Cool tools #1: DeWalt Log-Splitting Axe

     Spring just won't arrive. Oh, it's here, technically, according to the calendar, though that usually trustworthy grid has taken on a slightly disreputable air, more akin to a mimeographed sheet of lucky policy wheel numbers than a reliable guide to what part of the year we find ourselves in.
     Though the weather did cooperate enough last week for me to try out my latest tool, and since we need something positive to remind us that the season of building and repairing and doing outside is nearly upon us, I thought, until the temperatures get back into the 60s, I would inaugurate a new occasional series I am dubbing "Cool Tools."      

      For a half dozen years now, I've had the good fortune to spend a weekend every autumn in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, at my buddy Rick's sprawling compound—a big main house, barn, sauna, and cabins—seven hours due north in Ontonagon.
     The place is on the sandy shore of Lake Superior, but woodsy in the extreme. Once I've gotten settled in my cabin—"Squirrel,” meticulously crafted by the inimitable Moonshine Mike Guzek—and admired the views, and chatted with the other guys, I'll slip on a pair of J. Edwards elk skin linesman's gloves and go split wood.

It doesn't split itself

     Why? Why go to the effort? Why not just sit on the porch and admire the thin blue of the lake and wait for dinner?
     That's complicated. A variety of reasons, I suppose. It's good exercise, yes, and Rick has a lot of logs that need splitting—split wood dries better and burns better, for you city folk. 
      But that isn't quite why I do it. It isn't as if Rick is expecting me to put in sweat equity, though I like doing that. 
    There is something manly and Reaganesque about splitting wood, and immensely satisfying. You take a section of log, about two foot long, set it on a solid base—a tree stump is perfect. Then line up your axe, holding it with both hands, draw it way back behind you, then bring it down fast and hard, as hard as you can, on the circular top of the log. If all goes well, the log explodes into two halves. If it doesn't, the axe impacts into the wood and you need to lift the entire heavy conjoined thing, the log with the axe embedded, and bring it down until it splits. Graceless.
     Split a dozen logs with an axe and you feel like you've accomplished something.
     "Axe" isn't exactly the proper term. I'd never use my Gransfors Bruks Scandinavian Forest Axe for splitting wood—too light and delicate; that would be like using a surgeon's scalpel to cut a hole in a galvanized steel tub. Rather I use one of Rick's mauls—he has a few. 
    If you don't have an mental image of what a "maul" is, don't feel bad.  Most people are familiar with "maul" as a verb, as what bears and pit bulls do to you, if you're not lucky, or what various sports teams do to each other, metaphorically. 
     But the verb "maul" is several hundred years newer than the noun, which were used to describe various big hammers, and now are used primarily for a tool that is like the love child of an axe and a sledgehammer—the blade to split the wood, and the heft to push it apart.
     I'd always had what I thought of as "maul envy." But I couldn't bring myself to go out and buy one. Yes, I chop trees on my property, but logs will burn with the bark on them, particularly if you use enough gasoline, and I try not to get more tools than what I absolutely need. The time never came when I headed to Home Depot thinking, "Better pick up that maul."
     Then the good people at DeWalt sent an email. If I read every bit of corporate puffery to land in my in box that's all I'd ever do. But I have Big Love for DeWalt, as the proud owner of one of their compound mitre saws, though I think of it, incorrectly, as a "chop saw," perhaps the most useful power tool I own other than a cordless drill. I used it to build a cedar play fort for the boys, and a magnificent piece of equipment it is, having stood up to 15 years of hard use.
     So my interest was perked when the DeWalt people sent an email, almost like a birth announcement, ballyhooing the arrival of a new addition to the family:

     DEWALT® ExoCore™ Axes are available in 20 oz. with a 12” handle and 3.5 single bit and 4.5-pound log splitter with a 32” handle. All DEWALT® ExoCore™ Axes feature a scalloped cutting edge, which ensure a deep cut and improved release from material, and carbon fiber composite handles for overstrike protection. The durable rubber over-mold on the grip provides comfort.
     Available now where DEWALT products are sold, the ExoCore™ Sledge Hammers and Axes will come with a limited lifetime warranty for $29.99-$54.97 MSRP.

    I don't think they actually expect journalists to reply to these emails—they're probably designed for jaded professionals in the hardware industry media, God help them. But I was overcome with enthusiasm, and wrote back the following slightly-embarrassing reply:

 Ooo, I might have to pick up your log splitter. I already have the best light axe made. But I use a maul a lot when I'm up at Lake Superior, and have been in the market for a really good one. 

     That was not disingenuous. I was not trying to lure the DeWalt people into sending me their new log-splitting axe. But send it they did—respect for the media has not died entirely, I'm happy to report. 
     It took a week, maybe 10 days, to arrive. Long enough that I had just about given up hope. Companies say things all the time and never follow through. I've talked to the Pendleton people twice since November, when I foolheartedly ordered a wool blanket and thought that simply because I had selected it and paid for it that meant I could, in reasonable span of months, expect a Pendleton wool blanket to arrive at my home.
     No such luck. I phoned Pendleton in January—it was supposed to be my wife's Hanukkah gift for me—and again in early April. To be honest, I was just curious, as to what the hold-up was. Factory burn down? An invasion of moths? Sudden global run on green heather Yakima camp throws? Just tell me. I spoke to a variety of people there, some charged exclusively with talking to the media, and ended up with nothing but a bad taste in my mouth. They would neither explain what the problem is or acknowledge that they were not explaining it. Maddening. I came close to cancelling the order, but it really was my wife's order, her gift to me, and I didn't want to make her feel bad—the Kindle I bought her is one of her favorite toys—just because the Pendleton Woolen Mills of Portland, Oregon doesn't know how to handle would-be customers whose only crime is trying to purchase one of their products.
   The DeWalt folks are much more on the ball. A big cardboard box arrived. Perhaps I overreacted, but I ripped the box open on the spot, took the axe onto the couch and watched television with the tool, its 4.5 pound head—with, I will point out, a rubber guard protecting its razor-like edge—cradled lovingly against my chest. 
     My wife, who is used to this kind of thing, and in fact finds it an appealing boyish enthusiasm, or so she claims and I choose to believe, suppressed concern. "The Shining" sort of ruined the idea of a husband with an axe.
     On that one single, precious day last week when suddenly the weather became nice, and it seemed like spring was finally here, I ran outside with my new DeWalt to put it through its paces.
     Well, first I put on my pair of Red Wing steel-toed boots—a certain amount of force, quickness and aim is required when splitting wood, and the chance of the maul skittering off the target and ending up planted in your foot needs to be kept in mind at all times.
     The DeWalt log-splitting axe was all it was advertised. Solid hardwood logs fell apart at a stroke. Easy to grip, light to swing yet the 4.5 pound head delivering the force where it's needed. I feel a little sorry they don't call it a "maul"—trying not to confuse the tool-buying public, I suppose. But it's mine now, and I plan to call it a maul, and don't expect anyone to contradict me on the matter.    

     

Nation's librarian wants you to see our country's treasures

      The CVS drug store across the street had been looted. Buildings were burning. Rioters tossed rocks, injuring 15 police officers. The governor imposed a curfew and called out the National Guard. While the University of Maryland closed its downtown campus and the Orioles postponed their home game against the Chicago White Sox at Camden Yards, head librarian Carla Hayden decided to not to close the Pennsylvania Avenue branch of Baltimore's venerable Enoch Pratt Free Library, even though it was at the center of the turmoil surrounding the killing of Freddie Gray.
     Because it was at the center of the turmoil.
     "We had to be open and available for the community in need," said Hayden, now the Librarian of Congress—the 14th, and first African-American to hold the title. "We did it because, in that neighborhood, like in so many others, the library is the opportunity center and there were people who needed it, to have a safe place."
     In addition to its usual functions, the library distributed food and diapers, since stores were closed.
     Hayden will visit Chicago next week to receive the 2018 Newberry Library Award, in recognition of her lifetime of service to libraries.
     Born in Florida, Hayden came to Chicago when she was 10 after her parents divorced, and graduated from South Shore High School and Roosevelt University.
     She got into library work, at the Auburn branch on 79th Street, after a friend told her the library was hiring "anybody with a bachelor's degree." She shifted over to working at the Museum of Science and Industry while earning her her masters and doctorate from the University of Chicago's Graduate School of Library Science.
     Hayden, who spent 23 years in Baltimore, has seen how libraries have been transforming into community centers, even before the Internet.
     "That's a development in the making since the 1960s and 1970s," she said. "Libraries became information centers, and that just expanded over time. Libraries are places where people go for social services, to get flu shots, where AARP is helping with taxes."
     With books so readily available online and electronically, what is known as "The Library of Things" has become a trend, with libraries checking out board games and cake pans, carpentry tools and traffic cones. A library in Winter Park, Florida, lends bicycles.
     "All kinds of things," Hayden said. "Most libraries are expanding beyond books."
     Eighty-percent of librarians are women, but Hayden became the first female Librarian of Congress in September 2016, when she began her 10-year term. She said when she spoke with Barack Obama, whom she had met in Hyde Park in the 1990s, he talked about noteworthy documents he had seen at the Library of Congress, musing that he might have special access as president, and asked her what she could do to ensure more people get to see the treasures of the library.
     "My major focus is accessibility, making sure as many people know about the treasures at the library and how they can use them," she said. "One thing I'm really really passionate about is opening up this treasure chest, the Library of Congress."
     That's good, I said, because when I was doing research at the Library of Congress, I wasn't even able to persuade a guard to let my boys to peer into the elaborate 1890s main reading room.
     "I'm working on a young readers card," she said, after getting a "wonderful letter" from an 8-year-old California boy, Adam Coffey, complaining about the library.
     "I don't like the fact you have to be 16 years or more," he wrote "I'd love to visit your amazing library."
      As the first Librarian of Congress with a Twitter account, she is hoping to use the Internet to draw attention to the library and its holdings.
     "What we're doing now is making sure more people get to see and use the collection," she said. "Technology is a wonderful tool, but the tangible object is unique. You come to Washington, D.C., you can view the contents of the Abraham Lincoln's pockets the day he was assassinated, to the draft of Thomas Jefferson's last version of the Declaration of Independence, to the world's largest collection of comic books. A complete array of the wonderful and unique."

Tax Day, 2010: Poking in the soil Trump sprang from.

Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago Money Museum

     Today is April 15, traditionally Tax Day, when what is Caesar's due must be rendered up to Caesar (actually, federal taxes are due April 17 this year, due to today being a Sunday and tomorrow being "Emancipation Day" in Washington, D.C., a local holiday marking Lincoln freeing the slaves in our nation's capital in 1862).
     Nosing around for something relevant in the vault, I came across this visit to the Tea Party eight years ago. A reminder that Donald Trump was a product of our brokenness, not its cause. And that we liberals, if not guilty of summoning it up, then certainly misread the warning signs, as my lack of alarm at the end of this column amply illustrates. The original headline was "Tea Party 'revolt' looks like a pity party to me."


     "Chicago Tax Day Tea Party," read the colorful card handed to me as I emerged from Union Station into the soft, summery day Thursday.
     "Liberty" it continued, in spidery, colonial-era script. "Constitutional Principles. Fiscal Responsibility." Then, in bright-red type -- the blood of patriots, no doubt -- "Repeal it! Replace Congress." And finally: "Chicago. Daley Plaza. 12:00 Noon."
     Oh, right, I thought, sadly realizing that, though I'd love to toddle off to Gene & Georgetti as planned, I was duty-bound to cancel lunch -- another sacrifice on the altar of freedom! -- so as not to miss this moment in history. I'm sure guys were sheepishly telling their grandchildren, "No, Johnny, I was not at Lexington & Concord. But I was quite near -- the Spooner Tavern, two miles down the road, sharing a potato pie with Jim Griswald . . . "
     Can't have that.
     I entered Daley Center Plaza. Elvis' "It's Now or Never" burbled muddily from loudspeakers. There seemed about . . . and this is sensitive, so I'll tread carefully . . . 500 protesters, though the Tribune estimated 1,000 and the Sun-Times called it "thousands." So let's say 2,000, but if you want to make that 20,000, be my guest. I sure didn't count them, but took my place in the crowd.
     Radio host Cisco Cotto led singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Or tried to. The response was a murmur, and I turned to look around -- most mouths were set in a grim line. One speaker said this was a happy movement, but they sure didn't look happy.
     "Keep it respectful" read a yellow sign a lady carried, and there was obvious effort to rein in the excesses of previous Tea Party rallies across the country, despite the taunts of counter-protesters.
     "Keep the rich rich!" chanted some young men. "Take my freedom!"
     A round man in a straw hat carried a sign: "We Gave Peace a Chance and We Got 9/11" with "Peace" crossed out and replaced with "Hope" and "9/11" replaced by "Ft. Hood."
     "So you don't think the Fort Hood massacre was the isolated act of a lone disturbed individual?" I asked, by way of starting conversation.
     "No, I do not!" he said, fleeing. A common reaction. They want media attention, so long as it is not on themselves personally. I drifted over to a counter-protester, a young man in an aluminum foil hat.
     "I've used tinfoil hats as metaphor," I said. "But I've never seen anyone actually wearing one . . . "
     "Why don't you talk to the actual Tea Party members!" demanded another man, swooping in.
     "OK," I said, trying to disarm him with my boyish smile. "Why don't I talk to you? What would you like to say?"
     He turned and fled, at a trot.
     Onstage, less tax, less tax, less tax. Clear enough. Though sometimes it seemed the partiers hadn't actually thought about what they were saying. Someone began reading an analysis of the Pledge of Allegiance that has circulated on the Internet for years.
     "I," he read. "Me; an individual; a committee of one."
     "Pledge; dedicate all of my worldly goods to give without self-pity . . . "
     I looked around. Nobody here seemed willing to dedicate even some, never mind "all" of their worldly goods, and self-pity was the operative emotion.
     "We want our country back," they said. But who has taken it? There were taxes and debt before. What is different is Barack Obama, and his central difference. . . .
     "I don't give a damn that Obama is black," read a sign held by a man in a Soviet greatcoat. "It scares the hell out of me that he is red."
     What to make of all this? Of the yellow "Don't Tread on Me" flags and tri-cornered hats? I could probably work up indignation at the co-opting of revolutionary icons. Our founding fathers were risking their lives, signing their names boldly across acts of treason, and these guys can't even put their names behind their vague complaints.
     But, to be honest, I found the whole thing harmless. Just because they've adopted the self-inflating rhetoric of revolt that so inflames every Saturday afternoon Young Communist League pep rally doesn't make them a genuine threat to anybody.
     My feeling was, heck, if staging public gripe fests gives these people something to do, then great. It's outside. It involves handicrafts, the making of signs and costumes. It's like Scouting for irked middle-aged white people.
     As to whether this is an actual grass-roots moment, or a sham orchestrated by larger interests, well, after the rally I pulled out that large card I had been handed when I got off the train. Stiff cardboard stock. Four-color. Glossy. Expensive, like something J.B. Pritzker printed up when he was running for Congress. A real grass-roots movement would use colored copier paper from Kinkos.
     Despite all the talk of the American Revolution, the era of history they really evoke, at least to me, is the America First, the isolationist organization started in Chicago in 1940. Like the Tea Party, the America First was also conservative, nativist, at odds with both parties, since Democrats and Republicans wanted to help the English stand up to Mr. Hitler, which America First found a waste of our beloved money. Like the Tea Party, the America First gloried in huge rallies, featuring its own populist star, Charles Lindbergh, and mistook these displays for actual significance. America Firstism vanished on Dec. 7, 1941, and was promptly forgotten.
     And while I would never be so bold as to predict the same fate for the Tea Party, it wouldn't surprise me either.

        —Originally published in the Sun-Times, April 18, 2010

Era of Contempt, III

     Being creative is hard. Especially over time. To hold readers' interest, to be both recognizable and fresh. Expectations rise, if you're good, and then have to be met. Or, inevitably, not met. Lurking in the shadows is that enemy of continued excellence, Regression to the Mean—the tendency for exceptional performance to be followed by more humble results, skewing toward the average, toward not the outstanding, but what people usually do on any given day.
     So as promising as it was to receive another letter from Alan P. Leonard, I should have seen what was coming. 
     His first letter, defending our "wonderful president" and damning me was a masterpiece of unintentional humor, among the dozen most popular posts ever to appear on this blog, between its comic misspellings—"a wessel like you"— and its lashing out at Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama. Dozens of readers commented.
     The second letter, with its bold, sex panic opening line—"Are you one of those transgender people I've heard about"— didn't rate quite as high, but still was more popular than most anything I could write. It had a certain grandeur that demanded admiration.
     To be honest, I thought my Tinley Park correspondent had run his course. It was too much to expect a steady stream of crazed clickbait from Mr. Leonard.  
     Then this third letter arrived. I opened it with excitement, then felt ... well, let down. I mean, the misspellings are there—my name, "your resent articles"—but it somehow lacked the dynamic tone of the previous two offerings. It was flat, limp, lifeless. To be honest, I at first decided not to post it at all, that it was not up to my standards for risible contemptuous reader emails.
    But I couldn't throw it away either. It lingered in my briefcase, and now that a few weeks have passed, and no further letters, I feel obligated to end this as a triptych, and share his swan song, the last dinosaur, the end of an era.
    I'll let you be the judge. Is this up to his high standards for nitwittery? The stationery alone merits attention. Still ... am I slumming sharing it? To be honest, I looked at the current national scene, the White House dissolving into chaos, the investigative net closing around the president, and had nothing whatsoever to add to the chorus of critique. I'm a spectator like everyone else, shorn of insight, just waiting in a mental crouch for the next development.
     So, in the meantime, why not Mr. Leonard? As well him as another, to paraphrase Molly Bloom. So yes I said yes I will yes, and put your hands together, one last time.

   

'Fox Hunt' author, plucked from war-torn Yemen by social media, to visit Chicago

Calligraphic Galleon, by Abd al-Qadir Hisari, Turkey (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     The young man was trapped.
     In a small apartment in a country that was coming apart.
     It was late March, 2015. A week before, he'd fled his home in the capital of Yemen as that nation's civil war intensified. Now he was on the coast, in Aden, where it turned out the fighting was worse: gunfire in the street, Saudi air strikes raining missiles, and nowhere to go.
     Yet the Western world was tantalizingly close. At his fingertips, on his laptop: Facebook. Twitter. It was a fragile thread, but it was all he had, so he pulled it.
     There is something heartbreaking in the faux casual way the young man started his email to Daniel Pincus, a man he had met in Jordan at an interfaith conference.
     "Daniel, I hope everything is great in your side! I hope you still remember me ... I thought it will be a good idea if I ask you if you can help me out ... If you watch the news lately, you may have heard about what's happening in Yemen."
     He had already reached out to another friend, Megan Hallahan, who emailed everyone she "had ever met in [her] whole entire life" on behalf of this acquaintance whose life "is really in danger."
     "Any idea or contact will help," she wrote.
     One of her emails reached Justin Hefter, a native of Highland Park, who was himself actively trying to foster Middle East peace, particularly between the Israelis and Palestinians.

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Half a mind to struggle

     Without the union, I probably would have never been hired by the Chicago Sun-Times.
     It was 1987, and I had been freelancing for the paper for two years. 
     It was a perfect arrangement, as far as the newspaper and myself were concerned — the paper needed reporters who could quickly and accurately bat out stories. And I needed the $125 that such stories paid. If you wrote five a week—and I could, easily — it almost constituted a kind of living. 
     Left to our own devices, we'd have continued that way. I was freelancing for other places, heading down to Haiti to study voodoo for the The Atlantic magazine. I was in no rush to tie myself to any particular publication.
     But there was a fly in the ointment. The world did not consist solely of the newspaper and myself. There was also the Chicago Newspaper Guild, an entity that looked askance at the regular freelancing of news. It tolerated it for a while, then told the Sun-Times management: This guy is basically a scab, undercutting union reporters. Hire him full time or stop using him.
     Thus a job was offered to me. I took one look at that princely salary — $33,000 a year in 1987 – and felt I really had no choice. "I have to give this a chance," I told my girlfriend Edie.
    I will admit, it was not the ideal work environment to be flung into. I was unpopular walking in the door, not quite seen as an anti-union thug, but not a fresh-from-the-box new hire either. More of a kind of patsy, a semi-scab, someone dubious and tainted and taken advantage of, not to mention sullied by my magazine work. Real Chicago newspaper reporters were annealed in the low-wage furnace of City News. I was hired by features, to write for The Adviser, a weekly publication telling readers how to keep Japanese beetles off their lawns.
     As my career unfolded, I kept the union at an arm's length. My philosophy was, I'm unpopular enough with management as it is, for my habit of speaking frankly, sometimes in print about them. Let's not make it worse. I spent seven years on the night shift, and was the last 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. reporter the paper employed. I had a boss tell me that, if it weren't for the union, he'd have fired me on the spot, on general principles.
     Working nights got me an extra 10 percent pay, as stipulated in the union contract. The contract was filled with other protections and rights. In 1995, I invoked a line in the contract that allowed male workers to take up to a year unpaid paternity leave. I would have certainly never have done it otherwise — the contract not only granted permission, but it gave me the idea. There was no reason not to. I had been on staff for eight years. I was a night shift grind with no future, at least not one here. I had written three books, and with money from the latest, I could step away, take a break from deadline reporting, look at my options and, oh yes, help raise this newborn.
    So I walked away. Thank you Samuel Gompers. Thank you John L. Lewis. The paper didn't miss me — in fact, I'm certain I was given a column while I was gone because I was the Man Who Walked Away. It gave me an appeal that my actually being there would have dissipated. 
     Another union perk.
     I paid my dues, accepted benefits with both hands, and left the organizing to others. Having a contract made the job better. It prevented abuse. I remember, living on Logan Boulevard, closing the door to my apartment on a Friday, my day off since I worked Sundays, hearing the phone ring inside. "Leave it," I thought, hand on the doorknob. Instead I went back in, and picked up. An editor telling me to get to Christ Hospital in Oak Lawn and spend 24 hours in its ER — we wanted to scoop a pending Trib story on trauma centers.
     So I did. Some businesses would require a low level employee to work 24 hours on a moment's notice and then say "Thanks." If that. Being a union business, that meant I could take time and a half off for the weekend overtime. So in working 24 hours on my day off, I earned a week's paid vacation. Seemed fair to me. More than fair. I've always viewed working at the Sun-Times as a sweet job, and the union was the spoon that stirred the sugar.
     That is what unionism is about. Taking the buckets of benefits that pour over owners and re-directing a few tablespoons to workers. If that week off seems generous, it pales next to the millions that owners sucked out of the paper without ever having to gingerly watch large, howling men who had been shot at a street corner dice game being catheterized.
     Without a union, you're naked. The reporters at the Tribune certainly were. People assumed Trib staffers did better than Sun-Times reporters — I think the Tower, and its fancy aura, and the Tribune's general tone of hauteur threw them off. But whenever I actually compared specifics with my colleagues at the Tribune, to my vast surprise, they were doing worse: worse pay, worse benefits, worse health care, worse job security. 
     They didn't have a union because their bosses had always been paternalistic mini-Col. McCormick's who convinced their underlings to trust them. What unions they had were brutally repressed. The Tribune was the place where pressmen picketed for years, to no avail. Those miserably marching pressmen are why I'd never subscribe; I don't think I've ever bought a copy of the Tribune at a newsstand, ever, to this day.
     So now the Tribune newsroom is organizing. About time. And congratulations.
     As momentous as this is, I hope they remember — with those pressmen in mind — the union is a means, not an end. Forming the union is only the beginning; you have to stick together, hang tough, make it work. There's still a fight ahead. Many fights.
     Sure, there are downsides to unions, as there are to any organization or human activity. I've never met a coworker so deficient or crazy that the union wouldn't go to bat for them.  So you'd hear some doorjamb-gnawing lunatic you couldn't believe was ever hired has finally been called on his or her particular madness. Then you'd inevitably hear that the union is fighting it.
     That said, the management claim that the union made it impossible to fire people was not true — the procedures made it difficult, but there are procedures, and though often management was often too slipshod and lazy to actually go through it, to build the paper trail. Under the proper motivation, it was possible, and they did do it.
    Sometimes we did find ourselves picketing the company picnic, to get a point across. That sucks. Picketing sucks. As does leafleting. But I do it, when called upon, because you have to. Otherwise, you're a parasite, living off the blood of others.
    The union was weakened by the financial crisis of 2008. In 2009, when Jim Tyree bought the paper, he had three stipulations: we had to take a 15 percent pay cut. We had to freeze our pension plan. And seniority — the requirement that people be fired in the reverse order they were hired — was done away with.
    The union resisted — the first vote turned the offer down. In my memory — and I might be over-dramatizing my role — I remember being one of the few who supported taking a deal. "I'm a Jew and we survive," I remember saying. "The purpose of the union is to protect our jobs at the newspaper. But if there is no newspaper and no jobs, I'm not really concerned whether the union is strong or not."
     So the union undercut itself, to protect what was important. We muddled through. Now the union is trying to recover what we surrendered. I don't know of anyone who regrets that decision — it's been a good job this past decade, still.
      It's encouraging to see our colleagues at the Tribune moving to unionize. Given how they have been manhandled by a series of cash-sodden jerks: grave dancer Sam Zell, tech toddler Michael Ferro — they need something strong on their side, protecting them against the whims of whoever can muster the cash.
     This resistance is happening all over. Last Sunday, the Denver Post ran an extraordinary editorial denouncing their own owners as "venture vultures" and calling for someone who cares about the city to buy the Post. Newspapers, having been beaten up for a decade, and under a president who prefers fascism to a free press, they are finally fighting back. 
   Fighting back is good. There is a New Yorker cartoon that shows two explorers up to their necks and sinking. "Quicksand or not, Barclay," one says to the other, "I have half mind to struggle."
     That's where longtime newspaper employees have been for a dozen years. Struggling. Fighting. Not giving up. Samuel Johnson said it best.
    "I will be conquered. I will not capitulate."
    That's the spirit. If victory is the opposite of defeat, then forming a union is the opposite of surrender. I don't often wish the Tribune well, but I wish them well now. We are all cooking in the same pot. So much of the economy is pushing workers toward the piecemeal home workers who were so abused a hundred years ago. Success for one means improvement for all. Forming a union is a step in the right direction. Not victory. But a step toward it. 
 

Two directors transform ‘They fight’ into complex stagecraft in ‘Macbeth’

Aaron Posner, left and Teller

     Though known for writing lengthy soliloquies, William Shakespeare does not offer a lot of guidance with his description of the dramatic business before the last scene of “Macbeth”:
     “They fight.”
     Not much to go on. Which is why plays have a director or, in the case of the upcoming production of “Macbeth” at Chicago Shakespeare Theater, two directors: Aaron Posner and Teller, the silent half of the popular Penn & Teller magical duo.
     “We’re going to take it from toward the end of the fight,” said Posner, during a rehearsal last week.
     No need for a spoiler alert with Shakespeare. But the directors asked that I not reveal any surprises, of which there are many. So let’s just say Macbeth, having left a trail of butchery and betrayal at the goading of his ambitious wife, is about to get his due.
     “You’re now completely surrounded by all these people,” Teller said to Ian Merrill Peakes, who plays Macbeth. “And that’s when we go to the blackout.”
     If your reaction to the above is “He speaks?” you’re not alone. Everyone I mentioned meeting Teller said the exact same thing, even though that’s like wondering how NBA star Chris Paul gets along with his insurance selling brother, Cliff. It’s an act, one he’ll happily expound upon.
     “I think people really enjoy the idea of somebody living his life without talking,” Teller said. “That’s a really cool thing to think about. Because, when you take away talk, there’s so much you add. My experience as a performer on stage is that when you don’t talk there’s a tremendous intimacy with the audience. I think people enjoy that idea and like playing with it. People who talk to me will later say, ‘Oh yeah, he never talks.’ It’s not stupidity, it’s conspiracy; they’re conspiring with me and I’m conspiring with them to help make that idea come to life. We think there so much power in speech, but theres so much power in stillness.”

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'Comforter where, where is your comforting?'

Photo by Michael Cooke

     Grief is like water.
     It finds its way through the cracks. 
     Through fissures in the walls we set up against the suffering of strangers.  
     With good reason. 
     Because there is so much sorrow in the world, we can't feel a tiny fraction of it. 
     We can't, and wouldn't want to if we could.
     Lest we surrender the happiness that we should cherish.
     Before it is our turn. 
     Inevitably, our turn. 
     Like water, grief has odd currents, eddies, backflows. 
     When I heard of the 15 young Canadians, 10 junior league hockey players and five support staff, who died Sunday in a bus accident in Saskatchewan, my thoughts were distant. 
     Those poor boys, those poor families.
     That was about it. On Tuesday I read the story in the New York Times, about the identities, switched for two players in the carnage and commotion—one who had been thought dead was alive, one who was thought alive, actually dead.
      Also unimaginable, yet somehow speaking to the human condition more than the accident itself.
      For we never know if we are among the safe, for now, or the taken, today, and even knowing, we don't know. We only think we know. Those boys and their families thought they knew, on Saturday. On Sunday they were proven wrong.
      A somber thought. 
      But nothing visceral. 
      Nothing personal.
      Then a Canadian friend sent me a stark photo he had taken, of a borrowed hockey stick placed outside his door. 
      Somehow, that stark photo. The lonely stick.
      Canadians love hockey, and they have taken to putting the sticks outside their doors, to acknowledge the loss, to show solidarity for their fellow citizens' suffering, and in the sweetly impossible thought that one of the lost players might need a stick, as players often do.
      It isn't much. It's an enormous amount, in that it's all that can be done, and a reminder that like it or not, we all all part of something, something larger, the great human condition, that feels, each in our turn, love, and connection, each in our turn loss, and sorrow. 
      There is a brief poem by Gerald Manley Hopkins that goes:

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?

       And ends this way:

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

     It is difficult and necessary to bend your mind toward the tragedy of others, to recognize it, solemnize it, pause from the revelry of our lives to acknowledge the woe in theirs. To let ourselves be forced against our wills to do it. For whom? For ourselves, as much as for them. Or rather, for all of us, for our frayed humanity, so worn and twisted and threadbare. No words suffice; better a mute hockey stick, placed outside the grieving doors of Canada.      
     

Off the beaten track in London

Sir John Soane's Museum

    When my older boy told me he wasn't coming home over spring break: he'd be visiting London for the first time instead, conducting research at the School of Economics, I manfully resisted suggesting what he should do in his free time.
    Let him discover the city himself.
    Besides, kids never listen to their parents, mine especially, and I'd describe my favorite places, only to have him shrug them off.
     That would hurt. 
    Well, at least I tried not to make suggestions. I did break down and mention Sir John Soane's Museum—I always do, to anybody visiting London, since somebody mentioned it to me, and I feel the need to pass it forward. The place is special, to me, for reasons that will be clear below. But I mentioned it to my son in a casual, off-hand way, knowing that he'd never go, certainly not, not just because his dad suggested it. Why would he?
    When he got back, he phoned to describe his adventures: lunch at the Dorchester, shopping at Harrod's, drinks at the American Bar at the Savoy. The British Museum and, oh yeah, Sir John Soane's Museum. He liked it. I was surprised, shocked almost. Occasionally old dad catches a break.

    We are all just dice rattling around in fate's dice cup.

     Among the countless reasons why I happened to be walking down Lincoln's Inn Fields, a street facing a park, one was how the square tail fin of a 500-pound incendiary bomb caught the air as it tumbled from a German bomber high above the city in May 1941.
     Not that I realized it, as I searched for No. 13. I thought I was there simply because, a week earlier in Chicago, I had encountered Hal Weitzman, Midwest correspondent for the Financial Times. I've been to London repeatedly, I said, and already seen the usual things.
     "What should I see in London?" I asked. "Something that tourists don't know about; something off the beaten track."
     "John Soane's Museum," he answered immediately. That was good enough for me to find the address though, characteristically, I did so without investigating what the museum might be.
     I'm bad at premeditating trips — I prefer to simply go and see what happens. Surprise magnifies wonder. In addition to quizzing Hal, my sole attempt at planning consisted of asking myself what I would most like to do while in London.
     The answer? "See the queen."
     So I phoned Buckingham Palace, with typical American cheekiness. "I realize we're not going to have tea together," I blathered, "but maybe she'll be cutting a ribbon someplace and I could be in the crowd. . . ."
     Alas, I was told, the queen will be at her castle in Balmoral, Scotland.
     Rebuffed by royalty, I instead found myself in the middle of a block of elegant townhouses, looking at a white stone facade of tall arched windows, flanked by a pair of Greek statues. I went up the front steps, signed my name, and stepped into one of the most singular and unusual spaces I've ever visited.
     John Soane was the foremost architect in Britain in the early 1800s. He designed the Bank of England. The flattened dome atop the red London phone booths that still dot the streets here was inspired by the tomb Soane built for his wife.
     He moved into this house in 1813 and filled it with artwork and architectural ornaments — plaster casts, bits of molding, statuary, urns, medallions — intending it as a place of study for his students. In his old age, the 1830s, Soane was heaped with honors. One of them, in 1833, was an act of Parliament that decreed his house and its contents should remain unchanged forever.
     And so they have, lit by skylights and mirrors. The main hall is painted a deep Pompeian red — Soane was at the excavation of Pompeii in 1779 — its mahogany chairs so inviting that a thistle is set on the seat of each, to prevent visitors from accepting the invitation.
     It took me an hour to get through the first floor, lingering in the Picture Room, a small chamber jammed with paintings. The eight canvases of "Rake's Progress" are there, plus others by Hogarth, and a Turner watercolor, one of three.
     Soane had more masterpieces than wall space, so the Picture Room's walls are ingeniously hinged, folding forward to reveal a second wall of paintings within. That wall also opens to reveal a hidden nymph and other artifacts.
     How could such a place survive the fury of time? It nearly didn't. Soane's son sued to pry away the house. He lost. Despite attentive docents, visitors sometimes walk off with artifacts. My attention was drawn to a black oblong box, whose inscription explained that this was the pistol of Russia's Peter the Great, given to Napoleon, who gave it to "a gentleman."
     The box was empty.
     "What happened to Peter the Great's pistol?" I asked a guard.
     "A visitor stole it 40 years ago!" David Gardener said, hotly, as if it happened yesterday.
     Upstairs, in a yellow parlor, I noticed a small clear window pane standing out from the colorful stained glass. It bore a neatly etched inscription:
     "This window having been broken by enemy action in 1941 was restored with the inclusion of the only surviving panel from the window opposite in 1951."
     During the Blitz, a bomb fell across the park, destroying another museum, the Hunterian.      
     "There's a horrid modern building there now," a guard explained. The bomb blew out the windows and spattered burning rubble inside Soane's house. Gardener showed me a charred patch, the size of an egg cup, on a mahogany bench.
     "Luckily, someone was staying here and put it out," he said. "And many of the most important objects had been moved for safekeeping."
     Jealous Time sent other agents to attack the house — in the late 1980s, robbers struck the museum, but the police had been warned and were waiting across the street.
     "A man was shot dead in the entranceway," said Gardener. As I left, very reluctantly, I saw the bullet hole in the plaster, covered by a small piece of Plexiglas.
     I walked across the park to look at the new building — charmless, flat-faced, glass and red brick. And strange as it may sound, despite all that I've read and seen about the horrific destruction of World War II, the millions dead and cities ravaged, I don't think the terrible random savagery and incredible loss of war ever struck me quite the way it did thinking about that one bomb, whistling and twisting through the sky one day in May, the buffeting winds deciding whether John Soane's lovingly assembled legacy would continue or abruptly perish in a flash, whether a visitor in 2009 would get off the Central underground line at Holborn or go on to St. Paul's.

        —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 2, 2009

To solve labor troubles, Loyola needs to live its supposed values

Picket line, by Walker Evans (Metropolitan Museum of Art) 

     Teaching is hard.
     I blundered into teaching a class at Loyola University a decade ago: a pal asked if I’d talk to his journalism students about writing celebrity profiles. Happily! I showed up, leaned on a lectern for an hour, droning on about walking 18 holes with Arnold Palmer, discussing Snoopy with Charles Schulz and watching Dizzy Gillespie play trumpet.
     “You’re good at this,” my pal said and, being a fool, I believed him. Everyone dog-paddling in the icy chop of professional journalism has an eye out for a safe harbor, so I stopped by the dean’s office to offer my services. They checked that I had a pulse and waved me aboard.
     The next thing I knew I was photocopying readings, drawing up two-hour lesson plans, then gazing at 21 slack 21-year-old faces. When a student plagiarized an assignment, boldly copying off the Internet, I called in the dean. Without going into details, let’s say I naively assumed the dean would apply discipline, and enforce the antique notion that the ability to cut and paste text undetected might not be the kind of excellence that a Loyola degree represents.
     All for a fee that I could have earned dashing off one of those celebrity profiles.
     So I don’t want to feign impartiality toward the 300 non-tenured track instructors who held a one-day strike at Loyola last Wednesday, trying to spur the university to negotiate more sincerely with Service Employees International Union Local 73.

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It was a a very good year

     I try never to get in a tug-o-war with strangers on Facebook.
     There's no end to it. 
     Because there's more of them than there are of me.
     But, being human, sometimes I get sucked in.
     Someone posted a painting of a farmer and his son gazing off into the sunrise with a caption "I miss the American I grew up in."
    Talk about a slow pitch down the middle. I couldn't help it. I swung on my heels.
      "Then you don't remember it," I wrote.
     She objected, naturally enough, and I removed my gotcha question from its special lead-lined case.
    What year, I asked, specifically, are you missing? When is this lost time of happiness that you wouldn't mind returning? 
    "1952," she said.
     I did a little research research—as I said, no end to it—and then returned to her page.
    Did she, I asked, miss the thousands of Americans who died in Korea? 
    Or was it the thousands, mostly children, who died of polio? 1952 was the worst year ever for that dread disease: 57,000 cases in the United States. In one week in July, 11 of the 14 Thiel children of Mapleton, Iowa, got sick. That September, four of six children in a family in Milwaukee caught a particularly virulent strain of polio and quickly died, one after another. Is that what she wants back?
    Maybe it was the Red Scare that she was shedding a nostalgic tear for: Joe Stalin was very much alive in 1952, and loyalty oaths were big. Or McCarthyism—Tailgunner Joe had not yet been chastised by his fellow senators. 
    Maybe it was rampant Jim Crow. That was fun.
    Here the conversation ended. Which is the main reason not to engage in these conversations, to stretch the word. Because even if you win, you lose. Changing your mind is hard, particularly for a person old enough to pine for 1952. They'd rather shrug and move on than face the shattering prospect of being wrong.
    I just don't get that. I'm wrong all the time. I thought the Kinks song "Lola" was about a girl. I thought cell phones were a fad. Being wrong, and the ability to admit it, doesn't undercut my worth as a human—it emphasizes it. When I cop to making a mistake, it's almost like revealing a superpower, because so few can do it. It's as if I could turn invisible or fly, and almost as useful.
    And I understand what motivates people to nostalgia. The wonderful details of your life remain clear; the less felt details of the news fade away.  
     It isn't that I'm not nostalgic myself. I am. I was 17 in 1977, and there were cool things going on. Punk was big in London, and I was there, on Wardor Street, bouncing to the Vibrators at the Marquee Club.  In my hometown, if you stopped at the gas station, Clark's, Jack would come out, pump your gas, check your oil, chat a bit, and maybe slip you stick of gum. That was nice.
    But I would never, ever argue that 1977 was a Golden Age. I'm not saying that all years are the same. Some are worse—1942—some are better. But however you see a year, you have to recognize that you are viewing it through the lens of your own experience. The day my first son was born in 1995 was a very good day. For me. Not so good for the parents of the seven kids who died when a bus was hit by a train in Fox River Grove. 
     I'm going to really try to stop engaging strangers on Facebook. It's a challenge enough to do it with your friends and loved ones.
    My father once said to me, "You know, people were just kinder when I was growing up."
    And I answered, "This era of kindness of which you speak, dad, was that the Great Depression or World War II, because I just don't see it."
    I don't remember his reaction. 

"Everything I ever knew was behind my thumb,"

Left to right, Robert Kurson, Bill Anders, Jim Lovell and Frank Borman

    "Why didn't you tell me it was going to be like this!?" my wife enthused. 
     We were hurrying through a windowless hallway at the Museum of Science & Industry on Thursday night, heading to the Crown Space Center to view the Apollo 8 spacecraft, having been thrilled and uplifted by the launch festivities of "Rocket Men" by Robert Kurson, which featured the author interviewing the three astronauts from Apollo 8. 
     "I didn't know," I confessed. "It could have been Bob at a card table with the astronauts and a handful of people."
      I do have a tendency to underplay literary occasions—just in case. The instance lodged in my wife's mind is when I suggested, in a half-hearted, might-as-well sense, that we go to this library dinner, which turned out to be the Carl Sandburg awards, making cocktail chatter with Don DeLillo and Scott Turow, and me on stage with the assembled Chicago literary luminaries, such as we are. 
     The truth is, with these book events, you really never do know. Perhaps I am influenced by my own book signings, where I can be the only attendee. I naturally assumed that the people going would be like me, longtime admirers of the author acting out of loyalty. The thought that 500 people would cram the MSI theater at $35 a pop out of, not only interest in Bob's work, but from passionate respect for the astronauts and the space program never crossed my mind. 
    But there they were, a full house at the MSI auditorium, giving a standing ovation to the astronauts before they said a word. 
    Maybe I was just projecting. At the beginning of the evening, I had no knowledge of Apollo 8 except that it came between Apollos 7 and 9.  My strong memories were with Apollo 11, and the Moon landing, and Apollo 13, dramatically limping home after the explosion, and of course Ron Howard's brilliant movie.
     Then Bob took the microphone and started by talking about the Apollo 8 mission, how Neil Armstrong considered it more daring than his own, because it was assembled quickly--in four months—out of fear the Russians would orbit the moon first. Up to that point, in mid-1968, only Mercury capsules had orbited the earth and returned. The Saturn 5 rocket, to this day the most powerful machine ever made, had been tested exactly twice, the second time a catastrophic failure.
     Bob made the leap sound like the most exciting thing in the world, and maybe it was. The crew of Apollo 8 would be going on a journey 2,000 times further than what was planned: 240,000 miles to the Moon as opposed to parking 125 miles up in Earth orbit.
    All that was before we heard Kurson lead the Apollo 8 crew, Bill Anders, Jim Lovell and Frank Borman, through 90 minutes that was in turns moving and informative, funny and fascinating.  
     Even before it began there was a surprise. While we sat waiting my wife turned to me and said that astronaut Eugene Cernan, was from her hometown of Bellwood and she remembered him coming back for a parade, and what a thrill it was. She tapped at her phone to call up details of the parade—all this technology surrounding us boosted by the space program. I looked at her dumbfounded—you know a woman for 35 years, you think you know everything about her, so it's notable when you learn something new.
     Then the astronauts, amazingly sharp despite being in their 80s, started sharing their personal stories: Lovell talking about arranging Neiman Marcus to deliver a fur to his wife on Christmas, while they were in space. Borman throwing up, which you really do not want to do in zero gravity.
     Anders talked about the iconic earthrise photo, driving home to those back on Earth what a small blue planet we live upon.

      "It's ironic, we came to explore the Moon but we really discovered the Earth," said Anders.
     Lovell—who, I was surprised to learn, flew on 8 as well as 13—spoke of holding his thumb so it blotted out the Earth.
     "Everything I ever knew was behind my thumb," he said.
     The Apollo 8 mission began Dec. 21—officials worried that a Christmas tragedy in space would forever mar the holiday, that a capsule with three American corpses inside eternally circling the moon would kill it as a romantic nighttime icon. The three astronauts, all career military, were tasked with speaking to the largest audience to listen to human voices—an estimated third of the earth's population. The sum of the guidance they got to prepare their marks, said Borman, was 'Do something appropriate."
     Talk about trust.
     "That's one of the great hallmarks of our country," he added.
     Or at least was. The ghost of our current political predicament hovered over the event, at least for me. While never directly evoked, it flashed when Borman expressed relief that nobody from Washington was involved to mess up their plans, or Bob spoke of the unifying force of the mission, what good people can do when they work together.
     The astronauts ended up, at the advice of the friend of a friend, a former fighter in the French Resistance, reading the opening lines of the Book of Genesis. 
     And yes, they got sued for injecting religion into a government sponsored program, Borman laughed. But the lawsuit was thrown out.
     I haven't read the book yet, but Bob does a typical Bob thing—he explores a section of the story heretofore ignored, in this case the wives and families of the astronauts.
    "We are the only crews in Gemini or Apollo that still have our original wives," said Borman, turning to Bob, and telling him that, of all the books written about Apollo 8, his was "the only one who gave the wives proper credit."
     That was the only unsurprising part of the program, because that's what Bob does. At the beginning of the program, he explained how he was taking friends to the Museum of Science & Industry, noticed the capsule on display, and became intrigued. It was hiding in plain sight. Think of all the people who walked past that capsule. Millions, including me. Which is as good a recommendation of a writer as I know: the guy who looks at something right in front of everybody, sees the thing we all ignore, understands its true value, and then does the hard work to make everyone else finally understand it too. 
    Okay, I'm signing off now so I can start reading.

DePaul law school ‘N-word’ flap: ‘Intent makes a word hateful’

"The problem we all live with" by Norman Rockwell (Norman Rockwell Museum, Stockbridge, Massachusetts)

     This column was almost twice as long when I first finished it, and some important aspects were lost in cutting it to fit the paper. First, that the whole thing was prompted by not one but two thoughtful emails form reader Scott Zapel, a Glen Ellyn attorney. Second, that the above powerful painting by Norman Rockwell—with its subtle but unmistakable taboo word scrawled on the wall above the girl being escorted to school—ran in the Sun-Times without incident last week. "I'm not editing Norman Rockwell" an editor explained. Third, an explanation of why white people can and should comment on racial matters even though some think they can't and shouldn't. I saved the paragraphs to send to those who try to make the case for the latter.
      There were more points I couldn't even begin to enter into, such as the need for law school to anneal would-be lawyers for what can be a tough, demanding profession, one that is undermined if they have to cater to their sensitivities or risk being cut off at the knees by tremulous administrators. All the DePaul students did was wound a veteran teacher, undermine the value of their own degree, and present themselves as unwilling to face the fraught world into which they must practice the profession of law.  

     Let’s pretend that I am passionately against flag burning. It’s disrespectful. One day I am outraged to discover there is an organization that routinely burns flags. To make matters worse, this group is not some band of anarchists, but the American Legion, which collects worn flags and burns them in solemn ceremony.
     So I condemn the veterans’ group. Organize protests. Demand their suppression. And should somebody be so rude as to observe that I’m lashing out at the wrong people — you’re supposed to burn worn-out flags, it’s the respectful way to dispose of them — I reply, “Yeah, but anarchists are elusive. American Legion posts are so easy to find.”
     Would you experience a warm glow of admiration for me? No? Good, because that’s how I feel when the foes of what I am obligated to call “the N-word” manifest themselves, such as recently at DePaul University College of Law, where a professor, Don Hermann, had his class taken away after students complained when he uttered the lately unprintable word in the set-up to a legal problem.
     The professor didn’t hurl the word at a student, or toss it out as the punchline of a ribald joke. The offensiveness of the word was part of the issue students were to sort out.
     No matter. Haters who use the word vindictively, like my flag-burning anarchists, are not easily punished. But the professor is right there.
     Still, my gut impulse was to let the matter pass in silence. History is a horror show, people are hurt, and react in all sorts of curious ways. If some grasp at what they consider empowerment by conducting epistemological snipe hunts, why should I care? My copy of “Huck Finn” isn’t going to be sanitized. It isn’t as if I’m chafing to use the word. Yes, it felt silly not to be able to articulate what noun Ira Gershwin cut from “Porgy & Bess” in 1954; I can’t believe one black child would cry himself to sleep if I had.
     Context is everything. I can't 100 percent support Prof. Hermann because I wasn't there. On one hand, 50 of the 80 students in his class, given the chance to transfer out, did so, which doesn't speak well to his technique. On the other, he has taught college for decades, and if he were a raving bigot, it would have come out by now.
     I've taught college; it's a ballet, and if your students are rushing off to report you, then you haven't taken their measure. You should know before you leap if they're going to catch you.
     Being young, they're extremists, and miss the crux, what Dan Savage, appearing on Matt Fiddler's excellent podcast "Very Bad Words" explained in five words:
     "Intent makes a word hateful."
     Bingo. People get confused because the word is accepted from black comics but can undermine the employment of law professors. Rather than expend mental effort to gauge each instance, they react to the race of the user.
     An understandable lapse. It is a vile word, barbed with suffering from the past, present and—sorry to be the one to tell you—future. Trying to bar it from historical and artistic uses is futile, but is your right. As is mine to oppose you. Which I do because trying to ban a word is an insult to those who were lashed by it. The past is a bad place we must look at with open eyes. Were I to insist that history texts be scrubbed of photos of naked bodies of Jews being cast into pits in the Holocaust, because they're upsetting, I too would be wrong and worthy of rebuke.
     On Wednesday we marked 5o years since the assassination of Dr. King with respectful solemnity. A jubilee of progress it was not, as the sickness of racism festers in Americas. Our president is an unfit white bigot whose campaign was built on hate. The internet, a continuous howl of invective. The finely-honed sensibilities of the DePaul law students are not a sign of racial progress, but of frustration. Denied general victory, they clutch at tiny symbolic triumphs, no matter how vindictive. General white indifference to the controversy is a sure sign of just how illusionary their triumph is, because you know white folk cling to their prerogatives. I object because, in my view, if you respect somebody, you tell them when they're wrong.

Letter to the future

Dear 2060 America:

     I was reading an article in the New York Times today, about the echo chamber between President Donald Trump and Fox News, and how a group of Central American immigrants moving through Mexico became, in the little fear-shriveled minds of the president and his supporters, a terrifying invasion. 
     And it occurred to me, in not all that many decades, when our country is certain to be 25 percent Hispanic — it's already 18 percent Hispanic now — you'll look back on this period and wonder how it could have been possible, how such an important element of this great nation could have been allowed to be abused. How such an often great nation, the United States of America, could have elected this unfit clown, this unashamed hater, whose thoughts and policies used to be found on vile booklets left on bus station urinals, as president of the United States. 
     You've got to wonder: What was wrong with these people?
     I wish I had an answer. It amazes us and we were there the whole time.
     Not to be glib about something so wrong, so dangerous. If you're wondering whether we knew that something horrible was coming, that all wouldn't be staff firing and inane misstatements of reality, well...
     Yeah, we knew. Or we should have known. People have already been hurt, our country has already been damaged, at home and abroad. Did we know that worse was to come? Yeah, we knew. Or should have known. Or let ourselves guess and then pushed the knowledge away. Or denied the obvious.
     At least I know. If I had to summarize the Trump presidency up to today, I would say: we've been lucky, so far. If Trump were a skilled tactician, if he actually had a malign agenda beyond aggrandizing himself, and saying anything to please those who support him, he could have caused enormous damage. 
     But that might be coming. Probably is coming. Because each day we drift away from what we used to be, a normal, fact-driven, respectable society that at least paid lip service to notions of fairness and equality. That's gone, and while you can argue we've had some pretty dark chapters in our history — the bad stuff is oddly a comfort now, a reminder that we've done some heinous screwing up before — at least we weren't being led by such a ridiculous asshat. At least we weren't what we are now. Something both ridiculous and terrifying, our usual courage led by the pants-wetting swagger of the chronically terrified. 
     In our defense, there is a lot of that going around. We didn't invent prophylactic surrender of our ideals. The British dropping out of the European Union because they were afraid they'd have to let in Turks. The rise of nationalism in France and elsewhere. The Philippines electing a murderous madman. Israel lurching further and further to the right under the wildly corrupt Benjamin Netanyahu. Even segments of Germany are thinking, "That whole Nazi thing, it wasn't so bad for us..."
     This is terrible time for democracy all round. 
     Yes, we used to lead the world, not catch its every ailment. Now we don't (lead) and do (catch). Now the rest of the world looks on at us with fear, confusion and pity.
     Maybe you do too.
     Anyway, I don't want to belabor the point. Usually I write for people today, but I wanted to drop this note in a pixel bottle and toss it in the electronic ocean where maybe you'll find it or, more likely, you won't. Assuming you'll care and, given what's happening in 2018, I'd expect a bull market in not caring about much of anything.
     A pity. You should know, millions of Americans in 2018 were aghast and ashamed and eager to do whatever they can to winch our country out of this ditch of idiocy it has slid into, upside down, wheels spinning. It's a big task, and I am certain the aftershocks of our folly will be felt by you in 42 years. My hope is, not too much. Try to understand the improbable nature of the threat, and the way amazement and disgust blinded us to what was really happening. Be kind, and forgive us. I figure, by 2060, when I'm 100, kindness will have come back in style. At least I hope so. Because it's sure in short supply now.
    With apology, regret and best wishes,
    
    2018 America