I
Make what you will of the Obama-Wright fallout – was it a genuine parting of the ways or some devilish plot to enable the good senator to have finally distanced himself from the radioactive reverend and friend (see Comedy of Errors, posted
May 1)? – it appears to have worked. Never mind the results of this week's primaries were expected; that it was Hillary who had regained much of the ground in a state where nobody gave her a chance; that she pulled an upset in a predominantly Red state which, unlike Pennsylvania, rarely if ever votes democratic in general elections. (The last time was in 1964, when LBJ won a landslide over Barry Goldwater.) Even so, her victory in the Hoosier state is being tainted by the Obama camp and surrogates, crediting Rush Limbaugh and party-crossing Republicans, the covert operatives of "Operation Chaos," for presumably padding Hillary's already slim two-percent victory margin with a hefty seven percent. All that, mind you, amidst the increasing cries from frenzied superdelegates and scared-shitless leadership calling on her to quit. Like rats deserting a sinking ship. It's as clear a case as any of the drive-by media – all in the tank for Obama – defining our perceptions. And, by golly, we're buying it.
Which only lends credence to an age-old maxim – that all first impressions are usually the last (for fear of our having been wrong, for instance, as defense against disillusionment, what have you). In practical terms, it all comes down to the following: if you've embraced the Obama cult to begin with, you're doomed; nothing whatever will sway you from turning away from your acclaimed deliverer and savior – no Reverend Wright, no Rezko scandal, not even the elitist remarks. Nothing will ever tarnish him. Your candidate will remain as pure as Snow White. Same with Hillary, I suppose. You see, I'm no less guilty than you are.
I don't know whether it's a done deal. It may be too late to reverse the tide. True to form and wearing her usual brave face, Sen. Clinton insists she'll stick it out till the end. To prove it, she has already advanced another six million or more from her own coffers; hopefully, contributions from the army of die-hards (myself included) will make the burden easier. For our country's sake, let's hope so. Let it go all the way to the convention floor and further, and let the best man or woman win. Meanwhile, let me offer another perspective to the over-deterministic picture which seems to have captured our imagination as though it was written in stone. Given the fickleness of the Democrat Party and its characteristic lack of spine, I don't hold out much hope. Still, speak I must. There's a chance reason will prevail.
II
Let's change the scene for a moment. It's 1967, three years after the enactment of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. It's movie & popcorn time. The main feature – Guess Who's Coming To Dinner. With the aid of stellar performances by Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy and Sidney Poitier, Stanley Kramer had produced a helluva film – 99th in the list of the 100 Greatest Movies of the past 100 years (so says the American Film Institute in 1998). The storyline, in a nutshell, explores the once-explosive issue of interracial marriage.
"The movie concerns Joanna 'Joey' Drayton, a young white American woman (Houghton) who has had a whirlwind romance with Dr. Prentice (Poitier), an African American she met while on a holiday in Hawaii [of all places]. Prentice plans to fly to New York later that night then on to an assignment in Switzerland. Joanna plans to join him there soon to be married even though she has only known him for a very short period of time. The plot is centered on Joanna's return to her liberal upper class American home in San Francisco, bringing her new fiancé to dinner to meet her parents (Tracy and Hepburn), and the reaction of family and friends." In case you didn't know, "the controversial subject of interracial marriage had been illegal historically in most of the United States, and was still illegal in 17 Southern U.S. States up until June 12 of that year. Although legalized throughout the U.S. following the Supreme Court decision in Loving v. Virginia, the topic was still taboo in many areas." [Wikipedia]
For dramatic purposes, the director Kramer and the screenwriter, William Rose, have intentionally debunked the usual racial stereotypes. To wit, "the young doctor . . . has graduated from a top school, begun innovative medical initiatives in Africa, refused to have premarital sex with his fiancée despite her request, and leaves money on his future father-in-law's desk in payment for a long distance phone call he has made. [Consequently,] the only possible objection to his marrying Joanna would be . . . the fact she only met him nine days earlier." [Wikipedia] And that he was . . . black!
I have a suggestion to make – a thought-experiment of sorts! Instead of Dr. Prentice, suppose it's Mr. Obama. Suppose, further, the time of action is today; that Mr. Obama, in other words, is a "well-know quantity" not only to Joey's parents but all-around; that he's an eligible bachelor, besides.
Well, what do you think? In my opinion, there'd be no movie. No Oscar-winning performances. No drama. No moral deliberations of any kind. In Spencer Tracy's place, I'd throw the rascal out-the-door (or "under the bus," as the new saying goes). End of story!
III
I suppose there's a lesson in this if you're ready to listen. If you're not willing to dine with someone or at least have a beer with, why would you want him for your next president? (Never mind letting them marry your one and only daughter!) Yet, that's exactly how I feel about Mr. Obama and his kind. Unfortunately, we happen to live in times when exigencies of the moment – the sagging economy and the sinking dollar, our debt to China, the protracted war in Iraq, the rising gas- and food prices, the foreclosures and unemployment – all but define each and every person's immediate concern. So much so, I daresay, that it nearly blinds us to what's really important. The character! Consequently, we look for a deliverer, a messiah, anyone who would lead us to the Promised Land, like Moses and the Israelites. Who cares whether he or she is a false prophet so long as they vouch to deliver us from the evil Pharaoh?
Thank the Bush era for the general dummying-down of the American populace!
IV
Politics has always been the art of the possible, of what's practicable or attainable at any point in time, of ends justifying the means, etcetera and etcetera. And to an extent, it's unavoidable, I suppose – a necessary evil as any form of governance, one could say, is. Machiavellian philosophy, whether at home or abroad, represents perhaps the epitome – the finest in the art of deception; Hitlerism and Fascism, Maoism and Stalinism, are some of the cruder forms. This much said, there's always been a strain – a kind of natural friction – between politics (insofar as it's being practiced) and morality. From antiquity till today. So I'm not being a prude, believe me. There may be times, I grant, when taking action, decisive action, may be preferable to a state of stasis – even when at the hands of a tyrant or an outright dictator. (One thinks here of the Patriot Act, for instance, or of the waterboarding, or Guantanamo Bay.) "Pragmatism" – directing one's action toward what works – is not always a bad thing. And it's long been recognized as an indispensable element of Realpolitik, in peace or in war. But to what ends? And at what cost?
V
Is the good of the party, its unity, the healing of wounds, a greater good than what's good for America? Is winning always everything? Does a Democrat in the White House, any Democrat whatever, invariably a better deal than any Republican? Doesn't character matter? Obviously, half of the voters are still undecided, hold serious reservations about either of the candidates in fact. It's a real cliffhanger if there ever was one. And it's all to the good, I'd say. So why short-circuit the political process? What's the rush? Why not wait, instead, until it all plays out and postpone meanwhile all talk of premature coronation lest we elect a usurper and suffer the buyer's remorse? Again, why not let the best man or woman win?
Such should be the hardball questions facing the Democrat Party in these critical times, its leadership, the superdelegates. And I'm certain there are still many honorable individuals out there who are seriously exercised thereby as they struggle with their conscience. Even so, I'm not very hopeful. Don't forget, we're dealing with an institution, a collective, a long-entrenched and power-hungry bureaucracy. Composed of individuals, yes! But the decision-making processes are not individual in the making. They're subject to group mentality and pecking order, to mob rule if you like, to what's considered in the best interest of everyone concerned – The Party! And moral questions, the unique preserve of the individual, are usually shortchanged in settings such as these.
The whole is always greater than the sum of its parts.
VI
I suppose I could stomach this inordinate push to make the inconclusive seem like it was conclusive, to speed-up the political process, to put an end to this contest and declare the winner – if only . . . . If only Mr. Obama were a proven, viable candidate!
Unfortunately, he's anything but. Thus far, there are more questions about him than there are answers; and there's more to come, believe me. And yet, here we go again, trying to promote a candidate for the sake of mere candidacy, like Michael Dukakis, John Kerry and other nonesuch. A sorry lineage indeed. Only this time it's a poster boy for a party which has long lost its moral compass and is going nowhere. For the sake of political correctness, I daresay, driven by "white guilt."
Don't expect any successes come November.
VII
I'm quickly becoming the voice in the wilderness, the lone ranger, the one and only prophet. Even my "friends," my ideological compadres, my sisters- and brothers-in-arms, are abandoning me. And it's not a comfortable feeling, believe me.
Christine Craft, for instance, speaks of the Supreme Court and the evil that'd come from packing it with more conservative judges. That's her only excuse as far as I can see for supporting Mr. Obama – any Democrat, I suppose – if worst comes to worst. And then, there is Karel!
When faced with a disgruntled caller expressing serious misgivings concerning Mr. Obama's deceitfulness, lack of candor and questionable integrity, he retorted that all politicians are deceitful, disingenuous, and devious – the obvious message being, "Hillary was no exception." (And that's from a Hillary supporter himself.) In the interest of fairness, I should tell of the circumstance. It had come in the aftermath of Hillary's razor-thin victory in Indiana and her rather below-expectations performance in North Carolina. The media was proclaiming doom and gloom. Anyone would be discouraged.
Even so, it's no excuse! Both you and Ms Craft are guilty of the vulgar, unabashed version of moral relativism – of "pragmatism" elevated to the highest possible value, of prostitution of sorts.
All human beings are tainted, 'tis true. Which isn't to say we're all equal. And that's the point of it all! What we should look for in our leaders are qualities which are inimitable, better than average, better at least than the ones we credit ourselves with. Where else can respect come from?
The point of the matter is – the duties of the presidency are hard enough to challenge even the most dedicated and upright and noble. Even the best have been known to succumb and to crumble. Why settle then for less in this best of all possible worlds – the inexperienced and the untried?
Go Hillary, go!
Links:
http://www.270towin.com/states/Indiana
[Indiana joined the Union in December 1816. It has been primarily Republican throughout its history, and today is the "reddest" state in the Midwest. Since 1940, it has only voted Democratic in 1964, when Lyndon Johnson won a landslide over Barry Goldwater. In both 1992 and 1996, Indiana was an island of red, its borders not touching a single Republican-voting state in any direction. In 2004, George W. Bush defeated John Kerry 60% to 39%.]
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guess_Who%27s_Coming_to_Dinner
The Greyhound Experience
I
Forgive the long spell of silence, but I've been in transit – a real strain on both body and soul. Physically, I seem to have recovered and this blog is proof enough, I think. The memories and impressions, however, will linger. No, it's not about politics this time, just a slice of life.
II
A week or so ago it had struck me to visit my sister. Truth be told, it was one of the few options I felt I had left but more on that later. Meanwhile, let me limit my comments to the experience of travel across this great US of A. If you think air-travel has suffered much since 9/11 and recent bankruptcies, mergers, and acquisitions, think again. Better yet, you ought to try Greyhound.
It's a true nightmare if there ever was one. No wonder the old slogan, "Take Greyhound and leave the driving to us," is no longer in use. No one in their right mind would dare to re-invoke the old jingle unless of course they were unconscionable or hopelessly out of touch. To their credit, I suppose, the Greyhound executives are neither. But that's neither here nor there.
Let's see now. Oakland, California to Clarksville, Tennessee – a straight shot of 2000 miles give or take. Never mind that Hopkinsville, Kentucky, my final destination, was off the Greyhound's stop list; that's the least of the inconvenience considering. Nor was the rerouting of the good ol' route, of cutting it down to size to match the all-desirable now hub-to-hub connections out of whack. Oakland to Salt Lake City; Salt Lake City to Denver; Denver to Kansas City; Kansas City to San Louis; San Louis to Nashville: except for the Wyoming "detour" to bypass the scenic Rockies, it's as straight a shot as one could possibly hope for. So the hub-to-hub mode of travel hasn't exactly affected the bus routes, not quite in the way it had already begun affecting air-travel and will. So where's the beef? It's in the travel time, man! Especially in the quality of time needlessly spent on the bus and off – mostly off. And the transfers!
Just think. 2000 miles in 40 hours of nonstop driving is not an unreasonable estimate. Bear in mind that except for California, the speed limit ranges from 70 to 75 miles per hour. So I'm already factoring in, as it were, the little stops along the way for smoke breaks, passing water and whatnot. And a couple of daily breaks for lunch and supper squeezed here and there – usually from thirty to forty-five-minutes long – provided, of course, they're also the places with food good enough to eat. Most often they're not! It's either a Chevron station in the middle of nowhere, a Pilot Travel Center – a low-end convenience store where a po' boy sandwich is the usual fare – or an occasional McDonald's if you're ever so lucky. And the prices, my goodness! One would think the Greyhound folks were in cahoots with all shady establishments, the shadier the better. But to the point.
I departed from Oakland on Thursday, 1:30 in the morning; arrived in Clarksville on Saturday, 9 am. All told, it was a grueling 54-hour-long trip, and that's taking into account the time change. "Only fourteen hours over the allotted time," you say. Well, those fourteen hours can be sheer hell.
First off, you must disembark – not just you, personally, but your luggage, too. In short, whatever the length of your scheduled layover – one hour at times, sometimes more than two – you're not really free. It'd do no good to check your stuff in the locker because your first concern is – it has to be! – making your next connection. And that means standing in line until your bus comes – if not necessarily in person, every single minute of the stinking wait, then at least by way of your luggage doing your standing for you, hoping all along no one will abscond with it while you sneak out for a smoke break or visit the lavatory. You see, Greyhound doesn't recognize transfer passengers as having a priority. Their "first come first serve" egalitarian policy applies to each and everyone alike – whether you're a brand-new passenger or a "transferee." Which makes you re-live the horror of the boarding experience many times over – as many times as the bus changes. When added to the already gruesome, seemingly endless trip, it's a cruel and unusual punishment.
Another intended consequence: rarely if ever are the buses less than full; frequently, they're overbooked. At one stage, I distinctly remember, six or more passengers have boarded in the middle of the night in some dinky Missouri town while, mind you, not a single seat was available. Consequently, they either had to stand or sit on the floor, some of them for up to three hours, before they were all seated. It speaks volumes, no doubt, to Greyhound's ability to maximize profit out of every traversed mile – all of which is commendable, I suppose, in this age of skyrocketing fuel prices. But what about the passengers' safety or comfort?
There were some memorable moments – like the one in Elko, Nevada, when the entire bus was searched as part of a random drug-check. When one of the deputies had asked the fellow next to me what's in his bag, "My whole life," he replied. We got to talking. Or like the couple behind me engaged in the game of ongoing flirtation. Though they had only met and were going their separate ways, it didn't stop 'em any.
It was like being privy to an act of foreplay – all-audio by the way, no visual, but what a treat! When I turned my head and chanced to take a peek, I was disappointed. Both were rather comely, dull in dress and appearance, and all so very, very young. But their voices, sharp tongues, and colorful inflection (both were from the Deep South), never at a loss for words or clever repartee – so evenly matched they were as they dueled back and forth – have more than made up for their comeliness. There's something to be said for small towns and their repressive environment. It makes some spirits rise up and rebel. Had they only known how truly brilliant and vibrant they were, what energy and untold potential lay hidden only to be unleashed if properly canalized, what great things to accomplish, what heights to climb? I doubt they'll ever will. What a waste!
And then to the climax itself – of sharing life experiences, meaningful and trivial, with a total stranger. It was fitting, perhaps, it should have cupped my entire journey. She sat next to me and we talked. She told me of her involvement with the victims of Katrina, her plans to travel and settle down in Australia perhaps; I spoke of my predicament, of my literary ambitions and rather uncertain future. We talked about books and movies, of politics and whatnot. Then played the game of trivial pursuit: of reading to each other questions from the playing cards before divining the answers written on the back. It was fun while it lasted. Before I knew it, it was time to disembark.
It wasn't until then that we shook hands and exchanged our names. Her name was Sandy or Sally, I can't remember now which. Anyways, I gave her my website. So if you ever visit it, Sandy or Sally, or whatever's your name, dear girl, post a comment if you please. It's been nice knowing you, and good luck.
But those were the highlights, a few bright moments of rather depressing long day's journey into night – a journey one would just as soon forget. The predominant impression was one of hopelessness, of bleak faces and lifeless eyes, of shabby attires and defeated postures, of people moving about like shadows to and fro, aimlessly, for no apparently good reason. To what end? To escape homelessness, perhaps? To find a new life? The reasons, I'm certain, were many, as many as there were stories. May they all find what they seek!
All told, it was like having been shown a snapshot from another time and place – some Third-World country perhaps – except that none of the diverse members who made up the Greyhound contingent seemed happy. Besides, they were all wired. Their cell phones, so it seemed, were their last and only connection with the prosperity and culture which, if they ever knew, they've long ceased being part of.
III
There are, indeed, two Americas: those who still fly and drive their Hummers and SUVs; and the rest who, for lack of options I suppose, are more or less resigned to take Greyhound. And it looks like the Greyhound underclass is here to stay, like a permanent fixture more or less – no different, perhaps, than the armies of the unemployed and the hobos riding the box cars during the Great Depression. It doesn't bide well for future America.
Welcome to brave new world.
PS: I'm submitting this blog to the Greyhound folks, inviting them to post a comment or reply. No, I don't believe in miracles, but if a miracle should happen you'll be the first to know.
Posted at 08:48 AM in Social Commentary | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)