I think this will be the last post about Gary. What I want to do in this blog is talk about governing, and politics, and the behavior of people in groups, a topic I have some expertise in, having been a psychologist for the last fifty years. But since this all comes from the trauma and sense of betrayal I felt – am feeling – about the trashing of the American experiment, and since it's designed to help me get through it, I have to answer the question: “Geez, Gary, get a grip! Why are you taking this so seriously? It's only politics!”
No, it's only America. And America, it turns out, is something I have loved dearly almost all my life.
Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that I come from a very highly structured family with pretty rigid routines. I'll spare you most of that, but this is important: from the time I was nine, when we moved in 1959, until I went off to college, we ate dinner at 6:00 sharp. Not 5:55, not 6:05. We sat down at 6:00 and the radio went on. Lyle Van, on WOR, I think. We listened to the news for fifteen minutes. Then we talked. On Wednesdays, there was “The Midweek Moment of Meditation,” when Gladys Swarthout sang “Bless This House.” I remember thinking she was a terrible singer (already a music critic), but it turns out that she was just an opera singer.
The point is – I was aware of, and engaged in conversations about, news, politics and history from a young age. I know this started before we moved, but my memories are fuzzy. The Berlin Crisis, which started in 1958, was a real scare, and those who were aware of it believed it could escalate into a nuclear exchange. I was eight years old and I knew the difference between the fire siren and the “take cover, nuclear attack” signal. Every time the siren went off, I stopped and listened carefully, my heart in my throat.
I remember what day President Eisenhower had his weekly press conference (Wednesdays), and I remember having opinions about the 1960 Presidential race, when I was ten years old. I remember winning a nickel from my friend Rod in a bet on the outcome of the 1964 Presidential race, and thinking he must be completely ignorant, thinking Goldwater had a chance in hell of winning.
It turns out that others weren't particularly ignorant – I was just particularly engaged. My mother was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and did genealogy going back to the sixteenth century; my father was a grandson of immigrants from was then called Czechoslovakia. Our family trips were usually to historic sites from American history. In eighth grade, when I was thirteen, I decided to become an American History teacher (partly because I thought my eighth grade American History teacher was pretty cool), and never looked back.
And it's been like that ever since. I have been engaged in politics and history all my life. I almost became an American History teacher (and am still properly certified) but at the last minute I switched to School Psychology. I've voted – knowledgeably – in every election, marched in protests, slept in my sleeping bag on the lawn of the US Capitol; I've hand-written letters (the most effective kind, at the time) to decisionmakers, organized sporadically, and got elected four times to our County Board and labored in the minority the whole time. I worked briefly in a Senator's office during the protests following the Kent State killings, and much later I ghost-wrote a column about hunger for our Republican Congressman. I listen to the NPR recording of the Declaration of Independence every July 4th. I've driven across this country nearly a dozen times, reliving history as I drove.
And I love America. Not in the country-music way, not in the flag-waving way, but from a deep knowledge of what America is and where we've come from. A new thing, in 1776 and 1789, a daring experiment brought about by flawed but courageous men who kept at it until they had it right enough to work. I'm still awed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights (the 3/5 compromise and the second amendment notwithstanding), and I was proud to live in a country where they stood firm against all opponents, providing Americans with the rule of law that both regulated and freed us.
And then, in my old age, I had to watch as America chose to throw it all way. It is a different country now, and not one I want to live in anymore. You might love it, you might be indifferent, you might hate it – but it's gone now. The damage, only two months into the America that we chose, is becoming more irreparable every day. Literally, every day: just read Heather Cox Richardson's daily letter.
America, you've killed something I've loved all my life. After four years of what America's turned into, The New World will be, regardless of what you thought of the old one, worse.
As I did at the beginning of the other New World blog, I'll offer up this brilliant song I heard Shawn Colvin sing on the radio this morning, a beautiful cover of the Paul Simon song “American Tune.”
But we come on a ship they called Mayflower
We come on a ship that sailed the moon
We come in the ages' most uncertain hour and we sing an American tune...
But it's alright, it's alright, for we've lived so well, so long
Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong, I can't help it I wonder what's gone wrong.
And that's why is so hard to get a grip. Something's gone wrong. Maybe this blog will help.
Enough about me. Give me some time to work on it, and we'll start a discussion about The New World ahead of us.
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