The Green Fields of France (Willie McBride)
PRETTY BOY FLOYD
Woody Guthrie, 1939
If you'll gather 'round me, children,
A story I will tell
'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw,
Oklahoma knew him well.
It was in the town of Shawnee,
A Saturday afternoon,
His wife beside him in his wagon
As into town they rode.
There a deputy sheriff approached him
In a manner rather rude,
Vulgar words of anger,
An' his wife she overheard.
Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain,
And the deputy grabbed his gun;
In the fight that followed
He laid that deputy down.
Then he took to the trees and timber
To live a life of shame;
Every crime in Oklahoma
Was added to his name.
But many starving farmers
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.
Others tell you 'bout a stranger
That came to beg a meal,
Underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.
It was in Oklahoma City,
It was on a Christmas Day,
There was a whole carload of groceries
Come with a note to say:
“Well, you say that I'm an outlaw,
You say that I'm a thief.
Here's a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.”
Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men;
Some will rob you with a six-gun,
And some with a fountain pen.
And as through your life you travel,
Yes, as through your life you roam,
You won't ever see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.
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Notes: Here is the establishment’s version (Time Magazine, October 22, 1934). If you never thought about it, Time and every other mass circulation magazine and newspaper in the USA belongs to billionaires, who in almost every case, made their fortune thinking nothing of charity, nothing of driving “a family from their home.” The Pretty Boy Floyds of the world are their enemies. They want us to think that these pretty boys are our enemies, but are they? As far as they are concerned, the Robin Hoods of this world pose a much greater threat to their wealth and power than the Boston Strangler. A Robin Hood—and any compassionate free thinker—exposes the injustice of our system, as well as the narrow outlook, thoughtless lifestyle, and shaky morality of the Windsors, Kennedys, Melons, Rockefellers, Bushes, Cheneys, Kerrys, and Gates. Anyway, here’s Time’s version of Floyd’s life:
Born 30 years ago on a Georgia farm, "Pretty Boy" Floyd moved with his parents at an early age to the Cookson Hills District of the Oklahoma Ozarks. There he got the nickname of "Choc" and a bad reputation. At 18 he robbed a neighborhood post-office of $350 in pennies.
A three-year apprenticeship in the St. Louis underworld landed him, in 1925, in Missouri Penitentiary for a payroll robbery. There he peddled drugs, struck down guards, and met "Red" Lovett, who teamed up with him on his release in 1929.
For the next four years he robbed rural banks, taking on new partners as his old ones fell dead by the wayside. Whenever pursuit got too close, he retired to the Cookson Hills where he reputedly keeps a string of mountaineers in funds in exchange for their close-mouthed hospitality. A murderously cool shot, his trigger finger has already accounted for at least six deaths. Fond of flashy clothes, he likes to show his bravado by returning to his home town, Sallisaw, Okla., for brief visits. He is wanted by the Federal Government for two murders, two mail robberies.
Less than 24 hours after Federal agents announced that Floyd was wanted as one of the Union Station killers, he was flushed out of an Iowa farm by two peace officers. In his first brush with authority this year, he showed that he had lost none of his finesse. Jumping into a car with two companions, he led the police on a wild chase to an empty house at the dead end of a road. There he turned on them with a machine gun and automatic rifles, shot his way out and away.
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THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
words and music by Woody Guthrie
Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me
As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me
Chorus
I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was sounding
This land was made for you and me
Chorus
The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me
Chorus
As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!
Chorus
In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.
Chorus (2x)
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Internet Material for the Martin Luther King Workshop
Memphis Sanitation Strike:
"During a heavy rainstorm in Memphis on February 1, 1968, two black sanitation workers had been crushed to death when the compactor mechanism of the trash truck was accidentally triggered. On the same day in a separate incident also related to the inclement weather, 22 black sewer workers had been sent home without pay while their white supervisors were retained for the day with pay. About two weeks later, on February 12, more than 1,100 of a possible 1,300 black sanitation workers began a strike for job safety, better wages and benefits, and union recognition."
Dr. King announced a Poor People’s Campaign that would culminate in Poor People’s March on Washington with demands for an Economic Bill of Rights guaranteeing employment and a living wage, national economic support for those unable to work and decent housing for all.
He was assassinated on April 4, 1968 as he prepared a march in support of sanitation and other municipal employees.
The Mission Statement of the 2004 Million Worker March declares:
“Thirty-six years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. summoned working people across America to a Poor People’s March on Washington to inaugurate “‘a war on poverty at home.’ ‘The United States government,’ he proclaimed, ‘is one of the greatest purveyors of violence in the world. America is at a crossroads in history and it is critically important for us as a nation and society to choose a new path and to move on it with resolution and courage.’
“Working people are under siege while new wars of devastation are launched at the expense of the poor everywhere.
“The Million Worker March will revive and expand a great struggle for fundamental change, as we forge together a social, economic and political movement that will transform America.”
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The Martin Luther King You Don't See On TV
Media Beat (1/4/95)
By Norman Solomon
It's become a TV ritual: Every year in mid-January, around the time of Martin Luther King's birthday, we get perfunctory network news reports about "the slain civil rights leader."
The remarkable thing about this annual review of King's life is that several years — his last years — are totally missing, as if flushed down a memory hole.
What TV viewers see is a closed loop of familiar file footage: King battling desegregation in Birmingham (1963); reciting his dream of racial harmony at the rally in Washington (1963); marching for voting rights in Selma, Alabama (1965); and finally, lying dead on the motel balcony in Memphis (1968).
An alert viewer might notice that the chronology jumps from 1965 to 1968. Yet King didn't take a sabbatical near the end of his life. In fact, he was speaking and organizing as diligently as ever.
Almost all of those speeches were filmed or taped. But they're not shown today on TV.
Why?
It's because national news media have never come to terms with what Martin Luther King Jr. stood for during his final years.
In the early 1960s, when King focused his challenge on legalized racial discrimination in the South, most major media were his allies. Network TV and national publications graphically showed the police dogs and bullwhips and cattle prods used against Southern blacks who sought the right to vote or to eat at a public lunch counter.
But after passage of civil rights acts in 1964 and 1965, King began challenging the nation's fundamental priorities. He maintained that civil rights laws were empty without "human rights" — including economic rights. For people too poor to eat at a restaurant or afford a decent home, King said, anti-discrimination laws were hollow.
Noting that a majority of Americans below the poverty line were white, King developed a class perspective. He decried the huge income gaps between rich and poor, and called for "radical changes in the structure of our society" to redistribute wealth and power.
"True compassion," King declared, "is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring."
By 1967, King had also become the country's most prominent opponent of the Vietnam War, and a staunch critic of overall U.S. foreign policy, which he deemed militaristic. In his "Beyond Vietnam" speech delivered at New York's Riverside Church on April 4, 1967 — a year to the day before he was murdered —King called the United States "the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today."
From Vietnam to South Africa to Latin America, King said, the U.S. was "on the wrong side of a world revolution." King questioned "our alliance with the landed gentry of Latin America," and asked why the U.S. was suppressing revolutions "of the shirtless and barefoot people" in the Third World, instead of supporting them.
In foreign policy, King also offered an economic critique, complaining about "capitalists of the West investing huge sums of money in Asia, Africa and South America, only to take the profits out with no concern for the social betterment of the countries."
You haven't heard the "Beyond Vietnam" speech on network news retrospectives, but national media heard it loud and clear back in 1967 — and loudly denounced it. Time magazine called it "demagogic slander that sounded like a script for Radio Hanoi." The Washington Post patronized that "King has diminished his usefulness to his cause, his country, his people."
In his last months, King was organizing the most militant project of his life: the Poor People's Campaign. He crisscrossed the country to assemble "a multiracial army of the poor" that would descend on Washington — engaging in nonviolent civil disobedience at the Capitol, if need be — until Congress enacted a poor people's bill of rights. Reader's Digest warned of an "insurrection."
King's economic bill of rights called for massive government jobs programs to rebuild America's cities. He saw a crying need to confront a Congress that had demonstrated its "hostility to the poor" — appropriating "military funds with alacrity and generosity," but providing "poverty funds with miserliness."
How familiar that sounds today, more than a quarter-century after King's efforts on behalf of the poor people's mobilization were cut short by an assassin's bullet.
As 1995 gets underway, in this nation of immense wealth, the White House and Congress continue to accept the perpetuation of poverty. And so do most mass media. Perhaps it's no surprise that they tell us little about the last years of Martin Luther King's life.
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Jeff Cohen and Norman Solomon are syndicated columnists and authors of Adventures in Medialand: Behind the News, Beyond the Pundits (Common Courage Press).
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Note: In April 1967 King already had a premonition that the media will try to pigeon-hole him, not as a humanitarian, not as Christian, but as a civil rights activist. Here is his reply:
For those who ask the question, "Aren't you a civil rights leader?" and thereby mean to exclude me from the movement for peace, I have this further answer. In 1957, when a group of us formed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, we chose as our motto: "To save the soul of America." We were convinced that we could not limit our vision to certain rights for black people, but instead affirmed the conviction that America would never be free or saved from itself until the descendants of its slaves were loosed completely from the shackles they still wear. In a way we were agreeing with Langston Hughes, that black bard of Harlem, who had written earlier:
|O, yes, I say it plain, |
|America never was America to me, |
|And yet I swear this oath- |
|America will be! |
Now it should be incandescently clear that no one who has any concern for the integrity and life of America today can ignore the present war. If America's soul becomes totally poisoned, part of the autopsy must read "Vietnam." It can never be saved so long as it destroys the deepest hopes of men the world over. So it is that those of us who are yet determined that "America will be" are led down the path of protest and dissent, working for the health of our land.
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Reflections on the Good Samaritan Parable
The Good Samaritan Parable demonstrates once more how wishful thinking, prejudice, and self-interest can cloud human judgment. I for one, never met or read anyone who does understand this breathtakingly beautiful parable.
First, who were the Samaritans? They practiced their own version of Judaism, and lived side by side with the Jews of Israel. Despite the striking similarities in religion, appearance, and language between the two people, they were treated by the xenophobic occupants of that ancient land as foreigners. For Jews like Jesus, or Peter, or Matthew, or James, or Judas, or John the Baptist, a Samaritan means a member of this group, but it also means, in more general terms: a despised foreigner.
You don’t believe me? Consider the following quote, straight from the Bible, Matthew, 10: 5-6.
These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not. But go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
You see, Jesus conceived of his ministry as a strictly Jewish affair. He specifically forbade his disciples to bring the gospel to non-Jews, a category which even included the Samaritans.
Now, let’s look at the parable itself (Matthew, ) substituting the word despised foreigner for the word Samaritan:
The Parable of the Despised Foreigner (Good Samaritan; Luke 10)
25On one occasion an expert in Jewish law stood up to test Jesus. “Rabbi,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
26“What is written in our Law?” Jesus replied. “How do you read it?”
27The scholar answered: “ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”
28“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”
29But the scholar wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”
30In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. 31A Cohen [Jewish priest] happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. 32So too, a Levite [a Jewish religious functionary], when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33But a lowly foreigner [Samaritan), as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, took pity on him. 34He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. 35The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’
36“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
37The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”
Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”
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The interpretation here appears straightforward. Jesus was raised as a Jew, as were all the apostles. They were all adherents of the compassionate Judaism school of Rabbi Hillel, who made the strong variant of the golden rule the centerpiece of Judaism, a generation before Jesus. Jesus and company all had beards, celebrated Passover, refrained from eating pork, and looked probably like contemporary Palestinians (which makes a mockery of just about any European artistic depiction of Jesus). They all took the unworthiness of gentiles for granted (elsewhere in Matthew, Jesus likens non-Jews to dogs, and initially refuses to heal a suffering gentile). The Samaritan is not simply a good man. The point of the parable is that even a kind-hearted foreigner is more of a neighbor, deserving our love, than a cold-hearted religious functionary of our own faith.
And there is another wonderful point here, a point that is invariably missed by those who would call Jesus a God, instead of a great, kind-hearted, Henry David Thoreau or Martin Luther King of his own day. For this parable can be seen as a testimony to Jesus’ human greatness, to his ability to transcend xenophobia and tribal prejudices, and see that what counts in people is their humanity, not ethnicity. This was a revolutionary doctrine, a manifesto—in his day and in ours.
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Five Levels of Interacting with Texts
I. Contextualization. Before anything else, I need to briefly place the piece I've just read in context. Who is the writer? When was it written? Where is it taking place? What's the historical context?
Often, this information cannot be extracted from the piece itself, but from supplementary sources such as an encyclopedia. Take, as just one example, the fable of the three little piggies. In this case we know almost nothing about the context, except that this is an ancient Western fable, with many variations, which is often told to children.
II. Literal Comprehension. Next, I must understand what any writer is saying. In an essay, literal comprehension often implies the ability to restate the argument. In novels, short stories, poems, and plays, it implies a concise retelling of the plot in my own words. At this point, we shall focus primarily on this second, basic level of interacting with texts.
It has several variations, of which only one will be given here:
Once upon a time there were three pigs. The first pig built a house of straw; the second, of sticks; the third, of bricks. A hungry wolf was able to devour the first two pigs by blowing down their houses, but could neither eat the third pig nor blow down the house of bricks. The angry wolf then entered the brick house through the chimney. While the wolf was implementing his chimney strategy, the third pig placed a bowl of boiling water in the fireplace. The wolf landed in the water and died and the third pig lived happily ever after.
III. Interpretation. Key points of works of fiction and nonfiction are often implied (and not directly stated). The art of inferring these key points is called INTERPRETATION. At this point, I am concerned with the moral of the story or with the hidden message the writer is trying to convey. As a reader of a short story, for example, I must decipher the meaning behind the plot. Often, this level also involves the question: Can some points be extended to circumstances beyond those directly touched upon by the author?
Again, let's make this abstraction clear by looking at the three pigs. We tell stories such as this endlessly to our children to entertain them, of course, but also to educate them. Now, what kind of education do we have in mind? Obviously, it's through such stories that they learn to communicate well and become socialized. But such stories serve other purposes, of which one involves their hidden message.
The teller of this story is probably trying to convey to us one or more of these message: this message: Build your house on solid foundations. OR: invest in your future. Or: Better safe than sorry. Or: If you fail to invest in your future, you may have to pay a terrible price.
Note that finding the moral of a story involves some creativity and hard thinking on your part. Note also that any interpretation contains an element of uncertainty—this might be what the writer is trying to say, but we can't be sure. For this reason, this part of your homework must contain an explanation. For instance, "I believe that the author is trying to tell us that we must work hard to secure a safe future. I believe that this is the hidden message in the story because the first two pigs cut corners, avoided expenses of time and money, built their house on flimsy materials. This nonchalance cost them their lives. On the other hand, the pig who worked hard and paid cold sweat and hard cash for a strong house, survived. His house, but not the others', was truly his castle.
IV. Critical Evaluation.. Whenever reading anything, we must bring to bear our critical faculties as well. We must, that is, subject the text to a criticisms. Here we ask such questions as: What are the positive aspects of this story? Which statements can't I accept? Why can't I accept them? Which aspects of this text survive this filtering process intact? Let's apply this level to our three pigs:
I think this story is told well. It captures the reader's attention, so that once children (the intended audience) begin to listen to this story, they usually want to hear the end. It captures some interesting aspects of life, and does it well. It has, indeed, a touch of poetry to it: Who among us does not remember "huff and puff and blow the house down?"
On the other hand, I have some strong reservations about this story. First, it's a violent story, suggesting to children that problems can indeed be resolved through the use of force. It's also cruel—two pigs get eaten and one wolf take a very hot bath. Also, I agree that one should invest in the future, but this philosophy can be carried too far. We all know people who save and save and invest and invest for tomorrow, forgetting that the only thing we really have is today. The ideal, in my view, is somewhere in the middle, an ideal which is captured by the Spanish saying: "I work to live; I don't live to work."
V. Assimilation. Finally, and most important, readings often involves making something of what you have just read a part of yourself. Stories are meant to touch you, perhaps even change your way of looking at the world. So, alongside my efforts to contextualize, understand, interpret, and critically evaluate a text, I must ask: What is the significance of this text for me? Can I tie this text to something I already know? Can it help me understand anything I didn't understand before? Did it enhance my appreciation for beautiful or good things? Does it suggest some connections that I, and perhaps others, have never perceived before? In what ways am I a different person, now that I have read this story?
Speaking about the three pigs, I can say: I have been troubled by TV violence for a long time, but this story reminded me that the problem existed long before TV was invented. It also reminded me that aggression is deeply embedded in the human condition, and that it would take much more than banning it from the screen to eliminate it. Aggression, I now see a bit more clearly than before, is natural. Like it or not, wolves do eat pigs. I must reconcile myself to the fact that violence is part of life on this planet.
Here are a few final reflections on the five levels of interacting with text:
• One way of distinguishing the levels is through the pronouns (I, we, he, you) used to elaborate them. In the first level, you give essential background, never talking such things as yourself, or the moral of the story.. In the summary you re-tell the story. Here, the word "I" does not belong. You don't talk about yourself, period. You merely describe the sequence of events in the story. In the interpretation, the focus is on the writer of the story. You say: I believe that this is what the WRITER is trying to say. Then you say: MY reasons for believing that is what SHE is trying to say are . . . In the critical evaluation, you give YOUR views of what is wrong and what is right with the story.
• The fifth level is primarily about YOU. You say such things as: This story touched ME because . . . Or this story reminded me once more . .
• Obviously, good readers apply these five levels simultaneously, interwovenly, and spontaneously. They read texts, bearing in mind the potential applicability—and inapplicability—of these levels. Thus, we know almost nothing about the context of ancient fables. Likewise, one may listen to a poem in a language one does not know, be unable to meaningfully apply to it a single level, yet sense its beauty. It may be profitless to criticize—or look for hidden meanings—in the cookbook, The Delights of African Cuisines. A poet who abhors money would be hard put trying to assimilate information from The ABC of Accountancy. It follows that these levels should not be construed as hard-and-fast rules which must be sequentially applied to every text. Instead, the important thing is to know that they exist and to apply them whenever appropriate. Reading well is an art, not an algorithm.
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The Blind Men and the Elephant
A Hindoo Fable
by
John Godfrey Sax
It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!"
The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, "Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 'tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!"
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a snake!"
The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
"What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain," quoth he;
"Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!"
The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!"
The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a rope!"
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
The Moral:
So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!
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INTERDISCIPLINARITY: WHAT, WHERE, WHY?
WHAT IS INTERDISCIPLINARITY?
The word interdisciplinarity is actually made up of two words: inter and disciplinarity. Now inter means between, in the midst of, connecting. For example, international is something involving two or more nations. Similarly, psychology, mathematics, history, or music are all disciplines. Each has its own set of specialists and sub-specialists, each is typically taught by one or another department within a university, and each deals with its own distinct subjects. Thus, psychologists study such things as emotions and perceptions while mathematicians study such things as numbers and triangles.
As long as mathematicians confine themselves to the likes of numbers, triangles, and cones, they are engaged in a purely disciplinary work. But sometimes it is necessary to bring together parts of different disciplines. They may study, for instance, the psychology of solving mathematical problems. When they do that, they put on their interdisciplinary caps. Thus, interdisciplinarity may be defined as combining in some fashion components of two or more disciplines.
WHERE CAN INTERDISCIPLINARITY BE FOUND?
Interdisciplinarity is typically encountered in four contexts:
Interdisciplinary knowledge involves familiarity with aspects of two or more disciplines. If you know that 1 + 1 = 2 (mathematical knowledge) and that Thomas Jefferson lived in the 18th century (historical knowledge), then you possess interdisciplinary knowledge. Isaac Asimov wrote a book about Shakespeare (literature) and a book about the star alpha centauri (astronomy), so he too possessed interdisciplinary knowledge.
Interdisciplinary research combines components of two or more disciplines in the search for new knowledge or artistic expression. For instance, in his efforts to understand how the planet Mars moves about the Sun, the astronomer Johann Kepler combined meticulous observations about Mars (astronomy) with his knowledge of conic sections (mathematics).
Interdisciplinary education combines components of two or more disciplines in a single program of instruction. Nursery rhymes may be taught in language classes. Addition, multiplication, and powers are taught in arithmetic classes. But an interdisciplinary-minded fifth grade teacher may choose to teach both topics by reciting to her students the following ancient nursery rhyme, inviting them to summarize it, and then asking them figure out the number of kits, cats, sacks, and wives (or the number of people going to St. Ives: try this!):
| | |
|As I was going to St. Ives, | |
|I met a man with seven wives; | |
|Every wife had seven sacks, | |
|Every sack had seven cats, | |
|Every cat had seven kits. | |
|Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, | |
|How many were going to St. Ives? | |
Finally, some scholars like to talk about interdisciplinarity itself. They ask such questions as: What is it? What is it good for? How should we convince others of its value? These scholars are interdisciplinary theorists. The little essay you are reading right now provides one example of interdisciplinary theory.
WHY INTERDISCIPLINARITY?
Some people feel that interdisciplinarity is useless. We shall now see that such disparaging views betray a profound misunderstanding of the intellectual, social, and personal rewards of interdisciplinarity:
Creative Breakthroughs: Creativity often involves linkage of previously unrelated ideas. Kepler combined astronomical and mathematical concepts, and was thus able to show that planets describe elliptical orbits about the sun. Leonardo da Vinci secretly dissected human cadavers and studied them, and this anatomical knowledge informed his work as a painter. The novelist Ernest Hemingway borrowed his greatest novel's title (For Whom the Bell Tolls) from the poet John Donne. Moreover, set in Spain, this novel owes much to Hemingway's thorough familiarity with Spanish culture, language, politics, and geography.
Crossdisciplinary Oversights: Disciplinarians often commit errors which can be best detected by people familiar with two or more disciplines.
One example out of hundreds will have to suffice here. A large-scale recent survey found that women wearing bras 24 hours a day are more likely to contract breast cancer than women wearing bras less than 12 hours a day. A respected physician, writing in a mass circulation magazine, assured his readers that the bra-cancer link is "so ludicrous it isn't even worth commenting on." This link may indeed turn out to be mistaken, but its outright dismissal was unwarranted. First, history tells us that genuine advances had often been greeted with scorn and disbelief. Second, history tells us that true observations had often been disbelieved because they could not be explained. Third, sociology tells us that the medical establishment sometimes prefers its own interests to the public's.
Thus, in this case, a holistic perspective can readily spots a disciplinary slip-up. It thus raises the possibility that, in 1995, the bra-cancer link was being spurned because the medical establishment is demonstrably capable of resisting new ideas, shrugging off inexplicable but solid observations, and protecting its turf.
Intellectual, Social, and Practical Problems: Many problems require holistic approaches. The economist Herman Daly puts it this way:
Probably the major disservice that experts provide in confronting the problems of mankind is dividing the problem in little pieces and parceling them out to specialists. . . . Although it is undeniable that each specialty has much of importance to say, it is very doubtful that the sum of all these specialized utterances will ever add to a coherent solution, because the problems are not independent and sequential but highly interrelated and simultaneous. Someone has to look at the whole, even if it means foregoing full knowledge of all of the parts.
The intellectual, social, and personal price of narrow compartmentalization has been often remarked upon. Indeed, history might have been different if the experts who developed aerosol sprays examined their impact before setting them loose on the ozone layer (and thereby possibly harming, throughout the next century, the health of as many as one-quarter billion people); if the people who put together Egypt's Aswan Dam had been trained to remember the large picture; if the people who marketed thalidomide looked beyond its tranquilizing and economic potential. An interdisciplinary background may have not caused industry experts to adopt a more balanced view of the tobacco/cancer link, but it might have tempered their outright advocacy of smoking.
A poem by John Godfrey Saxe (which is based on an Indian fable) humorously captures the same idea:
|It was six men of Indostan | |
|To learning much inclined | |
|Who went to see the elephant | |
|(Though all of them were blind), | |
|That each by observation | |
|Might satisfy his mind. | |
|The first approached the Elephant, | |
|And happening to fall | |
|Against his broad and sturdy side, | |
|At once began to bawl: | |
|"God bless me! But the Elephant | |
|Is very like a wall!" | |
The second blind man touches the tusk and concludes that an elephant "is very like a spear" and so on to the sixth blind man who touches the tail and concludes that the elephant "is very like a rope." The poet then goes on to say:
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
Thus, many complex or practical problems can only be understood by pulling together insights and methodologies from a variety of disciplines. Those who forget this simple truth run the intellectual risk of tunnel vision and the social risk of irresponsible action.
Unity of Knowledge: It is of course impossible to become an expert in everything. But if we mistake disciplinary knowledge for wisdom; if we forget how much we don't know; if we forget how much we cannot know; if we don't set for ourselves, in principle at least, the ideal of the unity of knowledge; we lose something of great importance. By tenaciously attempting the impossible task of knowing everything, interdisciplinarians help us see the various components of human knowledge for what they are: pieces in a panoramic jigsaw puzzle.
Familiarity with other cultures enables us to see deficiencies in our own:
The modern mind divides, specializes, thinks in categories: the Greek instinct was the opposite, to take the widest view, to see things as an organic whole. . . . It was arete that the [Olympic] games were designed to test: the arete of the whole man, not a merely specialized skill. . . . The great event was the pentathlon, if you won this, you were a man. Needless to say, the Marathon race was never heard of until modern times: the Greeks would have regarded it as a monstrosity. As for the skill shown by modern champions in games like golf or billiard, the Greeks would certainly have admired it intensely, and thought it an admirable thing: in a slave, supposing that one had no better use for a slave than to train him in this way. Impossible, he would say, to acquire skill like this and at the same time to live the proper life of a man and a citizen. It is this feeling that underlies Aristotle's remark that a gentleman should be able to play the flute: but not too well.
More Knowledge and Pleasure for your Time: Imagine that you have been a photographer for the past twenty years and then decided to quit. Let's say you never read much literature before, and chose it as your next specialty. Couldn't we say that now, after making this move, you are learning more in one day than you learned before in one month? Couldn't we say that you are now expanding your horizons at a faster rate and having more fun to boot? Isaac Asimov, for one, would concur:
I found myself doing research on a biochemical topic. In that area of study I obtained my Ph.D., and in no time at all I was teaching biochemistry at a medical school. But even that was too wide a subject. From books to nonfiction, to science, to chemistry, to biochemistry: and not yet enough. The orchard had to be narrowed down further. To do research, I had to find myself a niche within biochemistry, so I began work on nucleic acids. . . . And at about that point, I rebelled! I could not stand the claustrophobia that clamped down upon me. I looked with horror, backward and forward across the years, at a horizon that was narrowing down and narrowing down to so petty a portion of the orchard. What I wanted was all the orchard, or as much of it as I could cover in a lifetime of running. . . . I have never been sorry for my stubborn advance toward generalization. To be sure, I can't wander in detail through all the orchard, any more than anyone else can, no matter how stupidly determined I may be to do so. Life is far too short and the mind is far too limited. But I can float over the orchard as in a balloon.
CONCLUSION
Our goal in writing this short defense of interdisciplinarity is not disparaging disciplinarity and disciplinarians; our society needs chemists and photographers. Moreover, most specialists are perfectly content to remain where they are for the rest of their lives, and they have every right to do so. We are only saying that both disciplinarity and interdisciplinarity are valuable. The world of art, culture, and science would be in a poor state indeed without both.
As a student or scholar, you must choose between specialization and holistic thinking—between a disciplinary and an interdisciplinary major or topic. It's perfectly OK to choose either one, as long as you bear in mind that the choice is not final and that reality itself is not divided into neat disciplinary blocks: the world is one.
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The Stub Book
Not Available Online
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A Sound of Thunder
Ray Bradbury
The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding warm water. Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare, and the sign burned in this momentary darkness:
TIME SAFARI, INC.
SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST.
YOU NAME THE ANIMAL.
WE TAKE YOU THERE.
YOU SHOOT IT.
Warm phlegm gathered in Eckels' throat; he swallowed and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed a smile as he put his hand slowly out upon the air, and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man behind the desk.
"Does this safari guarantee I come back alive?"
"We guarantee nothing," said the official, "except the dinosaurs." He turned. "This is Mr. Travis, your Safari Guide in the Past. He'll tell you what and where to shoot. If he says no shooting, no shooting. If you disobey instructions, there's a stiff penalty of another ten thousand dollars, plus possible government action, on your return."
Eckels glanced across the vast office at a mass and tangle, a snaking and humming of wires and steel boxes, at an aurora that flickered now orange, now silver, now blue. There was a sound like a gigantic bonfire burning all of Time, all the years and all the parchment calendars, all the hours piled high and set aflame.
A touch of the hand and this burning would, on the instant, beautifully reverse itself. Eckels remembered the wording in the advertisements to the letter. Out of chars and ashes, out of dust and coals, like golden salamanders, the old years, the green years, might leap; roses sweeten the air, white hair turn Irish-black, wrinkles vanish; all, everything fly back to seed, flee death, rush down to their beginnings, suns rise in western skies and set in glorious easts, moons eat themselves opposite to the custom, all and everything cupping one in another like Chinese boxes, rabbits into hats, all and everything returning to the fresh death, the seed death, the green death, to the time before the beginning. A touch of a hand might do it, the merest touch of a hand.
"Unbelievable." Eckels breathed, the light of the Machine on his thin face. "A real Time Machine." He shook his head. "Makes you think, If the election had gone badly yesterday, I might be here now running away from the results. Thank God Keith won. He'll make a fine President of the United States."
"Yes," said the man behind the desk. "We're lucky. If Deutscher had gotten in, we'd have the worst kind of dictatorship. There's an anti everything man for you, a militarist, anti-Christ, anti-human, anti-intellectual. People called us up, you know, joking but not joking. Said if Deutscher became President they wanted to go live in 1492. Of course it's not our business to conduct Escapes, but to form Safaris. Anyway, Keith's President now. All you got to worry about is-"
"Shooting my dinosaur," Eckels finished it for him.
"A Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Tyrant Lizard, the most incredible monster in history. Sign this release. Anything happens to you, we're not responsible. Those dinosaurs are hungry."
Eckels flushed angrily. "Trying to scare me!"
"Frankly, yes. We don't want anyone going who'll panic at the first shot. Six Safari leaders were killed last year, and a dozen hunters. We're here to give you the severest thrill a real hunter ever asked for. Traveling you back sixty million years to bag the biggest game in all of Time. Your personal check's still there. Tear it up. "Mr. Eckels looked at the check. His fingers twitched.
"Good luck," said the man behind the desk. "Mr. Travis, he's all yours."
They moved silently across the room, taking their guns with them, toward the Machine, toward the silver metal and the roaring light.
First a day and then a night and then a day and then a night, then it was day-night-day-night. A week, a month, a year, a decade! A.D. 2055. A.D. 2019. 1999! 1957! Gone! The Machine roared.
They put on their oxygen helmets and tested the intercoms.
Eckels swayed on the padded seat, his face pale, his jaw stiff. He felt the trembling in his arms and he looked down and found his hands tight on the new rifle. There were four other men in the Machine. Travis, the Safari Leader, his assistant, Lesperance, and two other hunters, Billings and Kramer. They sat looking at each other, and the years blazed around them.
"Can these guns get a dinosaur cold?" Eckels felt his mouth saying.
"If you hit them right," said Travis on the helmet radio. "Some dinosaurs have two brains, one in the head, another far down the spinal column. We stay away from those. That's stretching luck. Put your first two shots into the eyes, if you can, blind them, and go back into the brain."
The Machine howled. Time was a film run backward. Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them. "Think," said Eckels. "Every hunter that ever lived would envy us today. This makes Africa seem like Illinois."
The Machine slowed; its scream fell to a murmur. The Machine stopped.
The sun stopped in the sky.
The fog that had enveloped the Machine blew away and they were in an old time, a very old time indeed, three hunters and two Safari Heads with their blue metal guns across their knees.
"Christ isn't born yet," said Travis, "Moses has not gone to the mountains to talk with God. The Pyramids are still in the earth, waiting to be cut out and put up. Remember that. Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler-none of them exists." The man nodded.
"That" - Mr. Travis pointed - "is the jungle of sixty million two thousand and fifty-five years before President Keith."
He indicated a metal path that struck off into green wilderness, over streaming swamp, among giant ferns and palms.
"And that," he said, "is the Path, laid by Time Safari for your use,
It floats six inches above the earth. Doesn't touch so much as one grass blade, flower, or tree. It's an anti-gravity metal. Its purpose is to keep you from touching this world of the past in any way. Stay on the Path. Don't go off it. I repeat. Don't go off. For any reason! If you fall off, there's a penalty. And don't shoot any animal we don't okay."
"Why?" asked Eckels.
They sat in the ancient wilderness. Far birds' cries blew on a wind, and the smell of tar and an old salt sea, moist grasses, and flowers the color of blood.
"We don't want to change the Future. We don't belong here in the Past. The government doesn't like us here. We have to pay big graft to keep our franchise. A Time Machine is finicky business. Not knowing it, we might kill an important animal, a small bird, a roach, a flower even, thus destroying an important link in a growing species."
"That's not clear," said Eckels.
"All right," Travis continued, "say we accidentally kill one mouse here. That means all the future families of this one particular mouse are destroyed, right?"
"Right"
"And all the families of the families of the families of that one mouse! With a stamp of your foot, you annihilate first one, then a dozen, then a thousand, a million, a billion possible mice!"
"So they're dead," said Eckels. "So what?"
"So what?" Travis snorted quietly. "Well, what about the foxes that'll need those mice to survive? For want of ten mice, a fox dies. For want of ten foxes a lion starves. For want of a lion, all manner of insects, vultures, infinite billions of life forms are thrown into chaos and destruction. Eventually it all boils down to this: fifty-nine million years later, a caveman, one of a dozen on the entire world, goes hunting wild boar or saber-toothed tiger for food. But you, friend, have stepped on all the tigers in that region. By stepping on one single mouse. So the caveman starves. And the caveman, please note, is not just any expendable man, no! He is an entire future nation. From his loins would have sprung ten sons. From their loins one hundred sons, and thus onward to a civilization. Destroy this one man, and you destroy a race, a people, an entire history of life. It is comparable to slaying some of Adam's grandchildren. The stomp of your foot, on one mouse, could start an earthquake, the effects of which could shake our earth and destinies down through Time, to their very foundations. With the death of that one caveman, a billion others yet unborn are throttled in the womb. Perhaps Rome never rises on its seven hills. Perhaps Europe is forever a dark forest, and only Asia waxes healthy and teeming. Step on a mouse and you crush the Pyramids. Step on a mouse and you leave your print, like a Grand Canyon, across Eternity. Queen Elizabeth might never be born, Washington might not cross the Delaware, there might never be a United States at all. So be careful. Stay on the Path. Never step off!"
"I see," said Eckels. "Then it wouldn't pay for us even to touch the grass?"
"Correct. Crushing certain plants could add up infinitesimally. A little error here would multiply in sixty million years, all out of proportion. Of course maybe our theory is wrong. Maybe Time can't be changed by us. Or maybe it can be changed only in little subtle ways. A dead mouse here makes an insect imbalance there, a population disproportion later, a bad harvest further on, a depression, mass starvation, and finally, a change in social temperament in far-flung countries. Something much more subtle, like that. Perhaps only a soft breath, a whisper, a hair, pollen on the air, such a slight, slight change that unless you looked close you wouldn't see it. Who knows? Who really can say he knows? We don't know. We're guessing. But until we do know for certain whether our messing around in Time can make a big roar or a little rustle in history, we're being careful. This Machine, this Path, your clothing and bodies, were sterilized, as you know, before the journey. We wear these oxygen helmets so we can't introduce our bacteria into an ancient atmosphere."
"How do we know which animals to shoot?"
"They're marked with red paint," said Travis. "Today, before our journey, we sent Lesperance here back with the Machine. He came to this particular era and followed certain animals."
"Studying them?"
"Right," said Lesperance. "I track them through their entire existence, noting which of them lives longest. Very few. How many times they mate. Not often. Life's short, When I find one that's going to die when a tree falls on him, or one that drowns in a tar pit, I note the exact hour, minute, and second. I shoot a paint bomb. It leaves a red patch on his side. We can't miss it. Then I correlate our arrival in the Past so that we meet the Monster not more than two minutes before he would have died anyway. This way, we kill only animals with no future, that are never going to mate again. You see how careful we are?"
"But if you come back this morning in Time," said Eckels eagerly, you must've bumped into us, our Safari! How did it turn out? Was it successful? Did all of us get through-alive?"
Travis and Lesperance gave each other a look.
"That'd be a paradox," said the latter. "Time doesn't permit that sort of mess-a man meeting himself. When such occasions threaten, Time steps aside. Like an airplane hitting an air pocket. You felt the Machine jump just before we stopped? That was us passing ourselves on the way back to the Future. We saw nothing. There's no way of telling if this expedition was a success, if we got our monster, or whether all of us - meaning you, Mr. Eckels - got out alive."
Eckels smiled palely.
"Cut that," said Travis sharply. "Everyone on his feet!"
They were ready to leave the Machine.
The jungle was high and the jungle was broad and the jungle was the entire world forever and forever. Sounds like music and sounds like flying tents filled the sky, and those were pterodactyls soaring with cavernous gray wings, gigantic bats of delirium and night fever.
Eckels, balanced on the narrow Path, aimed his rifle playfully.
"Stop that!" said Travis. "Don't even aim for fun, blast you! If your guns should go off - - "
Eckels flushed. "Where's our Tyrannosaurus?"
Lesperance checked his wristwatch. "Up ahead, We'll bisect his trail in sixty seconds. Look for the red paint! Don't shoot till we give the word. Stay on the Path. Stay on the Path!"
They moved forward in the wind of morning.
"Strange," murmured Eckels. "Up ahead, sixty million years, Election Day over. Keith made President. Everyone celebrating. And here we are, a million years lost, and they don't exist. The things we worried about for months, a lifetime, not even born or thought of yet."
"Safety catches off, everyone!" ordered Travis. "You, first shot, Eckels. Second, Billings, Third, Kramer."
"I've hunted tiger, wild boar, buffalo, elephant, but now, this is it," said Eckels. "I'm shaking like a kid."
"Ah," said Travis.
Everyone stopped.
Travis raised his hand. "Ahead," he whispered. "In the mist. There he is. There's His Royal Majesty now."
The jungle was wide and full of twitterings, rustlings, murmurs, and sighs.
Suddenly it all ceased, as if someone had shut a door.
Silence.
A sound of thunder.
Out of the mist, one hundred yards away, came Tyrannosaurus Rex.
"It," whispered Eckels. "It......
"Sh!"
It came on great oiled, resilient, striding legs. It towered thirty feet above half of the trees, a great evil god, folding its delicate watchmaker's claws close to its oily reptilian chest. Each lower leg was a piston, a thousand pounds of white bone, sunk in thick ropes of muscle, sheathed over in a gleam of pebbled skin like the mail of a terrible warrior. Each thigh was a ton of meat, ivory, and steel mesh. And from the great breathing cage of the upper body those two delicate arms dangled out front, arms with hands which might pick up and examine men like toys, while the snake neck coiled. And the head itself, a ton of sculptured stone, lifted easily upon the sky. Its mouth gaped, exposing a fence of teeth like daggers. Its eyes rolled, ostrich eggs, empty of all expression save hunger. It closed its mouth in a death grin. It ran, its pelvic bones crushing aside trees and bushes, its taloned feet clawing damp earth, leaving prints six inches deep wherever it settled its weight.
It ran with a gliding ballet step, far too poised and balanced for its ten tons. It moved into a sunlit area warily, its beautifully reptilian hands feeling the air.
"Why, why," Eckels twitched his mouth. "It could reach up and grab the moon."
"Sh!" Travis jerked angrily. "He hasn't seen us yet."
"It can't be killed," Eckels pronounced this verdict quietly, as if there could be no argument. He had weighed the evidence and this was his considered opinion. The rifle in his hands seemed a cap gun. "We were fools to come. This is impossible."
"Shut up!" hissed Travis.
"Nightmare."
"Turn around," commanded Travis. "Walk quietly to the Machine. We'll remit half your fee."
"I didn't realize it would be this big," said Eckels. "I miscalculated, that's all. And now I want out."
"It sees us!"
"There's the red paint on its chest!"
The Tyrant Lizard raised itself. Its armored flesh glittered like a thousand green coins. The coins, crusted with slime, steamed. In the slime, tiny insects wriggled, so that the entire body seemed to twitch and undulate, even while the monster itself did not move. It exhaled. The stink of raw flesh blew down the wilderness.
"Get me out of here," said Eckels. "It was never like this before. I was always sure I'd come through alive. I had good guides, good safaris, and safety. This time, I figured wrong. I've met my match and admit it. This is too much for me to get hold of."
"Don't run," said Lesperance. "Turn around. Hide in the Machine."
"Yes." Eckels seemed to be numb. He looked at his feet as if trying to make them move. He gave a grunt of helplessness.
"Eckels!"
He took a few steps, blinking, shuffling.
"Not that way!"
The Monster, at the first motion, lunged forward with a terrible scream. It covered one hundred yards in six seconds. The rifles jerked up and blazed fire. A windstorm from the beast's mouth engulfed them in the stench of slime and old blood. The Monster roared, teeth glittering with sun.
The rifles cracked again, Their sound was lost in shriek and lizard thunder. The great level of the reptile's tail swung up, lashed sideways. Trees exploded in clouds of leaf and branch. The Monster twitched its jeweler's hands down to fondle at the men, to twist them in half, to crush them like berries, to cram them into its teeth and its screaming throat. Its boulderstone eyes leveled with the men. They saw themselves mirrored. They fired at the metallic eyelids and the blazing black iris,
Like a stone idol, like a mountain avalanche, Tyrannosaurus fell.
Thundering, it clutched trees, pulled them with it. It wrenched and tore the metal Path. The men flung themselves back and away. The body hit, ten tons of cold flesh and stone. The guns fired. The Monster lashed its armored tail, twitched its snake jaws, and lay still. A fount of blood spurted from its throat. Somewhere inside, a sac of fluids burst. Sickening gushes drenched the hunters. They stood, red and glistening.
The thunder faded.
The jungle was silent. After the avalanche, a green peace. After the nightmare, morning.
Billings and Kramer sat on the pathway and threw up. Travis and Lesperance stood with smoking rifles, cursing steadily. In the Time Machine, on his face, Eckels lay shivering. He had found his way back to the Path, climbed into the Machine.
Travis came walking, glanced at Eckels, took cotton gauze from a metal box, and returned to the others, who were sitting on the Path.
"Clean up."
They wiped the blood from their helmets. They began to curse too. The Monster lay, a hill of solid flesh. Within, you could hear the sighs and murmurs as the furthest chambers of it died, the organs malfunctioning, liquids running a final instant from pocket to sac to spleen, everything shutting off, closing up forever. It was like standing by a wrecked locomotive or a steam shovel at quitting time, all valves being released or levered tight. Bones cracked; the tonnage of its own flesh, off balance, dead weight, snapped the delicate forearms, caught underneath. The meat settled, quivering.
Another cracking sound. Overhead, a gigantic tree branch broke from its heavy mooring, fell. It crashed upon the dead beast with finality.
"There." Lesperance checked his watch. "Right on time. That's the giant tree that was scheduled to fall and kill this animal originally." He glanced at the two hunters. "You want the trophy picture?"
"What?"
"We can't take a trophy back to the Future. The body has to stay right here where it would have died originally, so the insects, birds, and bacteria can get at it, as they were intended to. Everything in balance. The body stays. But we can take a picture of you standing near it."
The two men tried to think, but gave up, shaking their heads.
They let themselves be led along the metal Path. They sank wearily into the Machine cushions. They gazed back at the ruined Monster, the stagnating mound, where already strange reptilian birds and golden insects were busy at the steaming armor. A sound on the floor of the Time Machine stiffened them. Eckels sat there, shivering.
"I'm sorry," he said at last.
"Get up!" cried Travis.
Eckels got up.
"Go out on that Path alone," said Travis. He had his rifle pointed, "You're not coming back in the Machine. We're leaving you here!"
Lesperance seized Travis's arm. "Wait-"
"Stay out of this!" Travis shook his hand away. "This fool nearly killed us. But it isn't that so much, no. It's his shoes! Look at them! He ran off the Path. That ruins us! We'll forfeit! Thousands of dollars of insurance! We guarantee no one leaves the Path. He left it. Oh, the fool! I'll have to report to the government. They might revoke our license to travel. Who knows what he's done to Time, to History!"
"Take it easy, all he did was kick up some dirt."
"How do we know?" cried Travis. "We don't know anything! It's all a mystery! Get out of here, Eckels!"
Eckels fumbled his shirt. "I'll pay anything. A hundred thousand dollars!"
Travis glared at Eckels' checkbook and spat. "Go out there. The Monster's next to the Path. Stick your arms up to your elbows in his mouth. Then you can come back with us."
"That's unreasonable!"
"The Monster's dead, you idiot. The bullets! The bullets can't be left behind. They don't belong in the Past; they might change anything. Here's my knife. Dig them out!"
The jungle was alive again, full of the old tremorings and bird cries. Eckels turned slowly to regard the primeval garbage dump, that hill of nightmares and terror. After a long time, like a sleepwalker he shuffled out along the Path.
He returned, shuddering, five minutes later, his arms soaked and red to the elbows. He held out his hands. Each held a number of steel bullets. Then he fell. He lay where he fell, not moving.
"You didn't have to make him do that," said Lesperance.
"Didn't I? It's too early to tell." Travis nudged the still body. "He'll live. Next time he won't go hunting game like this. Okay." He jerked his thumb wearily at Lesperance. "Switch on. Let's go home."
1492. 1776. 1812.
They cleaned their hands and faces. They changed their caking shirts and pants. Eckels was up and around again, not speaking. Travis glared at him for a full ten minutes.
"Don't look at me," cried Eckels. "I haven't done anything."
"Who can tell?"
"Just ran off the Path, that's all, a little mud on my shoes-what do you want me to do-get down and pray?"
"We might need it. I'm warning you, Eckels, I might kill you yet. I've got my gun ready."
"I'm innocent. I've done nothing!"
1999.2000.2055.
The Machine stopped.
"Get out," said Travis.
The room was there as they had left it. But not the same as they had left it. The same man sat behind the same desk. But the same man did not quite sit behind the same desk. Travis looked around swiftly. "Everything okay here?" he snapped.
"Fine. Welcome home!"
Travis did not relax. He seemed to be looking through the one high window.
"Okay, Eckels, get out. Don't ever come back." Eckels could not move.
"You heard me," said Travis. "What're you staring at?"
Eckels stood smelling of the air, and there was a thing to the air, a chemical taint so subtle, so slight, that only a faint cry of his subliminal senses warned him it was there. The colors, white, gray, blue, orange, in the wall, in the furniture, in the sky beyond the window, were . . . were . . . . And there was a feel. His flesh twitched. His hands twitched. He stood drinking the oddness with the pores of his body. Somewhere, someone must have been screaming one of those whistles that only a dog can hear. His body screamed silence in return. Beyond this room, beyond this wall, beyond this man who was not quite the same man seated at this desk that was not quite the same desk . . . lay an entire world of streets and people. What sort of world it was now, there was no telling. He could feel them moving there, beyond the walls, almost, like so many chess pieces blown in a dry wind ....
But the immediate thing was the sign painted on the office wall, the same sign he had read earlier today on first entering. Somehow, the sign had changed:
TYME SEFARI INC.
SEFARIS TU ANY YEER EN THE PAST.
YU NAIM THE ANIMALL.
WEE TAEK YU THAIR.
YU SHOOT ITT.
Eckels felt himself fall into a chair. He fumbled crazily at the thick slime on his boots. He held up a clod of dirt, trembling, "No, it can't be. Not a little thing like that. No!"
Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead.
"Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!" cried Eckels.
It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. Eckels' mind whirled. It couldn't change things. Killing one butterfly couldn't be that important! Could it?
His face was cold. His mouth trembled, asking: "Who - who won the presidential election yesterday?"
The man behind the desk laughed. "You joking? You know very well. Deutscher, of course! Who else? Not that fool weakling Keith. We got an iron man now, a man with guts!" The official stopped. "What's wrong?"
Eckels moaned. He dropped to his knees. He scrabbled at the golden butterfly with shaking fingers. "Can't we," he pleaded to the world, to himself, to the officials, to the Machine, "can't we take it back, can't we make it alive again? Can't we start over? Can't we-"
He did not move. Eyes shut, he waited, shivering. He heard Travis breathe loud in the room; he heard Travis shift his rifle, click the safety catch, and raise the weapon.
There was a sound of thunder.
Ray Bradbury, "A Sound of Thunder," in R is for Rocket, (New York: Doubleday, 1952)
I
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| | |
| | |
| |She Sings Me To Sleep With Laughter |
| | |
| |Don White |
| | |
| |2001 |
I understand exhaustion. Exhaustion and I have a longstanding and deeply intimate knowledge of one another. He knows how to slip into my life and make me miserable and I know that he enjoys doing it. Over the past thirteen years I have carved out a small career as a singer-songwriter while simultaneously maintaining a marriage, raising two children and holding one, and sometimes two, day jobs. The currency with which I have paid for this music career is sleep. Exhaustion is the constant companion of all of us who choose to trade in this particular currency.
My daughter's bedroom is next to the bedroom where my wife, myself, and exhaustion sleep. There has never been a real door on her room. We installed one of those flimsy folding doors that slides on tracks and opens and closes like an accordion. It has given her some privacy but has deprived her of one of the key ingredients of a complete adolescence—a door that slams. I must admit to several moments of quiet glee over the years when the door slamming exclamation point at the end of a teenage melodrama was replaced by little squeaky wheels sliding across aluminum runners.
One night when my daughter was fifteen, I was in a particularly profound state of exhaustion. It was 11:30. I could hear the six am setting on the alarm clock actually taunting me. "I'm going to ring as soon as you close your eyes." My daughter was on the phone with one of her girlfriends. She was laughing. It was the kind of laugh that can only come from a fifteen-year-old girl. As something of a comedian, I have spent a disproportionate amount of my life studying the different sounds of laughter. In addition to the obvious fact that each person has their own unique laugh (It's kind of like a fingerprint when you think about it), there are several different types of laughter. The one that I am always shooting for in my shows is the "I can't believe it, that's just like my mother" one. This laugh is characterized by high pitch screams that seem to contain within them the name of the person in the family who is just like the person you are talking about. I always hear the sound of recognition in this laughter. To the discerning ear of the knowledgeable comic, this sound is magic. It's like striking oil. When a room is filled with it, you can't help but feel like you are flying. In the continuing effort to design an act that will manifest as much of this kind of laughter as possible, I have learned to recognize the other, less evolved, types of laughter. The "Oh my God, I can't believe he is talking about this," shock laugh. The polite, unenthusiastic, almost obligatory, laugh. The "This guy is really scary" nervous laugh. And the very unique laughter that comes from mean-spirited, victim-oriented humor. (What's up with these idiots from other countries in the tollbooths, who can't even speak English let alone make change for a dollar ha, ha.) I have often thought that this is the sound of the laughter that one would hear on the nightclub circuit in Hell. To the untrained ear, all of these sound pretty much the same. However, the laughter of a fifteen-year-old girl on the telephone with her best friend is a sound unlike any other on earth.
I am lying in bed. I am so tired I could cry. I am not only being taunted by exhaustion and my alarm clock, but also by the realities inflicted upon my life by every poor decision I have ever made. Sleep, even just a little bit of it, is the only remedy. Unfortunately, I am being denied this cure by the shrieks and wails of hysterical teenage laughter devilishly dancing out of my daughter's room.
I resolve that I must address the situation. I then begin the process of deciding which of my two available dad identities I should manifest in the bedroom doorway of my inconsiderate daughter. So I wonder: which dad persona that will bring blessed quiet back to my domicile as quickly as possible with the least amount of energy output and subsequent ramifications?
The first dad incarnation that comes to mind is the stereotypical blustering version. This is the one where I storm over to her room and with all the self-righteous indignation available to the dad number one stereotype, I identify her crimes against humanity and the reasons why they are personally offensive to me. Then, using the loud, severely agitated and totally unreasonable dad number one voice I say, "I'm trying to get some sleep here! You don't care that I have to get up at six in the morning. Why should you? You get to sleep till noon. All you ever think about is yourself. It would never even occur to you that other people might actually be living in this house!" Then I flex my dad number one dictatorial muscle by saying, "Hang that phone up right now," and then there is quiet. Quiet anger, quiet resentment and quiet plotting of revenge. You see, dad number one always gets much more quiet than he bargained for. That's because he is one hundred percent bluster and bravado and zero percent circumspection. His shortsightedness is legendary. The method by which he attains his immediate goal actually fortifies the resolve of the opposition. He wins the battle at the expense of the war. He is, generally speaking, a byproduct of exhaustion and lives a life that alternates between explosive bravado and the need to apologize for it.
Once dad number one is finished blowing off steam and asserting his authority in my mind, he gives the podium to dad number two. This dad is also motivated by exhaustion but he lacks the will to fight. Instead, he is a pleader. His method is to crawl out of bed looking as pitiful as possible and to speak in a defeated monotone. "Ariel honey, I have to get up early. Can you please use the phone downstairs?" Although sad and emasculated, this dad usually accomplishes his goal without creating a situation that he will feel obligated to repair later.
I choose to manifest dad number two. I conjure up my defeated monotone and roll it around in my mouth. I am preparing to climb out of bed and address the situation when a hitherto unknown door in my mind opens up and out walks dad number three. He speaks, "Dad number one is an asshole and dad number two is an idiot. The problem here is not with the sounds in this house, it is with the way you are choosing to hear them." I think, "Great, dad number three is a good-for-nothing philosopher." I say, "Is this going to take long? I really need to get some sleep." He tells me to shut up and he continues, "Let's take a look at what we actually have here. You are about to take action that will curtail the sounds of laughter in your home. Is this really what you want? Would you prefer your home to be filled with the sounds of anger or crying? The sounds that fill a home are part and parcel of the memories that are created there. Quiet is what happens in a home when you are alone in it. Be careful how much of this you wish for." Then he says it again. "The problem here is not with the sounds in this house, it is with the way you are choosing to hear them."
And then I get it. I don't just get it a little bit. I really get it. I completely get it. I get it in the center of my solar plexus. It must be like this when all of a sudden you understand jazz or Shakespeare. I say to myself "What kind of a father can't go to sleep to the sound of his daughter laughing?" Instantly, as if the asking of the question initiated the metamorphosis, all the sounds emerging from my daughter's room are transformed. They become music. They become summer rain. I lay back and let them wash over me. All the pores in my body open up and absorb them. I drink in the miracle of my daughter's teenage laughter. It is magic. It is giddy. It is a sound so complete that it seems as if every one of her molecules are laughing. There is no separation between my daughter the young adult and laughter itself. It is all one glorious symphony, light and lovely. She sings me to sleep with laughter. I dream of woodwinds and of small birds dancing gracefully upon delicate breaths of wind. In the morning I awake refreshed. Exhaustion is gone and will not return until the day has wrestled from me my zest.
There is a distinct lightness in the early morning quiet of my home. I glance in upon the sleeping figure of my daughter, beautiful and at peace. I whistle a line from The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and begin my day.
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Elephant Ear
Not available online
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Tibetan Buddhism
Read: Excerpts from An Open Heart (Vreeland, Dalai Lama; 65-79).
65/ Upon being recognized as the reincarnation of the thirteenth Dalai Lama at the age of two . . .
67/ The Buddha then propounded the four Noble Truths: the truth of suffering, its origin, the possibility of its cessation, and the path leading to that cessation.
70/ If we have positive mental attitude, then even when surrounded by hostility, we shall not lack inner peace.
70/ I think that it is wrong to expect that our problems can be solved by money.
71/ If we looked down at the world from space, we would not see any demarcations of national boundaries. We would simply see one small planet, just one. Once we draw a line in the sand, we develop the feeling of "us" and "them." [instructor’s comment: that is, nationalism is a dangerous disease]
72/ When we face problems or disagreements today, we have to arrive at solutions through dialogue. . . . One-sided victory is no longer relevant. We must work to resolve conflicts in a spirit of reconciliation and always keep in mind the interests of others.
73/ We must also care for our environment. This is our home, our only home! . . . I think our blue planet is very beautiful and dear to us. If we destroy it or if some terrible damage occurs because of our negligence, where would we go?
73/ Another problem we face today is the gap between rich and poor. . . . On the global level as well, we see rich nations and poor ones. . . . It is not only morally wrong, but practically it is a source of unrest and trouble that will eventually find its way to our door.
74/ One of my elder brothers, who is no longer alive, would tell me of his experiences living in America. He lived a humble life and told me of the troubles, the fears, the killings, theft, and rape that people endured. These are, I think, the result of economic inequality in society. It is only natural that difficulties arise if we must fight day by day in order to survive while another human being, equal to us, is effortlessly living a luxurious life. This is an unhealthy situation; as a result, even the wealthy—the billionaires and millionaires—remain in constant anxiety.
77/ Imagine that your neighbor hates you and is always creating problems for you. If you lose your temper and develop hatred toward him, your digestion is harmed, your sound sleep goes . . . If, in spite of his injustices, your remain calm, happy, and peaceful, your health remains strong, you continue to be joyful, and more friends come visit you. Your life becomes more successful. This really brings about worry in your neighbor’s mind.
Source: Dalai Lama. An Open Heart.
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The Zax
by Dr. Seuss
One day, making tracks
In the prairie of Prax,
Came a North-Going Zax
And a South-Going Zax.
And it happened that both of them came to a place
Where they bumped. There they stood.
Foot to foot. Face to face.
"Look here, now!" the North-Going Zax said. "I say!
You are blocking my path. You are right in my way.
I'm a North-Going Zax and I always go north.
Get out of my way, now, and let me go forth!"
"Who's in whose way?" snapped the South-Going Zax.
"I always go south, making south-going tracks.
So you're in MY way! And I ask you to move
And let me go south in my south-going groove."
Then the North-Going Zax puffed his chest up with pride.
"I never," he said, "take a step to one side.
And I'll prove to you that I won't change my ways
If I have to keep standing here fifty-nine days!"
"And I'll prove to YOU," yelled the South-Going Zax,
"That I can stand here in the prairie of Prax
For fifty-nine years! For I live by a rule
That I learned as a boy back in South-Going School.
Never budge! That's my rule. Never budge in the least!
Not an inch to the west! Not an inch to the east!
I'll stay here, not budging! I can and I will
If it makes you and me and the whole world stand still!"
Well...
Of course the world didn't stand still. The world grew.
In a couple of years, the new highway came through
And they built it right over those two stubborn Zax
And left them there standing un-budged in their tracks.
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Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore
John Prine
While digesting Reader's Digest
In the back of a dirty book store,
A plastic flag, with gum on the back,
Fell out on the floor.
Well, I picked it up and I ran outside
Slapped it on my window shield,
And if I could see old Betsy Ross
I'd tell her how good I feel.
Chorus:
But your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.
They're already overcrowded
From your dirty little war.
Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for,
And your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.
Well, I went to the bank this morning
And the cashier he said to me,
"If you join the Christmas club
We'll give you ten of them flags for free."
Well, I didn't mess around a bit
I took him up on what he said.
And I stuck them stickers all over my car
And one on my wife's forehead.
Repeat Chorus:
Well, I got my window shield so filled
With flags I couldn't see.
So, I ran the car upside a curb
And right into a tree.
By the time they got a doctor down
I was already dead.
And I'll never understand why the man
Standing in the Pearly Gates said...
"But your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.
We're already overcrowded
From your dirty little war.
Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for,
And your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more."
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|Artist |Eagles The |
|Album |Hotel California |
|Song |Hotel California |
On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas
Rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance
I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy, and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself
This could be Heaven or this could be Hell
Then she lit up a candle
And she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor
I thought I heard them say
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely place (background)
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the
Any time of year
Any time of year (background)
You can find it here
You can find it here
Her mind is definitely twisted
She's got a Mercedes Benz
She's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys
That she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard
Sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget
So I called up the Captain
Please bring me my wine
He said
We haven't had that spirit here since 1969
And still those voices are calling from far away
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely Place
Such a lovely Place (background)
Such a lovely face
They're livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise
What a nice surprise (background)
Bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling
Pink champagne on ice
And she said
We are all just prisoners here
Of our own device
And in the master's chambers
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives
But they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember
I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
Relax said the nightman
We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave.
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On the Interpretation of Hotel California
Claim: The Eagles’ song "Hotel California" is about Satanism.
Status: False.
Examples:
[Collected via e-mail, 2003]
There's a rumor that's been around for some time concerning the Eagles' song "Hotel California". The basic premise is that the song is about a Christian church that was abandoned (or otherwise vacated) in 1969, and was taken over by an occultic group (usually Satan worshippers). For some unknown reason, it became known as the "Hotel of California". Further rumors have it that the Eagles are Satan worshippers, and that Satan appears in the window on the "Hotel California" album jacket.
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[Collected via e-mail, 2001]
I remember hearing as a kid that the Eagle's megaplatinum song "Hotel California" was about Aleister Crowley's mansion near Loch Ness, and the weird goings-on that supposedly happened there; including such "clues" as the line "...they stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill The Beast" (Crowley's nickname). It's even been said that if you look on the album cover, you can see Satanic High Priest Anton LaVey in one of the windows. I've looked, and though it is fuzzy... damned if it doesn't look like him.
[pic]
[Collected via e-mail, 2000]
My fellow high schoolmates and I (class of '85) were warned of the "evils" of certain types of music and were not allowed to play anything that was not approved by the nuns, at our school dances. Music by the Eagles was not allowed due to the "fact" that the song Hotel California was about a Satanic Cult organized in California in the year 1969. Reference was made to the lyric, "we haven't had that spirit here since 1969," as meaning the Spirit of Christ had not been present since 1969 upon organization of the cult. The mentioned lyric is a reply to a request for wine, in the song. According to my very protective, but wonderful teachers, this was yet "more proof" that the song was about a Satanic cult. Wine is an important symbol of the blood of Christ for Catholics and many Christian denominations.
Origins: The Eagles' 1976 album "Hotel California" has sold more than 16 million copies, spawned a best-record Grammy, and is regarded by numerous rock critics as one of the best albums ever. Its title track, the haunting "Hotel California," continues to entrance listeners even though during its heyday the song was on the charts for only nineteen weeks and in the number one spot for only one.
Because its lyrics contain an ominous undercurrent, many have appeased their sense of disquiet by finding in the words literal and figurative meanings that just aren't there. Theories abound as to what the song means. Some see the devil in the lyrics. Others see a madhouse.
Some believe the song was written about a real inn bearing that name. Though there is a Hotel California in Todos Santos, a town on Mexico's Baja California peninsula, its relation to the song begins and ends with the coincidence of a shared name. None of the Eagles stayed there, let alone wrote music there. Nor did they have this building in mind when they set down the lyrics to this popular song.
Those who persist in believing the song must be named after an actual building have been known to assert "Hotel California" was the nickname of the Camarillo State Hospital, a state-run psychiatric hospital near Los Angeles which housed thousands of patients across its sixty-year history before closing in 1997. To them, the lyrics seem to fit what a mentally disturbed person would experience upon incarceration in a long-term care facility. The imagery of the song is explained as that person's hallucinations juxtaposed against moments of startling clarity as he realizes where he is.
However, by far the most common theme to surface in Hotel California rumors is one that links the song to devil worship. The lyrics (which speak of trying to "kill the Beast" and not having had "that spirit here since 1969") form the bedrock of the various Satan-related theories, but the belief is also fed by the album design. The inner cover is a photograph of people in a courtyard of a Spanish-looking inn. In a balcony above them looms a shadowy figure with arms spread. Many who look at that photo see Anton LaVey, leader of the Church of Satan, and interpret the spread arms as his welcoming the populace below into Satan's trap. That the people in the picture seem unaware of the gleefully evil figure standing above them only adds to the implicit horror of the scene — the innocents below are oblivious to their having wandered into the house of the Devil.
It's wonderful imagery. But it doesn't hold up. The shadowy figure was a woman hired for the photo shoot.
When it comes to finding Satan in this song, over the years we've heard the following:
• The song is a tribute to the place where the Satanic Bible was written.
• Devil worshippers bought an old church and rechristened "the Hotel California."
• Some or all of the Eagles were either heavily involved with the occult or were disciples of LaVey.
• All the album photographs were taken in and around a building that used by Anton LaVey's headquarters for his Church of Satan. (Which wasn't the case — the album cover was shot at the Beverly Hills Hotel.)
• In California the 'Church of Satan' is registered under the name 'Hotel California.'
Another oddly persistent set of rumors centers on the photos used for the album. On the cover was the image of the approach to a Spanish mission-style hotel at sunset. Inside was the courtyard scene described above, and on its back was a photo of a black man leaning on a mop in the hotel's lobby. Besides the "Anton LaVey standing on the balcony" whisper, the presence of certain figures in some photos but not in others is attributed to their being ghosts whose spirits were accidentally captured on film, with the presumption being these were guests of the hotel who expired there. Also, the janitor leaning on a mop in the lobby photo has been rumored to be the propped-up corpse of a dead man (shades of Elmer McCurdy, that). In a particularly creepy extension of that rumor, he was murdered by LaVey as a human sacrifice or by the band members.
[Collected via e-mail, 2000]
On the cover of The Eagles album Hotel California, there is a picture of an abandoned hotel with someone in the doorway. When they took the picture there was no one in the hotel, and when they developed the picture it seemed as if there was no one there. But on the album cover there appeared someone in the doorway and the belief is that a person died (in some form or another...ranging from overdose to murder) in the hotel before it became abandoned and then appeared in the photo. Another variation I've heard is that they went back & took the picture twice and both times someone appeared in the doorway. I've also been told that the person is only visible on the album cover & not the tape or cd.
Besides the four primary rumors (real hotel, mental hospital, devil worship, ghostly images), we've also picked up some unusual ones:
• The Hotel California was the name of an inn run by cannibals who were in the habit of taking in guests only to serve them up for dinner. The song's closing line ("You can check out any time you like / But you can never leave") seems to have sparked that one.
• "They stab it with their steely knives" was a swipe at Steely Dan, with whom, according to rumor, the Eagles were having an ongoing feud.
• "Warm smell of colitas rising through the air" line — which does refer to the scent of burning marijuana — was seen as a sign the song was about drug addiction. Others have interpreted 'Hotel California' as a code name for cocaine and thus saw both the album and the song itself as a description of a journey into addiction.
• The song was about cancer. (We've no idea what prompted that thought.)
The truth proves far less satisfying than the myriad rumors that have sprung up around this song.
Hotel California is an allegory about hedonism and greed in Southern California in the 1970s. At the time of its release, the Eagles were riding high in the music world, experiencing material success on a frightening level. Though they thoroughly enjoyed the money, drugs, and women fame threw their way, they were disquieted by it all and sought to pour that sense of unease into their music and to warn others about the dark underside of such adulation.
In a 1995 interview, Don Henley said the song "sort of captured the zeitgeist of the time, which was a time of great excess in this country and in the music business in particular." In another interview that same year, he referred to it as being about a "loss of innocence."
The album has as its underlying theme the corruption of impressionable rock stars by the decadent Los Angeles music industry. The celebrated title track presents California as a gilded prison the artist freely enters only to discover that he cannot later escape.
The real Hotel California is not a place; it is a metaphor for the west coast music industry and its effect on the talented but unworldly musicians who find themselves ensnared in its glittering web.
Barbara "the golden state of mind" Mikkelson
Last updated: 17 January 2005
The URL for this page is
Urban Legends Reference Pages © 1995-2005
by Barbara and David P. Mikkelson
[pic]
Sources:
Eliot, Marc. To the Limit: The Untold Story of the Eagles.
Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1998. ISBN 0-316-23370-6.
Ferriss, Susan. "'Hotel California' Legend Endures in Mexico Oasis."
The Atlanta Journal and Constitution. 10 November 2002 (p. K4).
Jensen, Kurt. "You Can Find It Here."
USA Today. 21 February 2003 (p. D1).
Selvin, Joel. "Q&A with Don Henley."
The San Francisco Chronicle. 26 November 1995 (Sunday Datebook; p. 41).
The [London] Times. "The Vulture: Hotel California."
3 June 2000 (Features).
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Hogarth: Scholars Listening to a Lecture
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Cat's in the Cradle
Lyrics: Sandra Chapin
Music: Harry Chapin
My child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay,
He learned to walk while I was away.
And he was talking 'fore I knew it, and as he grew,
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad,
You know I'm gonna be like you."
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then;
You know we'll have a good time then."
My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "Not today,
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's OK"
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed,
Said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then,
You know we'll have a good time then."
Well, he came from college just the other day,
So much like a man I just had to say,
"Son, I'm proud of you. Can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head, and said with a smile,
"What I'd really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please?"
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad,
You know we'll have a good time then."
I've long since retired and my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said, "I'd love to, dad, if I could find the time.
You see, my new job's a hassle, and the kid's got the flu,
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad,
It's been sure nice talking to you."
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me,
He'd grown up just like me;
My boy was just like me.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad,
You know we'll have a good time then."
[pic]
dim: grow less bright, strong, clear, or optimistic, e.g., 1. dim the theater lights, 2. the years could not dim his early love
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The Dutchman
Michael Peter Smith
The Dutchman's not the kind of man
Who keeps his thumb jammed in the dam
That holds his dreams in.
That's a secret only Margaret knows.
When Amsterdam is golden in the summer,
Margaret brings him breakfast;
She believes in him.
He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow
He's mad as he can be, but Margaret only sees that sometimes
Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes.
(Chorus:)
Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zeider Zee
Long ago, I used to be a young man
And dear Margaret remembers that of me
The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes
And his cap and coat are patched with
The love that Margaret sewed there.
Sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam
He watches tugboats, down canals
And calls out to them when he thinks
He knows the captain
'Til Margaret comes to take him home again
Through unforgiving streets that trip him
Though she holds his arm
Sometimes he thinks that he's alone
And calls her name.
(Chorus)
The windmills swirl the winter in
She winds his muffler tighter as they sit in the kitchen
Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew
He sees her for a moment, calls her name
She makes the bed up singing some old love song
She learned when it was very new
He hums a line or two, they hum together in the dark
The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out.
(Chorus)
[pic]
“keeps his thumb jam in the dam:” The allusion here is to the famous story of a boy who saved a part of his country from flooding (Netherlands means low lands), by jamming a hole in a dam with his thumb.
Zeider Zee: Formerly part of the sea, turned into usable land and a fresh water lake by the construction of a dyke
Note: Windmills, wooden shoes, Rotterdam, tulips, Zeider Zee are all used to evoke a Dutch atmosphere
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***The Star Beast
not available online
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The Wretched Stone
Not available online
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The Good Example
Vicente Riva Palacio (1832-1896; Mexico)
In the southern part of the Mexican Republic, at the foothills of the Sierra Madre, near the Pacific Ocean, there was a village just like all others in that region: little white houses with roofs of red tiles or palm leaves. Nestled in the cool shade of coconut and other gigantic trees, these houses were barely touched by the fiery rays of the tropical sun.
In that village there was a school, which must still be standing there. But in those days, the school was run by Don Lucas Forcida, a splendid fellow much loved by all his neighbors. Don Lucas never faltered in the performance of his onerous duties. That is to say, like all other long-suffering teachers, he was a veritable martyr.
In that school, following the traditional customs and practices of those times, learning consisted in repeating, with exasperating monotony, the teacher's words: pupils would, in a single cacophonous chorus, chant the alphabet, syllables, religious catechisms, and the multiplication table. At times the children would get carried away, trying to see who among them could yell loudest or best. For his part, the excellent Don Lucas endured this daily opera with heroic resignation.
By four o'clock the children would leave the school, yelling and throwing stones; only then would Don Lucas consider himself a free man. He would carry a chair to the sidewalk and his servant would bring him a cup of hot chocolate and a big cake. With the cool breeze of the nearby forest blowing on his bald pate, Don Lucas would share his meager repast with his best friend: his parrot.
|It must be admitted that Don Lucas had a soft spot in his heart for that | |
|parrot, which always perched in the same place above the school door-high | |
|enough to escape the attentions of the children, and well enough shaded by | |
|palm leaves overhead to escape the scorching rays of the sun. The parrot and | |
|Don Lucas understood each other perfectly. Only rarely did the parrot mix up | |
|the words which Don Lucas taught him with the singsongs of the children. | |
|And so, with the school ground deserted, with Don Lucas relaxing on his | |
|sidewalk chair and drinking his hot chocolate, these two friends felt free to| |
|express their affection for each other. The parrot would go up and down his | |
|perch, babbling about everything he knew and didn't know, happily rubbing his| |
|beak against his perch, hanging upside down to receive crumbs from his | |
|master's cake. | |
|This touching scene repeated itself every afternoon, without fail. | |
And so passed several years. Naturally, Don Lucas had by now sufficient confidence in his dear "Perico" (that's how the children called the parrot) to no longer clip his wings or fetter his leg.
However, one morning-it must have been about 10 o'clock-one of the children, who was just then outside the school house, shouted: "Don Lucas, Perico is flying away!" Upon hearing this, teacher and pupils rushed outside. In fact, far away in the sky the ungrateful Perico could be still seen exerting himself to reach the nearby forest.
A pursuit was impossible-how could you tell Perico apart from the multitude of forest-dwelling parrots? So Don Lucas sighed deeply, returned to his seat, and continued the lesson. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the terrible incident.
[pic]
Several months have gone by. Don Lucas, who had by then gotten over Perico's ingratitude, had to make a trip to one of the neighboring villages. In that region, as in almost all other regions of Mexico, the words "neighboring" or "near" usually mean a distance of some twenty or thirty miles. So, to reach his destination, Don Lucas had to ride his horse for the greater part of one day.
It was already two in the afternoon. The sun was scalding the earth with torrents of fire. The palm trees were perfectly still, untouched by even the slightest breeze. The birds hid in the thick foliage. Only the cicadas imperturbably chirped in the midst of that ghastly silence.
Don Lucas' horse steadily clopped ahead. Suddenly, Don Lucas' ears caught a familiar sound— children chanting syllables, words, and catechisms.
At first, it seemed to Don Lucas that he was hallucinating in that torrid heat. But, as he drew nearer, the sounds grew unmistakably clear: this desolate forest harbored a school!
He stopped, startled and amazed, upon sighting a flock of parrots flying by nearby trees and chanting in unison ba, da, fa, ga, ja; be, de, fe, ge, je. And behind the flock, flying majestically, there was "Perico," who, while passing his master, turned his head and cheerfully said:
"Don Lucas, I have a school now."
Ever since then, and well ahead of their time, the parrots of that district have seen the shadows of obscurantism and ignorance disperse.
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The Fight
Not available online
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THE LOTTERY
by
Shirley Jackson
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—-the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teenage club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers and he waved and called, "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers's coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were lists to make up—of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into the place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids were gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now would you, Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now," Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar, Dunbar."
"Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar," he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?'
"Me, I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband," Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen yet," Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."
"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for m'mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names—heads of families first—and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi, Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, "Hi, Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.
"Allen," Mr. Summers said, "Anderson. . . .Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast," Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark. . . . Delacroix."
"There goes my old man," Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely, and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt. . . . Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted, "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to live in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about `Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries," Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke. . . . Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson." The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill." "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe," Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family, that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said. "There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the
tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. "Bill, Jr." Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet over-large, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said, "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks," Mr. Summers said, "let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.
Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.
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THE MARY ELLEN CARTER
(Stan Rogers)
She went down last October in a pouring driving rain.
The skipper, he'd been drinking and the mate, he felt no pain.
Too close to Three Mile Rock, and she was dealt her mortal blow,
And the Mary Ellen Carter settled low.
There were five of us aboard her when she finally was awash.
We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost.
And the groan she gave as she went down, it caused us to proclaim
That the Mary Ellen Carter would rise again.
Well, the owners wrote her off; not a nickel would they spend.
She gave twenty years of service, boys, then met her sorry end.
But insurance paid the loss to them, they let her rest below.
Then they laughed at us and said we had to go.
But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock,
For she's worth a quarter million, afloat and at the dock.
And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain
And make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
Rise again, rise again, that her name not be lost
To the knowledge of men.
Those who loved her best and were with her till the end
Will make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
All spring, now, we've been with her on a barge lent by a friend.
Three dives a day in hard hat suit and twice I've had the bends.
Thank God it's only sixty feet and the currents here are slow
Or I'd never have the strength to go below.
But we've patched her rents, stopped her vents, dogged hatch and porthole down.
Put cables to her, 'fore and aft and birded her around.
Tomorrow, noon, we hit the air and then take up the strain.
And watch the Mary Ellen Carter Rise Again.
For we couldn't leave her there, you see, to crumble into scale.
She'd saved our lives so many times, living through the gale
And the laughing, drunken rats who left her to a sorry grave
They won't be laughing in another day. .
.
And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
[pic]
The bends: A serious health hazard associated with scuba and deep diving: when a diver ascends, the excess air dissolved in her blood during a prolonged stay in deep waters may form bubbles, cause embolism in various parts of the body, and lead to severe pain (“the bends) when it reaches muscles and joints
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Obedience to Authority
Imagine yourself taking part, along with another subject, in a study of memory and learning. The session begins with explanations of the study's goals and your tasks. Your respective roles- teacher and learner-are determined by drawing lots. You land the teaching position. During the experiment, the learner is strapped into an "electric chair" from which he cannot escape, with electrodes attached to his wrist. His task is memorizing word associations. Your task involves teaching him these associations and giving him electric shocks of increasing severity when he fails to remember them. Throughout the experiment you are seated in front of an impressive shock generator, with 30 switches which go up in intensity from 15 to 450 volts. The shock level these switches produce is marked in words on the shock generator, beginning with "slight shock," going through "moderate," "strong," "intense," "extremely intense," all the way to a point beyond the reading, "danger: severe shock."
As the session unfolds, the learner keeps making irritating mistakes. If you ask, the experimenter demands that you go on raising the shock level, up to the very highest. At 150 volts (the tenth switch), the learner demands to be released. The experimenter, if you ask, tells you that the session must go on. If you continue beyond this level, the learner's protests grow increasingly vehement and emotional. At 285 volts the protests "can only be described as an agonized scream." At 300 volts, the learner tells you that he will no longer take part in the session, nor provide answers to the memory test. The experimenter tells you to continue and to regard silence as the wrong answer. If you go on, the learner keeps screaming violently up to 330 volts. Beyond that point he is completely silent. For all you know, he might be dead. Nevertheless, the experimenter urges you to go on. This, more or less, is the protocol of Stanley Milgram's celebrated study of obedience to authority. The teacher is the subject, while the learner is a skilled actor who actually receives no shock. Two out of every three subjects went all the way to 450 volts. They did so even though they were under the impression that they missed being in the other person's shoes merely by chance. They went to the very end despite the warning signs on the shock generator and despite the pleas and anguish of a fellow human being.
With numbing regularity good people were seen to knuckle under to the demands of authority and perform actions that were callous and severe. Men who are in everyday life responsible and decent were seduced by the trappings of authority . . . into performing harsh acts.78
Most subjects did not relish the suffering they inflicted on fellow humans. They gave the learner the weakest shock possible when the choice was left to them. They showed no signs of malice or spite. They were transparently ill at ease during the experiment; often trembling or sweating excessively. They protested and continued only after the experimenter demanded that they go on. Their conduct is traceable to obedience, conceptual conservatism, and conformity, not to sadism.79
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Religion and Slavery
(From: Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave)
Douglass, Frederick, 1817?-1895
Published: 1845
IX
In August, 1832, my master attended a Methodist camp-meeting held in the Bay-side, Talbot county, and there experienced religion. I indulged a faint hope that his conversion would lead him to emancipate his slaves, and that, if he did not do this, it would, at any rate, make him more kind and humane. I was disappointed in both these respects. It neither made him to be humane to his slaves, nor to emancipate them. If it had any effect on his character, it made him more cruel and hateful in all his ways; for I believe him to have been a much worse man after his conversion than before. Prior to his conversion, he relied upon his own depravity to shield and sustain him in his savage barbarity; but after his conversion, he found religious sanction and support for his slaveholding cruelty. He made the greatest pretensions to piety. His house was the house of prayer. He prayed morning, noon, and night. He very soon distinguished himself among his brethren, and was soon made a class-leader and exhorter. His activity in revivals was great, and he proved himself an instrument in the hands of the church in converting many souls. His house was the preachers' home. They used to take great pleasure in coming there to put up; for while he starved us, he stuffed them. . . .
While I lived with my master in St. Michael's there was a white young man, a Mr. Wilson, who proposed to keep a Sabbath school for the instruction of such slaves as might be disposed to learn to read the New Testament. We met but three times, when Mr. West and Mr. Fairbanks, both class-leaders, with many others, came upon us with sticks and other missiles, drove us off, and forbade us to meet again. Thus ended our little Sabbath school in the pious town of St. Michael's.
I have said my master found religious sanction for his cruelty. As an example, I will state one of many facts going to prove the charge. I have seen him tie up a lame young woman, and whip her with a heavy cowskin upon her naked shoulders, causing the warm red blood to drip; and, in justification of the bloody deed, he would quote this passage of Scripture — "He that knoweth his master's will, and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many stripes."
Master would keep this lacerated young woman tied up in this horrid situation four or five hours at a time. I have known him to tie her up early in the morning, and whip her before breakfast; leave her, go to his store, return at dinner, and whip her again, cutting her in the places already made raw with his cruel lash. The secret of master's cruelty toward "Henny" is found in the fact of her being almost helpless. When quite a child, she fell into the fire, and burned herself horribly. Her hands were so burnt that she never got the use of them. She could do very little but bear heavy burdens. She was to master a bill of expense; and as he was a mean man, she was a constant offence to him. He seemed desirous of getting the poor girl out of existence. He gave her away once to his sister; but, being a poor gift, she was not disposed to keep her. Finally, my benevolent master, to use his own words, "set her adrift to take care of herself." Here was a recently-converted man, holding on upon the mother, and at the same time turning out her helpless child, to starve and die! Master Thomas was one of the many pious slaveholders who hold slaves for the very charitable purpose of taking care of them. . . .
Master Thomas at length said he would stand it no longer. I had lived with him nine months, during which time he had given me a number of severe whippings, all to no good purpose. He resolved to put me out, as he said, to be broken; and, for this purpose, he let me for one year to a man named Edward Covey. Mr. Covey was a poor man, a farm-renter. He rented the place upon which he lived, as also the hands with which he tilled it. Mr. Covey had acquired a very high reputation for breaking young slaves, and this reputation was of immense value to him. It enabled him to get his farm tilled with much less expense to himself than he could have had it done without such a reputation. . . .. Added to the natural good qualities of Mr. Covey, he was a professor of religion — a pious soul — a member and a class-leader in the Methodist church. All of this added weight to his reputation as a "nigger-breaker." I was aware of all the facts, having been made acquainted with them by a young man who had lived there. I nevertheless made the change gladly; for I was sure of getting enough to eat, which is not the smallest consideration to a hungry man.
X
Mr. Covey's FORTE consisted in his power to deceive. His life was devoted to planning and perpetrating the grossest deceptions. Every thing he possessed in the shape of learning or religion, he made conform to his disposition to deceive. He seemed to think himself equal to deceiving the Almighty. He would make a short prayer in the morning, and a long prayer at night; and, strange as it may seem, few men would at times appear more devotional than he. The exercises of his family devotions were always commenced with singing; and, as he was a very poor singer himself, the duty of raising the hymn generally came upon me. . . .
The holidays are part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrong, and inhumanity of slavery. They are professedly a custom established by the benevolence of the slaveholders; but I undertake to say, it is the result of selfishness, and one of the grossest frauds committed upon the down-trodden slave. They do not give the slaves this time because they would not like to have their work during its continuance, but because they know it would be unsafe to deprive them of it. . . .Their object seems to be, to disgust their slaves with freedom, by plunging them into the lowest depths of dissipation. For instance, the slaveholders not only like to see the slave drink of his own accord, but will adopt various plans to make him drunk. . . .
On the first of January, 1834, I left Mr. Covey, and went to live with Mr. William Freeland, who lived about three miles from St. Michael's. I soon found Mr. Freeland a very different man from Mr. Covey. Though not rich, he was what would be called an educated southern gentleman. Mr. Covey, as I have shown, was a well-trained negro-breaker and slave-driver. The former (slaveholder though he was) seemed to possess some regard for honor, some reverence for justice, and some respect for humanity. The latter seemed totally insensible to all such sentiments. Mr. Freeland had many of the faults peculiar to slaveholders, such as being very passionate and fretful; but I must do him the justice to say, that he was exceedingly free from those degrading vices to which Mr. Covey was constantly addicted. The one was open and frank, and we always knew where to find him. The other was a most artful deceiver, and could be understood only by such as were skilful enough to detect his cunningly-devised frauds. Another advantage I gained in my new master was, he made no pretensions to, or profession of, religion; and this, in my opinion, was truly a great advantage. I assert most unhesitatingly, that the religion of the south is a mere covering for the most horrid crimes, — a justifier of the most appalling barbarity, — a sanctifier of the most hateful frauds, — and a dark shelter under, which the darkest, foulest, grossest, and most infernal deeds of slaveholders find the strongest protection. Were I to be again reduced to the chains of slavery, next to that enslavement, I should regard being the slave of a religious master the greatest calamity that could befall me. For of all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders are the worst. I have ever found them the meanest and basest, the most cruel and cowardly, of all others. It was my unhappy lot not only to belong to a religious slaveholder, but to live in a community of such religionists. Very near Mr. Freeland lived the Rev. Daniel Weeden, and in the same neighborhood lived the Rev. Rigby Hopkins. These were members and ministers in the Reformed Methodist Church. Mr. Weeden owned, among others, a woman slave, whose name I have forgotten. This woman's back, for weeks, was kept literally raw, made so by the lash of this merciless, RELIGIOUS wretch. He used to hire hands. His maxim was, Behave well or behave ill, it is the duty of a master occasionally to whip a slave, to remind him of his master's authority. Such was his theory, and such his practice.
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[pic]
The Unicorn
Shel Silverstein
A long time ago, when the Earth was green
There were more kinds of animals than you've ever seen
They'd run around free while the Earth was being born
But the loveliest of all was the unicorn
There were green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpy backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
The loveliest of all was the unicorn
Now God had seen some sinning and it gave Him pain
He says, "Stand back, I'm going to make it rain"
He says, "Hey Brother Noah, I'll tell you what to do
Build me a floating zoo and take some of those
Green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpy backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
Don't you forget my unicorns
Old Noah was there to answer the call
He finished putting the ark just as the rain started falling
He marched the animals two by two
And he called out as they went through, Hey Lord, I've got you
Green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpy backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but Lord, I'm so forlorn
I just can't see no unicorns"
And Noah looked out through the driving rain
Them unicorns were hiding, and playing silly games
Kicking and splashing while the rain was pouring
Oh, them silly unicorns
There were green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpy backed camels and some chimpanzees
Noah said, "Close the door because the rain is falling
And I just can't wait for no unicorns"
The ark started moving; it drifted with the tide
And the unicorns looked up from the rocks and they cried
And the waters came down and sort of floated them away
And that's why you never see a unicorn to this very day
You'll see green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpy-backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
You're never gonna see no unicorns.
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LEONARD PITTS JR.:
A civil war between gays and blacks
March 12, 2004
Call it an object lesson in the quality of equality.
I refer to last week's Senate subcommittee hearing on the proposed constitutional amendment outlawing same-sex marriage. And specifically, to an exchange between two leaders of the black community.
The first, Hilary Shelton, director of the Washington bureau of the NAACP, argued that the amendment "would use the Constitution to discriminate." Which brought a sharp retort from the Rev. Richard Richardson, chairman of political affairs for the Black Ministerial Alliance of Greater Boston Inc. Defining marriage as the union of a woman and a man, he said, "is not discrimination. And I find it offensive to call it that."
If you polled black folk, Richardson's view would doubtless prove typical. Though it's not generally appreciated by the wider world, blacks are among the most socially conservative Americans there are. Particularly on gay issues. Indeed, if you want to start a fight, suggest to a group of blacks that there are parallels between the civil rights movement and the gay community's struggle for equality.
Even blacks who are sympathetic to the gay cause often bristle at the comparison. As the Rev. Jesse Jackson recently put it, "Gays were never called three-fifths human in the Constitution."
An accusation against gays
Those who are not sympathetic are even harsher. Gene Rivers, a Boston minister, accuses gays of "pimping" the civil rights movement.
This stinginess about the movement only arises when gays seek to embrace it. And black people — some of us, at least — ought to be ashamed.
How can we of all people, we who know the weight of American oppression better than almost anyone, stand in the path of those who seek simple equality? How can we support writing anyone out of the Constitution when it took us so long to be written in?
And how can we stand with the very people — social conservatives — who not so long ago didn't want us in their churches, their schools, their parks or their restaurants? Yet more and more, we act and sound just like them.
We use our Bibles to justify our bigotry, just as they did.
We describe equality as unnatural, just as they did.
We invoke the sanctity of tradition, just as they did.
And we are wrong, just as they were.
A conspiracy of silence
Worse, we have wrapped our community in a conspiracy of silence, made being homosexual something one simply does not discuss. So that if you are black and gay or black and lesbian, there is often no sane thought of "coming out," no safe place to be who you are. The black community has no resources for you, no tolerance of you, no compassion for you. Yes, there are exceptions, but not enough. Not nearly.
Is it any surprise, then, that blacks lead the nation in new cases of HIV and AIDS?
Too many of us fail — or refuse — to see the great generality that overarches the specificity of our struggles. Meaning that it doesn't matter whether you are gay or black or woman or Jew or even Czech: people have a right to be free.
This is the principle gay people are fighting to vindicate. And no, it isn't the civil rights movement, but make no mistake: it's definitely "a" civil rights movement.
Except that this time, black people are on the other side.
LEONARD PITTS JR. appears most Wednesdays and Fridays in the Free Press. Reach him at the Miami Herald, 1 Herald Plaza, Miami, FL 33132; toll free at 888-251-4407 or at
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Excerpts from Plato’s The Drinking Party (Symposium)
Not available online
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The Two
Gloria Naylor
Not available online
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Mr. Know-All
W. Somerset Maugham
I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had just finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean going liners was heavy. Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed portholes and the night air rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama), but I should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow passenger's name had been Smith or Brown.
When I went on board I found Mr. Kelada's luggage already below. I did not like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suitcases, and the wardrobe trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he was a patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand his scent, his hairwash and his brilliantine.
Mr. Kelada's brushes, ebony with his monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all like Mr. Kelada. I made my way into the smoking-room. I called for a pack of cards and began to play patience.
I had scarcely started before a man came up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so and so.
"I am Mr. Kelada," he added, with a smile that showed a row of flashing teeth, and sat down.
"Oh, yes, we're sharing a cabin, I think."
"Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who you're going to be put in with. I was jolly glad when I heard you were English. I'm all for us English sticking together when we're abroad, if you understand what I mean."
I blinked.
"Are you English?" I asked, perhaps tactlessly.
"Rather. You don't think I look like an American, do you? British to the backbone, that's what I am."
To prove it, Mr. Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily waved it under my nose.
King George
has many strange subjects. Mr. Kelada was short and of a sturdy build, clean-shaven and dark skinned, with a fleshy, hooked nose and very large lustrous and liquid eyes. His long black hair was sleek and curly. He spoke with a fluency in which there was nothing English and his gestures were exuberant. I felt pretty sure that a closer inspection of that British passport would have betrayed the fact that Mr. Kelada was born under a bluer sky than is generally seen in England.
"What will you have?" he asked me.
I looked at him doubtfully. Prohibition was in force and to all appearances the ship was bone dry. When I am not thirsty I do not know which I dislike more, ginger ale or lemon squash. But Mr. Kelada flashed an oriental smile at me.
"Whisky and soda or a dry martini, you have only to say the word."
From each of his hip pockets he furnished a flask and laid it on the table before me. I chose the martini, and calling the steward he ordered a tumbler of ice and a couple of glasses.
"A very good cocktail," I said.
"Well, there are plenty more where that came from, and if you've got any friends on board, you tell them you've got a pal who's got all the liquor in the world."
Mr. Kelada was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. He discussed plays, pictures, and politics. He was patriotic. The Union Jack is an impressive piece of drapery, but when it is flourished by a gentleman from Alexandria or Beirut, I cannot but feel that it loses somewhat in dignity. Mr. Kelada was familiar. I do not wish to put on airs, but I cannot help feeling that it is seemly in a total stranger to put mister before my name when he addresses me. Mr. Kelada, doubtless to set me at my ease, used no such formality. I did not like Mr. Kelada. I had put aside the cards when he sat down, but now, thinking that for this first occasion our conversation had lasted long enough, I went on with my game.
"The three on the four," said Mr. Kelada.
There is nothing more exasperating when you are playing patience than to be told where to put the card you have turned up before you have a chance to look for yourself.
"It's coming out, it's coming out," he cried. "The ten on the knave."
With rage and hatred in my heart I finished.
Then he seized the pack.
"Do you like card tricks?"
"No, I hate card tricks," I answered.
"Well, I'll just show you this one."
He showed me three. Then I said I would go down to the dining-room and get my seat at the table.
"Oh, that's all right," he said, "I've already taken a seat for you. I thought that as we were in the same stateroom we might just as well sit at the same table."
I did not like Mr. Kelada.
I not only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the same table, but I could not walk round the deck without his joining me. It was impossible to snub him. It never occurred to him that he was not wanted. He was certain that you were as glad to see him as he was to see you. In your own house you might have kicked him downstairs and slammed the door in his face without the suspicion dawning on him that he was not a welcome visitor. He was a good mixer, and in three days knew everyone on board. He ran everything. He managed the sweeps, conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at the sports, got up quoit and golf matches, organized the concert and arranged the fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the best hated man in the ship. We called him Mr. Know-All, even to his face. He took it as a compliment. But it was at mealtimes that he was most intolerable. For the better part of an hour then he had us at his mercy. He was hearty, jovial, loquacious and argumentative. He knew everything better than anybody else, and it was an affront to his overweening vanity that you should disagree with him. He would not drop a subject, however unimportant, till he had brought you round to his way of thinking. The possibility that he could be mistaken never occurred to him. He was the chap who knew. We sat at the doctor's table. Mr. Kelada would certainly have had it all his own way, for the doctor was lazy and I was frigidly indifferent, except for a man called Ramsay who sat there also. He was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine's cocksureness. The discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable.
Ramsay was in the American Consular Service and was stationed at Kobe. He was a great heavy fellow from the Middle West, with loose fat under a tight skin, and he bulged out of his ready-made clothes. He was on his way back to resume his post, having been on a flying visit to New York to fetch his wife who had been spending a year at home. Mrs. Ramsay was a very pretty little thing, with pleasant manners and a sense of humor. The Consular Service is ill paid, and she was dressed always very simply; but she knew how to wear her clothes. She achieved an effect of quiet distinction. I should not have paid any particular attention to her but that she possessed a quality that may be common enough in women, but nowadays is not obvious in their demeanour. It shone in her like a flower on a coat.
One evening at dinner the conversation by chance drifted to the subject of pearls. There had been in the papers a good deal of talk about the cultured pearls which the cunning Japanese were making, and the doctor remarked that they must inevitably diminish the value of real ones. They were very good already; they would soon be perfect. Mr. Kelada, as was his habit, rushed the new topic. He told us all that was to be known about pearls. I do not believe Ramsay knew anything about them at all, but he could not resist the opportunity to have a fling at the Levantine, and in five minutes we were in the middle of a heated argument. I had seen Mr. Kelada vehement and voluble before, but never so voluble and vehement as now. At last something that Ramsay said stung him, for he thumped the table and shouted.
"Well, I ought to know what I am talking about, I'm going to Japan just to look into this Japanese pearl business. I'm in the trade and there's not a man in it who won't tell you that what I say about pearls goes. I know all the best pearls in the world, and what I don't know about pearls isn't worth knowing."
Here was news for us, for Mr. Kelada, with all his loquacity, had never told anyone what his business was. We only knew vaguely that he was going to Japan on some commercial errand. He looked around the table triumphantly.
"They'll never be able to get a cultured pearl that an expert like me can't tell with half an eye." He pointed to a chain that Mrs. Ramsay wore. "You take my word for it, Mrs. Ramsay, that chain you're wearing will never be worth a cent less than it is now."
Mrs. Ramsay in her modest way flushed a little and slipped the chain inside her dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave us all a look and a smile flickered in his eyes.
"That's a pretty chain of Mrs. Ramsay's, isn't it?"
"I noticed it at once," answered Mr. Kelada. "Gee, I said to myself, those are pearls all right."
"I didn't buy it myself, of course. I'd be interested to know how much you think it cost."
"Oh, in the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if it was bought on Fifth Avenue I shouldn't be surprised to hear anything up to thirty thousand was paid for it."
Ramsay smiled grimly.
"You'll be surprised to hear that Mrs. Ramsay bought that string at a department store the day before we left New York, for eighteen dollars."
Mr. Kelada flushed.
"Rot. It's not only real, but it's as fine a string for its size as I've ever seen."
"Will you bet on it? I'll bet you a hundred dollars it's imitation."
"Done."
"Oh, Elmer, you can't bet on a certainty," said Mrs. Ramsay.
She had a little smile on her lips and her tone was gently deprecating.
"Can't I? If I get a chance of easy money like that I should be all sorts of a fool not to take it."
"But how can it be proved?" she continued. "It's only my word against Mr. Kelada's."
"Let me look at the chain, and if it's imitation I'll tell you quickly enough. I can afford to lose a hundred dollars," said Mr. Kelada.
"Take it off, dear. Let the gentleman look at it as much as he wants."
Mrs. Ramsay hesitated a moment. She put her hands to the clasp.
"I can't undo it," she said, "Mr. Kelada will just have to take my word for it."
I had a sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to occur, but I could think of nothing to say.
Ramsay jumped up.
"I'll undo it."
He handed the chain to Mr. Kelada. The Levantine took a magnifying glass from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of triumph spread over his smooth and swarthy face. He handed back the chain. He was about to speak. Suddenly he caught sight of Mrs. Ramsay's face. It was so white that she looked as though she were about to faint. She was staring at him with wide and terrified eyes. They held a desperate appeal; it was so clear that I wondered why her husband did not see it.
Mr. Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could almost see the effort he was making over himself.
"I was mistaken," he said. "It's very good imitation, but of course as soon as I looked through my glass I saw that it wasn't real. I think eighteen dollars is just about as much as the damned thing's worth."
He took out his pocketbook and from it a hundred dollar note. He handed it to Ramsay without a word.
"Perhaps that'll teach you not to be so cocksure another time, my young friend," said Ramsay as he took the note.
I noticed that Mr. Kelada's hands were trembling.
The story spread over the ship as stories do, and he had to put up with a good deal of chaff that evening. It was a fine joke that Mr. Know-All had been caught out. But Mrs. Ramsay retired to her stateroom with a headache.
Next morning I got up and began to shave. Mr. Kelada lay on his bed smoking a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I saw a letter pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody there. I picked up the letter and saw it was addressed to Max Kelada. The name was written in block letters. I handed it to him.
"Who's this from?" He opened it. "Oh!"
He took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar note. He looked at me and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits and gave them to me.
"Do you mind just throwing them out of the porthole?"
I did as he asked, and then I looked at him with a smile.
"No one likes being made to look a perfect damned fool," he said.
"Were the pearls real?"
"If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn't let her spend a year in New York while I stayed at Kobe," said he.
At that moment I did not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada. He reached out for his pocketbook and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.
The End
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Conversations with a Critical Thinker
(OR: Black on White ≠ Right)
The first draft of our Adventures in Critical Reading anthology placed Maugham's "Mr. Know-All" in a "Crosscultural Bridges" unit. After all, the story involved Americans, Englishmen, and a Middle Easterner who is, according to the narrator of the story, trying to pass as an Englishman.
But just then, an Egyptian scholar visited the interdisciplinary Studies Program. Now Mustafa Sidki liked our anthology and was contemplating its adoption in his native land, until he noticed "Mr. Know-All." At that moment, all hell broke loose.
"What's the matter, Dr. Sidki?" one of us asked.
"My dear American colleagues," he began. "I am truly astonished that you chose to include this piece of 'literature' in your collection."
"Why?" we asked, taken back by astonishment.
"Well," Mustafa said, "I feel that you have unknowingly succumbed to Mr. Maugham's superb storytelling gift, and that you have ignored a most disturbing aspect of his story."
We were still puzzled, and said so. So Mustafa continued.
"My esteemed friends, Mr. Maugham is an out-and-out racist. Read the story with this new allegation in mind, and judge for yourselves."
We did, and found Mustafa's charge of racism not as absurd as it first appeared. So we hastily apologized. Before we continue, we would like you to convince yourself that Mustafa's accusation is sensible:
a. Please re-read the story and cite at least three instances which seem to document Mustafa's claim of racism.
b. State whether, in your opinion, Somerset Maugham shares the Dalai Lama’s view that we are all brothers and sisters.
At this point, however, one of us interrupted Mustafa and argued that his accusation rested on a misconception. That is, Mustafa seemed to have confused the person who tells the story with Mr. Maugham. The narrator, perhaps, looks down on Egyptians and African-Americans, but he should not be confused with Mr. Maugham.
Mustafa was equal to this task. He reminded us that the USA was part of the UK long long ago, while Egyptians had experienced British condescension first hand. He argued that Maugham never took the trouble to distance himself from the narrator. Finally, he marshaled a few other illustrations of Maugham's parochialism. For instance, he reminded us of Maugham's "Alien Corn," which again capitalizes, patronizingly, on ethnic differences. And this leads us to the next assignment:
c. In a single paragraph, please comment on Mustafa's argument: Is he right in insisting that Maugham himself is a racist?
You would think by now that old Mustafa had made his point, and that he would join us for some long-overdue falafel at Harmony Café (across the Street from the ISP). But our hopes were quickly dashed, for at this point Mustafa turned his critical gaze on another aspect of "Mr. Know-All."
"My esteemed Yankee colleagues," Mustafa proceeded, "I can understand how Maugham's ethnocentricity escaped you, but what really baffles me is that you failed, as well, to notice his shoddy math. In fact, even if Maugham were a honest man (which I doubt), I wouldn't trust him with giving me correct change for a buck. I sense, however, that you are all anxious to savor some humus and Turkish Coffee, and I must confess that I myself would love to sample a few dishes from my part of the world. So let us drop this subject for the moment. When you go home tonight, I urge you to re-read Maugham's captivating story once more and convince yourselves that I am right."
So we did go to lunch. And then, at Mustafa's insistence, we went to the DIA, and saw Mustafa in action (in addition to being a critical thinking ace, he is, no doubt, the best art critic this side of the Atlantic Ocean). We then went home, re-read the story, and saw that indeed Mr. Maugham committed an embarrassing mathematical error.
d. Just for the fun of it: Can you explain Maugham's error.
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A Few Additional Poems and Songs . . . if we get a chance
Invictus
William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903
OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Leisure
W. H. Davis
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stop and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
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Imagine
John Lennon
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us, only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today—
Imagine there's no country
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
Or brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will live as one
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Lives in the Balance
Jackson Browne
I've been waiting for something to happen
For a week or a month or a year,
With the blood in the ink of the headlines
And the sound of the crowd in my ears.
You might ask what it takes to remember
When you know that you've seen it before
Where a government lies to a people
And a country is drifting to war.
There is a shadow on the faces
Of the men who send the guns
To the wars that are fought in places
Where their business interests run.
On the radio, talk shows, and TV,
You hear one thing again and again;
How the USA stands for freedom
And we come to the aid of a friend.
But who are the ones that we call our friends?
These governments killing their own?
Or the people who finally can't take any more,
And they pick up a gun or a brick or a stone?
CHORUS
And there are lives in the balance;
There are people under fire;
There are children at the cannons;
And there is blood on the wire.
There is a shadow on the faces
Of the men who send the planes
Of the wars that are fought in places
We can't even say the names.
They sell us the President the same way
They sell us our clothes and our cars.
They sell us everything from youth to religion
The same time they sell us our wars.
I want to know who the men in the shadows are;
I want hear somebody asking them why
They can be counted on to tell us who our enemies are
But they're never the ones to fight or to die.
CHORUS
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WHEN I'M GONE
Phil Ochs
There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't feel the flowing of the time when I'm gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric line when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't breathe the bracing air when I'm gone
And I can't even worry 'bout my cares when I'm gone
Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
And I can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
Won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
All my days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
And the sands won’t be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight while I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
And I can't question how or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it
I guess I'll have to do it
Guess I'll have to do it
While I'm here
Teaching Evaluations
I’ll have to ask you later on in this term to fill in a formal teaching evaluation. I never read them, though, because they ask the wrong questions and because too many people care too much about their grades, too little about their minds and hearts. But I’m curious to know if I’m on the right track accomplishing MY goals. Please place a number at the end of each question, where a # appears, using this scale: 7= instructor did a top-notch job trying to achieve his nearly impossible goals. 1=instructor did a lousy job trying of achieve his goals, which are lousy to begin with. So here are my goals, with your anonymous evaluation following them:
1. You are more likely to read books for pleasure now than you were before: Your answer in blue here: 1 (are you kidding me—with you as an instructor—not at all); to 7 (more than most classes I’ve ever taken): #
Please explain in writing (optional):
2. You are more likely to listen to books on tape now than you were before? Place here a # between 1 and 7: #
Explain in writing (optional):
3. You are less likely to quit school now than you were before # between 1 and 7: #
Explain:
4. Being in this class was not an ordeal for me: #
Explain:
5. You forgive me for playing with grades, remembering that I did not invent them and that I had no choice in the matter #
Explain:
6. Grant me the grey hair privilege (forgiving me in advance if, on some future chance encounter, I don’t remember you) #
Explain:
7. You are more interested in the life of the mind now than you were before #
Explain:
8. You feel that the sky is indeed the limit, and that you can go as far as you care to (almost) #
Explain:
9. Your reading, writing, and thinking improved, if ever so slightly (no magic wand invented yet, for this one) #
Explain:
10. You are a bit more skeptical about anything than you were before (if somehow you, my friend, managed to be confused about who MLK was, about Jesus of Nazareth (I’ve yet to meet a so-called Christian who has a firm grasp of what Jesus stood for), then maybe your beliefs about one million other things are mistaken or confused too. As someone put it, I was more interested in questioning your answers than in answering your questions. #
Explain:
11. This class made it a bit less hard for you to change your mind. #
Explain:
12. You know a little bit more literature, politics—and don’t you forget my elephants! #
Explain:
13. As a result of taking this class, you may give your TV the full (or at least partial) slip. OK, let’s be realistic—you may watch less TV after taking this class: #
Explain:
Wayne State University
Interdisciplinary Studies Program
RECEIPT
I hereby certify that (name) ___________________________________ paid $_____ on (date) _________________ for books and other instructional materials for (course # and title) ______________________________________________________________.
Moti Nissani
Class Instructor
Interdisciplinary Studies Program
2nd floor, 5700 Cass
Wayne State University
Detroit, MI 48202
Tel (h): 248.427.1957
E-mail: moti.nissani@wayne.edu
Class Website: is.wayne.edu/mnissani/cr/
____________________________________
| Class Gateway |Moti Nissani's Homepage |Dept. of Interdisciplinary Studies |
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