perhaps the world watches moreso today. Places such as, say, Iceland and Peru, or Latvia and Nigeria, had no stake in anything to do with Southeast Asia. But there is no place on Earth immune from environmental degradation.

Round two this year will be another Democratic Convention–also in Chicago in case anyone suffering from severe anemia or amnesia or both might miss the point–followed by the election in November. Similarities might end there, especially with a Republican candidate already allied with an Israeli leader bent on erasing Palestine and Palestinians off the world map–and who also calls for locking up all protesters on US campuses.

Say what you want, good or ill, of the current protests, all that matters now is the choice about to come.

-591-

The Washington Post the next day, a Tuesday. We were in “contingents” that began as about 25 all over the city at the morning commute and gradually dwindled into the afternoon as we blocked traffic at one intersection and then bolted to another (and repeat) when police came into view and nabbed two or three of us at a time. Smaller groups then combined as they met at other intersections. Fort Myers and I, from the Salem, Mass. contingent, probably lasted through ten or twelve intersections into mid-afternoon before getting put into a wagon already filled with ten protesters, two of whom we recognized from the Boston contingent.
https://consortiumnews.com/2021/05/01/may-day-71-when-bob-parry-went-to-jail-in-the-biggest-mass-arrest-in-u-s-history/

An Oxyhistory of the Oxyfuture

When my friend heard Sam, his 11-year-old grandson, say that he couldn’t think of a title for a school writing assignment, he suggested that the boy call it “a history of the future.”

Sam was momentarily confused, or maybe stunned, but soon snapped out of it and hastened into an adjacent room: “Mom! Grandpa’s at it again!”

Sam may not like the oxymoronic idea, but I’ve seen enough of this moronic world that I believe it could use some oxy. If you didn’t know that “oxy” is a prefix meaning “keen” or “sharp,” and even if you did, what follows is my oxyattempt to imagine myself as an oxyhistorian in the year 2100, starting with a title characteristic of the time:

Duckspeak🙂 – English😡 – American😧

You are now reading an account of the devolution of the English language in America in the 21st Century which has just ended. This is necessarily anonymous because any writing in excess of 20 words is now illegal, and because most of the words I use are not on the list of just 40 words and 12 emojis approved for written communication.

By 2060, so many words were banned that it became easier to consult an approved list which, when last checked in December, 2099, was down to 40 not counting geographical, business, and personal names. All other words have been condemned as “inappropriate” (meaning either offensive or elitist, or confusing or difficult, or pretentious or assuming, or any other reason the speaker may have for not liking it).

After wrestling with “preferred pronouns” in the first three decades of the century, the “Appropriate Police” (AP) banned all singular pronouns and modified “they” to a choice between “o-they” and “p-they,” short for “onethey” and “pluralthey.” Appropriately (consequently), we also have “o-them” and “p-them,” “o-their” and “p-their.” To help the plan along–or perhaps as a result of it–abbreviated spelling was encouraged for many remaining words. “Vacation” became “vaca,” “supermarket” became “supe,” and “government” contracted into “gummint.”

Some words were purged by “Voca-Check” (as in vocabulary), an app perfected in 2035 that replaced them with an AP-appropriate (approved) word. “Citizen” is now automatically turned into “consumer,” “city” becomes “market,” and so forth. Other single words replace inappropriate (detailed) phrases, such as “inflation” for “record-breaking corporate profits.”

Included in this wave of reforms, the letter X is now used to reduce a line such as “he and she repeated it ten times” to “p-they ten-xed o-them.”

In 2040, the AP declared it appropriate (permissible) that all nouns could and should be used as verbs. This grew from a trend started by Madison Avenue soon after the turn of the century to advertise names of seasons, activities, and even of brands being sold as verbs. “In New England, we Honda!” “No matter where you holiday!” “We business for you!” “You’re gonna cashback!”

Punctuation? That was also declared inappropriate (annoying) and banned in the year 2033, following the flurry of reports in the 2020s–ranging from USA Today (now an advertising sheet) to the NY Times (now extinct)–that Gen Z’ers and Millennials found periods rude and abrupt, question marks threatening, and exclamation points better expressed as smiley faces or wow faces or clapping hands, etc.

By 2035, the Chicago Manual of Style, the Associated Press Stylebook, and Strunk & White’s Elements of Style were all deemed inappropriate (obsolete) and replaced by Emoji Protocol. In addition to the twelve emojis appropriate (approved) for public consumption (i.e. social media), Protocol offers a “relatively alternative history” of emojis based on what it calls “re-evolution.” In it, all alphabets are devolved from hieroglyphics, which was a higher form of expression than anything penned on paper, typed on keyboards, or written on subway walls and tenement halls. Shakespeare be not!

Emojis, according to Protocol, have put a halt to this devolution. Hence, the claim to re-evolution. In 2055, when everything ceased to be printed, the images of book covers on the screen were called “Cuneiform Art,” and used mostly as cartoons. The first Samsung mobil device from the century’s first decade, because it was the only one to ever include semi-colons, became a prized collector’s item–so rare, that it is called “The Rosetta Phone.”

In addition to making the world appropriate (safe) from punctuational abuse, all adjectives with one or two exceptions (depending on how you count) were banned in 2040. All were found to be inappropriate (judgmental). By 2025, words such as “stupid” and “ignorant” were banned as name-calling and/or because they made people feel bad.  That done, the self-appointed AP then cracked down on the implication of complimentary words. No more calling anyone “smart” because it implies that others are not smart.

All now-banned adjectives that once described a person’s abilities or attributes–intellectual, physical, artistic, artisanal, social, personal, creative, imaginative–are listed in an appendix to the AP Appropriatebook. A second list includes descriptive verbs, and a third adds adverbs that describe the subject as much as the verb. The three-part, 12-page appendix is titled, “Everyone Trophys.”

The excepted–and accepted–adjective is “appropriate,” the lone approved word to be applied to anything the speaker favors. This includes “inappropriate” for anything not favored. Young people and older folks who want to sound young may use “cool” and “uncool.” These serve as oxysynonyms, which is to say that they have the same meaning only because, like “appropriate” and “inappropriate,” they mean nothing, the inevitable result of being used to mean everything.

As far back as 1977, before the century-long purge of American English began, as a reaction to a national economic decline that squeezed state budgets, college deans started using “appropriate” to mean anything that met their approval.  The purposefully vague value judgement of the word allowed them to assume agreement, avoiding any inappropriate (inconvenient) debate precipitated by words such as “relevant” or “engaging.”

Even more appropriately (sanitizing) than that, the all-purpose word offers nothing precise, or that can be measured in any way, unlike words such as  “urgent” or “challenging” for values once at the heart of education but which proved too inappropriate (complex, uncomfortable) after the inappropriate (troublesome) Sixties. The world of business quickly picked up on “appropriate,” finding it both appropriate (efficient) and appropriate (cost-effective), and public officials soon followed suit when “appropriate” proved to be an appropriate (reliable) way to perplex reporters asking inappropriate (revealing) questions.

By 2050, a few elderly cranks were protesting what they called “dumbed down language” and comparing it to the “Doubleplusgood Duckspeak” forecast by George Orwell in 1984, perhaps the most renowned “history of the future” ever written. But the protest backfired when college students noted that Duckspeak didn’t offend anyone and that ducks made “doubleplusgood emojis.”

In 2057, Ding Dong, the student newspaper of Dog and Dinnerbell Univerity, called Duckspeak “the most appropriate (simple) language for safespace.” A tide began to surge. In 2059, Dingaling, the AI algorithm that provides content for student papers with options allowing editors to make it appropriate (relevant) to individual schools, offered a feature calling 1984 “not the warning that liberals always hate on, but a blueprint to rock America!”

By 2064, a new political party emerged from the cold ashes of the Democratic Party that committed political suicide–by pitting an insistance on immediate perfection against a willingness to accept accesssible good–mixed with the confused mush of MAGA, a cult that smothered and replaced the Republican Party while retaining its name. Riding the tide set by D&DU, Dingaling renamed it The Duckspeak Party.

By 2068, enough Americans were so in love with the ease, so enthralled with the oblivion, so convinced of the freedom, and so protective of the right not to care about anything other than themselves that the Duckspeak tide proved a tsunami. English drowned as America began to be ruled by whatever algorithms Dingaling could set. Politicians existed only as fronts, chosen for their entertainment value and their fluency in Duckspeak such as:

I have broken more Elton John records, he seems to have a lot of records. And I, by the way, I don’t have a musical instrument. I don’t have a guitar or an organ. No organ. Elton has an organ. And lots of other people helping. No we’ve broken a lot of records. We’ve broken virtually every record. Because you know, look, I only need this space. They need much more room. For basketball, for hockey and all of the sports, they need a lot of room. We don’t need it. We have people in that space. So we break all of these records. Really we do it without like, the musical instruments. This is the only musical: the mouth. And hopefully the brain attached to the mouth. Right? The brain, more important than the mouth, is the brain. The brain is much more important.*

Whether there’s a brain attached or not, Duckspeak was deemed “doubleplus appropriate” because it simplified everything. Comparisons, no matter how slight, were effectively banned because they could no longer be considered anything other than full-blown equations. State any rhetorical or symbolic similarity between MAGA at the beginning of the past century and the Nazis in the previous century, and you were slammed for accusing MAGA of running gas chambers. Fascists rose to power in the early 21st Century because their tactics could not be mentioned in the same sentence as those used by early-20th Century fascists to gain power. Hence, whole populations fell for the same deceptions. Instead of learning from history, we fell off the Cliff Notes of easy-does-it denial.

Ditto explanations. Documented reports of the violence caused by corruption of Central American governments were dismissed as excuses for an “invasion” of America’s southern border. No one wanted to hear of the US government’s decades-long relations to or meddling in places like Guatemala or Honduras. “Just an excuse!” Calls to stop genocidal bombing in Gaza were twisted into accusations of anti-Semitism even as Jewish people joined in those calls. You might as well call for a second Holocaust. And let’s have no talk of the Mediterranean oil fields off Gaza’s coast that Israel will not allow the Palestinians to drill. Context means nothing. Cause-and-effect relationships have ceased to exist.

In America’s 21st Century, Truth itself became nothing more than a weak-kneed excuse. Any comparison to history was deemed offensive. There is no past. Nor is there a future. That’s why it’s so easy to write a “history of the future,” a phrase that only appears to contradict itself while offering its very appearance as a verbal trick.

There is only Now.

-590-

*Donald Trump, rally in Montana, July 5, 2018.