This entry is dedicated to–and prompted by–my old friend Ben. In response to last week’s post, he suggested that he’d like to know my thoughts on comparing the United Health murder case with the case of Daniel Penny.
Ben suggested that conservatives tend to admire the “Dirty Harry” model, being okay with the use of force, even deadly force, against those who dwell on the lower rungs of society’s ladder, while liberals seem to express admiration for those who use violence against the rich and powerful. This got me thinking, “Do conservatives believe in punching down, while liberals believe in punching up?”
I don’t like people who punch down. These include successful people who are rude to servers, bosses who emotionally abuse and threaten subordinates, and V.I.P.s who are okay with getting special privileges based on their status. I have both liberal and conservative views on issues, but I wouldn’t want to be a person who punches down.
Let me start by saying that Liberalism and Conservatism are both forces for good. Liberalism pushes for needed change; but change introduces risk. Conservatism resists change in an effort to reduce that risk. Taken to extremes, they can also be forces for against the good. But, overall, I think even a person who leans heavily to one side is participating in the social process and providing part of the balance we need.
When I was in 8th grade, my best friend’s parents gave me a copy of The Rights of Students – The Basic ACLU Guide to a Student’s Rights (An American Civil Liberties Union Handbook.) I think it was a Christmas present. Maybe it was for my birthday. We studied American Civics that year, ably taught by Mr. Haddaway and Mr. Rosin. I was very fired up about the Bill of Rights and about the idea that people who had not reached the legal age of majority should still be treated as, well, people.
One passage from the book that struck me and has always stuck with me was this:
Can students be prohibited from expressing their views if those who hold opposing views become angry and boisterous.
No… courts have consistently held that the rights of those who peacefully express their views may not so easily be defeated.
The ACLU has fallen significantly from its perch as a champion of free speech rights since 1977, when the book was published; but, at the time, their stance was strong. I took a broader interpretation away from this question / answer couplet, which was that a person who is exercising his right to free speech cannot be held accountable for illegal actions performed by others.
I’ve been accused of eliciting tears with some of my stories. I wrote this piece eight years ago, and I think it’s one of those stories. I didn’t share it before because It’s sad, and it might sound self-pitying. It also might result in my receiving a lot of “Dude, are you okay?” messages, not to mention recommendations for therapists. I assure you, I’m okay.
I offer this account, first to break a cycle of second-guessing myself and fearing everything I write will somehow backfire on me. Second, I aim not to dwell on the negatives of my life, but to add some depth to my overall story. I think, publicly, I’m a positive person. I accomplish things. I help people. A lot of people say I’m supremely confident. Well, I’m not. Not always. There are internal negatives there. And I think it’s important to know that we all have them. Finally, hope this story will help remind the reader that no human being is meant to be a tool. No matter how useful we are, we should be considered as people first.
And now, about this beagle…
I guess I was twelve, maybe thirteen. We had two dogs—Benji and Lady—who were born in the Spring when I was nine. Lady would stay with us until I was in college, but Benji, well, he was an unaltered male. He wandered. Sometime around the Summer of ’78 he left us for good. Before he did, though, he brought home a girl from his travels. The girl was a beagle. She was a very nice dog, friendly and well-behaved. Personally, I wanted to just let her stay with us.
We had a problem, though. Lady was used to having Benji’s full attention. She didn’t want him to have a wife or a girlfriend or whatever the beagle was. But, as happens with dogs, someone’s the Alpha, and that someone made the decisions. That someone was Benji. He was married now, or engaged, or shacked up, or whatever, and his sister needed to make the best of it.
I just read Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. I’m a science fiction fan and a recovering children’s librarian. This book was already a classic of young adult literature by the time I was of age to read such things. A good friend of mine told me over thirty years ago that it was the best book ever written, and I just had to read it.
So I finally did.
Trigger Warning: Blasphemy.
It bored me. Worse than that, it irritated me.
I will not go into the details of why it bored an irritated me. It’s a respected book which has literally changed lives. My failure to appreciate it is my own failing, not Ms. L’Engle’s.
We all have faults. I reserve the right to have angst about mine, and to take that angst out and fuss with it when I should be doing more productive things.
In the course of fussing, I asked an old friend if she had read the book. This is one of the three or four friends (in S.F. fandom no less!) with whom I still discuss books. She introduced me to Robert Heinlein’s work, back when we were both larval. I thought she would offer a reasoned argument to instill an appreciation for this noted work. I don’t want to be a blasphemer, after all. Blasphemers are broken on the wheel, burned at the stake, or at the very least not invited to respectable dinner parties.
“…Take these pinions, fly behind me: I’ll go ahead, you Follow my lead. That way You’ll be safe. …While he talked, he was fitting The boy’s gear, showing him how to move Like a mother bird with her fledglings. Then he fixed his own harness To his shoulders, nervously poised himself for this strange New journey; paused on the brink of take-off, and embraced his Son, couldn’t fight back his tears. They’d found a hilltop – above the plain, but no mountain – And from this they took off On their hapless flight. Daedalus flexed his wings, glanced back at His son’s, held a steady course. The new Element bred delight. Fear forgotten, Icarus flew more Boldly, with daring skill. Then the boy, made over-reckless by youthful daring, abandoned His father, soared aloft, Too close to the sun: the wax melted, the ligatures Flew apart, his flailing arms had no hold On the thin air. From the dizzy heaven, he gazed down seaward In terror. Fright made the scene go black Before his eyes. No wax, wings gone, a thrash of naked Arms, a shuddering plunge Down through the void, a scream – “Father, Father, I’m falling –” Cut off as he hit the waves. His unhappy father, a father no longer, cried “Icarus! Icarus, where are you? In what part of the sky Do you fly now?” – then saw wings littering the water. Earth holds his bones; the Icarian Sea his name.
From Ovid, The Art of Love: Book 2, translated by Peter Green
Daedalus and Icarus by Ingri and Edgar Parin D’Aulaire
Anyone judging by our popular culture would have trouble distinguishing between an American father and any of the many residents of a clown car, unless maybe that father happens to be a murderous ogre.
On one hand, we have Dad jokes and Dad bods.
On the other, the Latin root-word “Pater” is largely familiar to us for lending the much-despised “Patriarchy” its first syllable.
Viewed through that lens, fathers are either a bit ridiculous, or more than a bit menacing.
But then…
I came across this passage in my reading this morning. The ancient Roman poet Ovid tells the story of Daedalus and Icarus, oddly enough in an erotic poem attempting to illustrate how a male lover might attempt to pin down the wings of Eros, god of love. It’s an odd placement, in one way. Or is it a cautionary tale? A man who ensnares a woman, as Ovid proposes here, risks becoming a father.
If he becomes a father, he risks ever so much more.
Daedalus, it now occurs to me, is quite the figure of a father. At first glance, perhaps, foolish, even ridiculous. Who makes wings out of bird feathers and wax, and proposes to fly with them? Who gives them to a boy, and expects him to follow instructions while using them?
But Daedalus was desperate. He and Icarus lived as slaves under King Minos, who used the father’s genius to his own ends. Daedalus had betrayed Minos, resulting in the death of the King’s beastly son, the Minotaur. Perhaps Minos would not kill his genius slave, but would Daedalus’s son be safe? It seems like a no-brainer that the best revenge for the death of one son would be the death of another.
Daedalus had to get his son away from the isle of Crete. Since Minos controlled shipping and a giant bronze robot guarded the shores, the only way out was up. If he wanted his son to grow to manhood, Daedalus had to give him wings, risk him flying too close to the sun, let him soar. Driven, desperate, ingenious, loving. And this classical example of a concerned father fell prey to every father’s nightmare. The boy flew too close to the blazing chariot of Helios, the Sun, his wings melted, he plunged to his death.
Like Daedalus then, fathers now want to protect their children at all costs. We don’t want them to come to violence. We don’t want them to suffer disease, addiction or poverty. We don’t want them to fly too close to the sun.
And yet we must give them wings. And we must fly on and let them take to the sky.
Oh, we look back a lot. And we cry out a lot, demanding to know where they are. And the nightmare flies beside us all the way, right to the end. We lose sleep, and hair, but probably not weight. We’re ready at any moment to swerve, to fly back, to build any ridiculous device we have to in order for them to escape.
I guess I’ve seen and done a lot in 43 years of work. I’ve done interesting work and known remarkable people. I’m never at a loss when someone says, “Tell me an interesting fact about yourself.”
A dozen books published, three times that many conventions planned, countless articles, stories, novels, scripts, software packages written, fifty plays written, directed or acted, and half again that many radio plays. I’ve found mentors and coached promising young people. I’ve developed a reputation as a guy who will find the answers.
But, when I look back… I feel no nostalgia. Not for my time on the job, not for rehearsing all those shows and running myself ragged at those cons… maybe a little for the people I’ve met along the way, the ones who are no longer here, or who are just distant. I’m almost always happy to see old friends when they emerge. I will tell stories about funny things that happened.
Well, friends, I’ve been a bit quiet about the world scene. About politics. I went through a few years of losing friends around the madness of the Covid pandemic, and that made me gun shy. It seemed every time I opened my mouth to comment on an issue that mattered, I lost a friend.
But there’s a little cartoon voice in my head saying, “If they don’t respect your opinions when you talk about the issues, they never respected you at all. And, if they don’t respect you, they were never your friends to begin with.”
Yep. Kindergarten-level stuff, right. Turns out we all tend to forget what we learned in kindergarten.
So, blocks and unfriendings be damned, I’m here tonight to say that I am supporting Governor Larry Hogan in his campaign for U.S. Senate, and I think you should too. I think this especially if you’re concerned that the Republican Party will take control of the Senate. I think that takeover is inevitable in this election. When it happens, our state must be represented, not by a partisan operative, but by a strong, ethical and courageous leader who has a history of putting his constituents ahead of political expedience.
As with my father, I was asked to deliver the eulogy for my mother’s funeral. What follows is the text from which I worked last Saturday. I can’t promise that this is exactly what I said, but it gives the reader the general impression. And if you’re just catching up because Meta has failed spectacularly in the duty it assigned itself to be the principle medium of the communications of life events: My mother, Evelyn Briggs Wilson, born Elizabeth Evelyn Briggs on December 7, 1926, died on August 25 of this year. Her obituary related the facts of her life. And now for a more personal perspective:
My mother with her parents, Dawson and Clara Banks Briggs, and her uncle Virle Briggs
Do you ever lie awake at night,
Just between the dark and the morning light,
Searching for the things you used to know,
Looking for the place where the lost things go?
Memories you’ve shared, gone for good you feared,
They’re all around you still, though they’ve disappeared.
Nothing’s really left or lost without a trace.
Nothing’s gone forever, only out of place.
Those words aren’t mine. They were written by a man named Scott Wittman for the Walt Disney film Mary Poppins Returns. It’s sung to children who have lost their mother. We saw that movie on Christmas Day in 2018, on one of our last Christmas trips to Rehoboth Beach, one of my mother’s favorite places.
The memories we’ve shared are all around us right now. Dementia changes people, but some prominent traits were with her to the end: her concern that everyone was getting fed, and that everyone had a bed to sleep in; her insistence that all the bills be paid on time–she was sure to the bitter end that she owed someone eight hundred dollars, and that her taxes were late. I never told her that the Maryland Comptroller had mistakenly sent her to collections this Spring for a tax bill she didn’t owe.
Meta, via Facebook, has taken the place of the newspaper in society. In the pre-Internet days, newspapers did significantly more than report on foreign wars and partisan multi-generation duels. Newspapers were the backbone of our social network. From the newspapers we learned which old classmates had died, who was getting married, who was holding a picnic, what the local schools were up to. Newspapers were critical to our engagement in the community.
Then came social media, and, let’s face it, to most of the American public, that means Facebook. Those who once relied on newspapers moved to this new technology for sharing community news. Newspapers required days of lead time and were not free. Facebook made it painless to announce meetings, deaths, births and marriages, and even to request help in crisis. Papers lost this folksy market, and, predictably, people also stopped subscribing.
My apologies to the handful of you that already read this under a different title. The fact is that most of my traffic comes from the social media site that’s recently added a new algorithm to “curate” content. A fair number of pieces of content that I’m very proud of have been getting buried. So I’m experimenting with titles and posting styles.
