This one is for me.
The reason is simple: Black lives matter, and Blacks and other POC are already aware of the faultlines [sic], the quicksand, the mires that they have to traverse. I would say almost all Black people know why the country is rioting. Anything that I would say to try to explain to a Black person why Salt Lake implemented a curfew, why Minneapolis is burning, why other places in the world are marching in solidarity would be condescending at best and insulting at worst. This isn't about explaining why the riots are happening, even in my home state. This one is for me to try to understand how a White person could ask, "Why is this happening here?" "The guy who killed George Floyd was arrested. Why are they rioting?" "George Floyd died in Minneapolis. Why is there a burning car in Salt Lake City?" The permutations of the question are legion but the gist is always the same: How can someone else's problem be spilling into my life? It's hardly a unique observation to say that 2020 has been a pretty crappy year: Australia kicked the year off by losing 27 million acres to wildfires; the impeached president was not removed from office due to party loyalty rather than an attempt at an impartial trial; the impeached president botched a correct response to COVID-19 that has, so far, sent over 100,000 Americans to their graves; American schools dismissed mid-March due to the coronavirus, never rejoining despite reaching into graduation territory; an entitled White woman weaponized her tears in an attempt to get a Black man killed; and images of George Floyd's body was paraded around social medial and news networks as outrage grew over his murder. We're only half way through the year. While my list is far from complete--mass shootings, as often happen in America, haven't hit much in terms of the national consciousness, for example--it's a sharp reminder just how much has happened, and the election hasn't even heated up yet. White supremacy, in many of its forms, is on the rise (and has been for the past few years). The strains of extended lock downs and a failure to return to normal when many people (naively) hoped the pandemic would end are absolutely part of the equation, too. It has been a long, difficult year this week, and it doesn't look like there's much chance of a respite. The respair that we all hoped for by the arrival of the summer months appears to be misplaced. Speaking for myself and how I understand the world, there is an underlying expectation that things work out for a person. It comes from the egocentric view of the universe that we are stuck within, enhanced and encouraged by the nature of narrative--our stories are usually about a handful of characters (often just one or two) and we're encouraged to identify with them--and we rarely want to watch tragedies. People of faith hold onto that perfect brightness of hope with an understanding of their connection to the divine (in many traditions, including my own, it's a filial line) as the source of their strength. When good things happen, it's to the individual; when bad things happen, it's to others. And, if the bad does happen to them, it's temporary. This is why it's so shocking when something goes continuously, catastrophically wrong. It's like winning the worst kind of lottery. Sure, we all have our trials and hardships, but they're part of our lives. The fridge breaks down? Of course it does: We're in a pandemic. The difficulty is real, the problem must be solved, but the questioning--Why did this happen to me?--remains unanswered. Hence the reason we crowdfund our miseries: Everybody has something happen to their sprinklers, computer, garage door, washing machine…whatever it is. These minor inconveniences of life are tangential. But, like all tangents, they do ultimately connect to another line. I am on the easiest setting in this video game called Life: I'm a cis-het married male, college-educated middle class, within the locally predominant religion. I'm also White. The only thing I'm missing from a blackout on the Bingo Card of Luck is that I didn't inherit wealth from my parents. (You could make a worthwhile argument that my Mormonism is also a handicap; not, however, in Utah, where being the opposite is.) I am a homeowner, relatively free of debt, and have a salaried job at a school I love. I am #blessed. I don't deny this--because how could I? Like, it's pretty obvious that I have it really good. I also can't claim much of my success on myself. I know that this flies in the face of libertarian doctrine and objectivist dogma, but it would be ridiculously naïve and self-serving of me to argue that I got here on my own. I built off of a foundation that my parents provided me. I met my future wife while we were juniors in high school--what did I do to put me in that school? Oh, yeah, nothing. That had nothing to do with me. And though my courtship and eventual marriage to the remarkable woman who is my wife had something to do with me, there are all sorts of components that were built into me that I did not install: My religion (which, if you don't know about Mormonic courtship expectations and rituals, you should ask me what it's like; rather different than how other people think about this sort of thing), my location, my sense of humor, my expectations for a relationship…I could go on. There are active things that I have to decide, of course--relationships require proactive work. But let's be honest, here: I've been draining half-court shots for most of my life without ever practicing. Let's look at some of the things that have happened according to my plans/desires:
Now let's look at the things that have not happened/worked out the way I expected:
I'm not trying to dismiss the last three: They're real and they continue to be a tender spot in my life. I could go on about what those three "failures"* mean to me, but the broader point is this: I live a charmed life. (Remember, this essay is for me.) I know a handful of Black people and some POC--mostly students--and I know that, while they, too, are benefiting from a lot of great perks that are outside of their control, I know also that they still deal with a pernicious cloud of racism that will always be a miasma in their lives. I wake up every day as Steven Dowdle, first and foremost. Other roles, other responsibilities flicker onto me rapidly--father, teacher, husband, driver, adult, whatever the day requires. But I never have to look at my white face in the mirror and wonder how it's going to endanger me. I go to sleep White and I wake up White and the result of that is that I don't have to think about my Whiteness. I don't have to gird up my courage to leave the house (though we know that Black people aren't safe from cop killings inside their own houses…not in America; they can't even unlock their front doors without it becoming a presidential problem). We recently had some fridge problems. We contacted a company and they sent out a representative. Gayle received a text the day before with a picture of our repairman--a fellow named William, I believe. A large, friendly Black man, he arrived the next day within the expected time. He wore a mask--which I appreciated, and did the same when near him as a matter of courtesy, respect, and common human decency--and kept himself limited to the kitchen as he diagnosed the problem. Once some parts came in, he returned a different day and finished up the work. He did a great job--our fridge is running fine and now we don't have to worry about spoiled milk or a broken refrigerator during a pandemic. I have to wonder what William worried about when he came to our home. Was he concerned that the woman of the house hadn't told her husband about the refrigerator repairman coming? Did he worry that I would come home from work while he was there? Did he fret about whether or not we had a gun in the house? Did he think that we were suspicious of him? Did he assume that we had hidden our valuable things so that he wouldn't rob us? Was he concerned about his safety on the way to our house, on the way back? Did he check his taillights to make sure they worked so that he didn't have to worry about being pulled over? Does Javon Johnson's reminder about the speed of hand to wallet echo in William's mind? And, if you're operating on the easiest level on the video game of life, you can ask yourself this: How many of the questions I wrote above have crossed your mind when visiting a stranger's house for whatever reason? I knocked on countless doors in Miami, Florida and those types of questions almost never surfaced. This was because of the naïveté of my age, an innocent faith, and the color of my skin. This sort of thinking has been haunting me for quite some time. One of Obama's many failures was his inability to do what he was elected to do: Bridge the gap between Black America and the Whites who've dictated so much for so long. But we all saw what happened to him. He was accused of not being an American (the impeached president has never produced his own birth certificate…nor his promised tax returns, for that matter), and one of the biggest peddlers of that racist idea sits in Obama's office now, with the lights turned off. President Obama was denied his Constitutional imperative of nominating a Supreme Court justice for an entire year, making our first Black president capable of completing only 3/5 of his job. President Obama was hobbled from before he started by the rage that racism's most open--but by no means only--face vomited over him on a constant deluge. Yet it was under Obama that Black Lives Matter was created. It was under Obama that Ferguson erupted in violence, riots, and agony. Flint's water crisis was not solved by Black faces in high places. President Obama failed here, and that failure is not one that's isolated to a certain area of the country: It's an American failure. This is America. We are America. We all have to deal with the reckoning that's been too long delayed and ignored. I fear I may have been to broad in my sketching of what I see, so here's a more direct answer to the question that inspired this post, "Why is this happening here?" Because racism is like piss in a swimming pool: It can't be held in one corner that you avoid. It spreads and ruins everything. Because racism is the mortar between the building blocks of this country. Because racism explains why we're living on looted land. Because racism isn't a problem that other people have: We all have to deal with it. Because racism turns systemic power against fellow brothers and sisters, against human beings, and objectifies them. Because racism diminishes everyone, and it always has. Because being part of a country means being a part, not apart, from it. Because when others mourn, cry out for justice, or seek change toward the betterment of mankind, I am duty-, morally-, religiously-, and ethically bound to mourn, cry out, and seek change with them. Because the failures of leadership going back to the British colonies and deep into the Age of Genocide (or Exploration, if you're feeling like wearing kid-gloves) and continuing in every subsequent era has given us a world that needs us to recognize and wake up. Because the failures of individuals who wish that this didn't happen encourage, support, and provide justification for the continuation of the abuses that are being protested. Because beneficiaries of racism can no longer hide behind a purported veil of ignorance. Because kneeling for the anthem didn't work. Because preaching non-violence got a King assassinated. Because Gandhi's words work when everyone believes in them, not only the oppressed. Because nothing else has woken us up. --- * I put this in quotes because, while serious, they are fortunate failures. Still…while my oldest is now a teenager and, as I mentioned, healthy, there is always a specter of fear that haunts me and my wife; it's why this pandemic has been so stressful. And as far as him being a "failure" of mine, I do not know of a parent who would look at their two-week old son, nested by an embrace of tubes and wires as he valiantly fought for breath, and not feel somehow and somewhat responsible for that situation. If you've never been in the antiseptic atmosphere of a newborn ICU, you are 1) fortunate, and 2) unable to know what it feels like to be a parent there. Like most people, the news of the spreading corona virus has led me to some serious life reflections and considerations. What is essential? What am I prepared for? What do I view my life to be in the short term? How can I keep my family safe? For all of the unanswered questions, there's one that seems to nag at me the most, waiting in the wings: Is this it? For quite some time now, I've abandoned any millenarian theological interpretations about world events. My study of history--especially within the last hundred years--has shown me that as bad as things are, there have been times in the past where things were significantly worse than now. As a Mormon, I'm part of a millenarian church, but one that's been rather cagey about the end of the world, for the most part. After all, plenty of people--inside and, of course, outside--the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have made predictions about the pending apocalypse. My favorite would have to be the Great Fire of London in 1666. England, which had long thought of itself as God's Chosen Land™, was on edge about the whole year "666" thing. (I say "England", but really it was the more puritanically-inclined people; those who were less religiously devout/superstitious likely didn't mind it as much.) What better year to really show his demonic power off than in Satan's own year? Dire warnings about God's judgment were rife, particularly since the monarchy had only been restored six years prior and was still a sore spot for the revolutionaries who had believed in Cromwell's dictatorship. With a plague outbreak happening a year before, London was feeling like…well, that it was the end of the world. On 2 September 1666, in the King's bakery on Pudding Lane, a fire broke out. Due to a long, hot, dry summer, London was ripe for the roasting and soon half of the City was on fire. Attempts to detonate buildings with gunpowder to provide a fire break occurred (which is, in hindsight, rather an amusing picture), and despite their best efforts, by 4 September 1666, only a fifth of London remained standing. Even St. Paul's Cathedral was destroyed--the one that we all know and love today, that survived the Nazi blitz of World War II, was erected on the same spot in the aftermath of the Great Fire--and though only a handful of people died in the blaze, hundreds of thousands were left homeless and destitute. It was a catastrophe by every mark. (If you want to read more, here's a nifty article.) Who of that time wouldn't look at the great city of London succumbing to flames and think, "This is the end of the world"? On the first day of July 1916, the British launched a bloody and ill-fated attack on German positions near the Somme in France. The battle turned into a lengthy bloodbath, the likes of which have but rarely been seen since then. When I think of how we're behaving now, how convinced we are at the prospect of facing the End Times, I think of this footage. Filmed at 0720 on 1 July 1916 by Geoffrey Malins, this explosion at the Hawthorn Redoubt saw 40,000 pounds of explosive detonate underground. Watch this short clip and ask yourself: What does the end of the world look like? Surely seeing an 80 foot-deep crater, longer than a football field would be part of it? I see an image like this, and I'm reminded of Book 6 of Paradise Lost, when the rebel angels' cannon-fire pushes the loyal angels' ingenuity, and they begin to hurl entire mountains at one another: Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power When I think of the End of Days, I consider how, in the years between Hitler's rise and fall, human beings were turned into purses and riding pants, how Japan's Unit 731 experimented on Chinese prisoners with anthrax and vivisection, how Turkey yet denies having slaughtered a million Armenians…
…if that's not enough to spur Christ's return, why would a twenty-first century flu be sufficient? There's an entire cottage industry of predicting (thus far, wrongly) the end of the world, the Rapture, whatever one wishes to call it, up to and including the creation of a pet-service website for after the apocalypse comes. Mayans were believed to have predicted the end of the world in 2012, of course, and there's hardly a Sunday-gone-by where I haven't heard someone lament about how much more wicked the world is than in those idyllic yesteryears of yore. But I just don't know if that's true. Yes, the world is different, but it's been in a perpetual evolution since Day One. But more wicked than the wholesale enslavement of 16 million human beings from Africa? More wicked than systemic exploitations that led to children dying in mines and factories? History is replete with heinous behavior; why should this be it? The Mormon in me wants to believe that the end is nigh because there are many promised blessings. But the humanist in me wants to believe that we could have chosen differently; we could have aimed to save people, save our planet, save our future--that Christ would come not as a deus ex machina to prevent us from self-annihilation, but because we'd made the world safer, kinder, more loving, more caring, less violent, more equal…more heavenly. When I think of all the despicable things I know from my small store of historical knowledge, I can't believe that twenty-first century problems are what St. John the Beloved was looking at in his great uncovering of the end of the world. Maybe what really worries me is that if the Holocaust isn't sufficiently evil enough to trigger the Second Coming, what will be? My grandmother died at the end of January. I haven't written about it because I've had a lot of conflicting feelings about it. It was one of those She's been suffering and it was her time kinds of deaths, and I don't think that's wrong. She was in her nineties and had been slipping away from us pretty steadily over the past few years.
My grandma gave a lot to me, especially in my early years. I learned piano at her side, I mowed her lawn for a summer or two, and I went up to her house every month to play with cousins and listen to some Bible stories. She was generous and loving and kind--as well as happy and scolding and accepting and impatient. She was, in other words, a person, and a wonderful one at that. When I got word that she was in her final days, I had just stepped off of the Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride at Universal Studios Hollywood, which caused more than a passing conflict of emotions. I had to kind of put the news out of my mind, as there wasn't a lot that I could do at the moment and there wasn't really much news at all…just that she'd fallen asleep and was no longer waking up. It took a bit of time for her to finally pass, which was late on Wednesday, 15 January. Earlier that week, despite the logistical problems of the day, my wife, children and I went to the care center to say goodbye. She didn't know that we were there--or, if she did, we had no way of knowing--and for my youngest, he hadn't any real memories of her save the declining woman in a wheelchair that he'd visited with his own grandmother on occasion. While we stood there, looking at her shriveled form, I pointed out that she was a lucky lady, as she'd been able to raise not only her kids, but to see her grandchildren (me) and her great-grandchildren (them). My oldest, who has a massive heart condition, said softly, "I probably won't be that lucky." That's when my heart cracked and I was unable to stop the tears that I'd stoppered while in the room. We said our goodbyes, dried our eyes, and left. We never saw her alive again. Part of what made me struggle so much with the death of my grandmother is embarrassingly selfish, a part that I'm loathe to put into words: I was, when it became clear that she was about to die, more upset that her funeral would prevent me from going to a writing retreat I'd had planned for months than because my grandmother was gone. I can rationalize some of this with the understanding that I have a few coping mechanisms that help keep me going, and attending a writing retreat is one of them. Mental health and self-care and all that. But it was a great frustration that I felt, as it were, emotionally blocked about processing Grandma's death because I was too inwardly preoccupied. Thankfully, we were able to reschedule the retreat so that my brother and I could come along--and, as it turned out, one of my fellow writers' grandmother died the day of the funeral, which meant the reschedule truly was for the best--but I still can't shake the feelings of selfishness and frustration at myself that I harbored during those days. The fact that it's now the ninth of February and I'm finally writing about this says a lot, I think, about how I felt. When the funeral came, it was the bittersweet experience of saying goodbye and nurturing the connections of the still-living, the quasi-reunion around a casket that is the paradox of death. I was happy to see my sister, who lives in Portland, as well as cousins whom I haven't seen in years. During the service, my dad spoke about his mother, playing some of the music that she loved to play on her piano--the soundtrack of my memories of her--and he cried. That was hard for me to see, not because I have a problem with seeing people cry, but because Dad doesn't normally get that emotional. He's a steady guy--marching onward resolutely and with a natural aplomb that I envy. I wept when I heard his tender words, and I listened to the music that he played for us--the intricate guitarwork that he's so well-known for, the gift that his mother gave him and he, in turn, gave to me--and I felt the reality of loss and the hope of living come over me. My contribution was a closing prayer, which I ended by quoting William Shakespeare, asking God to send "flights of angels to sing [her] to [her] rest". We all take solace in different things, I suppose, and I could think of no other way of honoring my grandmother than to share what matters so much to me in one last commemoration of her. The fog-drenched day made our trip to the cemetery more unsettling than is normal--I'm not a superstitious guy, but fog is an uncomfortable thing--and the graveside service was cold, though sweet. As a pallbearer, I got to carry my grandmother's remains to their final resting place. That is one of the great honors of being in a family, and I'm happy that I could help. After the graveside service was over, we returned to the church building for a luncheon put on by my grandmother's old friends and ward members. As we passed her home--sold over a year ago and no longer "Grandma D's house"--the sun broke through the fog enough to let a brilliant sunshine coat the road. That evening, I got to have dinner with my sister, her fiancé, and the rest of my brothers and sisters-in-law. It was another indication of God's goodness, I think, that we could take that time to be together--to use the sadness of confronting the inevitable to grow closer together. This may sound strange, but I've been thinking about Grandma almost every time I've sat down to play the drums. I bought an electronic drum set the week of the funeral; it had arrived on Thursday. It has been a new coping mechanism for me as I've been trying to understand what it is that Grandma left me, which is my own middling talents as a musician. As I mentioned before, Grandma taught me piano (as well as Sister Vest, who picked up where Grandma left off), but I learned guitar thanks to the steady patience and support of my dad. Recently--that is, in the past year or so--I've been composing my own music. I wanted to try to fully compose, rather than finding beats on the computer, so I picked up the drums. I play along with my guitar playing almost every day, striving to improve my talents in this area now. And as I drum, I think about what Grandma taught us about nuance and dynamics, about how to use the instrument to evoke a feeling. When it comes to the drums, that is a harder order to fulfill, but I find it guiding my playing nonetheless. And, since I've only had the drums after she left us, I like to think of this learning of a new instrument as an homage and invocation to and for my grandmother--a kind of rhythmic "thank you" to what she's given me. This remembrance is a poor substitute for the woman: Memories always are. Yet it's now what I have left. Yes, there are items--gifts and paraphernalia, the remnants of living--that will be in the family for subsequent generations. But it isn't about the things; it's about what I choose to make them mean. Occasionally, I will remember the jars of "Grandma loves me raspberry jam" which she would send to me while I was on my mission, or think of her stylized "OK" on the piano book where she would check off the song as completed. I may recall the smell of her home, the descent down the narrow stairs to her basement, the few months where, as a five-year-old, I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa while our home was being completed. It's possible that my thoughts of her will be perpetually shaded by the strands of pine trees at the cabin where I used to spend October General Conference in her company. It may be when I try to tease nuance out of a cheap electronic drum set, or pass by the familiar turns that would take me up the mountain to where Grandma lived. However it happens, I'm confident that I will keep remembering Grandma Dowdle. One of the things that surprises me as a teacher of Paradise Lost? Students would not want to live in the Garden of Eden, according to how John Milton presents it, because "it would be boring."
I know that they're fifteen years old ("I'm sixteen!" That One Kid™ is always quick to irrelevantly point out) and still getting a grip on the world, but it really is shocking to me. Here's the deal with Milton's Eden, in case you've forgotten since the last time you read the poem: The Garden is filled with every conceivable fruit and vegetable--indeed, inconceivable fruits and vegetables are also available. There are bounteous rivers, crystal clear, that are healthful and delicious. Animals live there with no danger, including lions that play with lambs, snakes that coil around harmlessly, and tigers prowl through herds without the latter getting freaked out. It's not unusual to see an elephant writhing his "lithe proboscis" to entertain Adam and Eve. The days are warm enough that a constant cool breeze is needed--and provided--and beautiful scents fill the air around flowery bowers. At one point, the amiable angel Raphael says that Eden is patterned after Heaven, which, he tells us, has variety and change because it's nice. I take that to mean that something approaching seasons is possible there--though Adam and Eve don't stay in Eden long enough for us to see for certain. Additionally--and this is crucial for me to explain to my predominantly LDS students--Eve and Adam are fully expecting and waiting for "additional hands" to come to them. That is, Milton doesn't conceive of a sexless or childless Eden*. And, since there's no pain in Eden, childbirth is (we can assume) essentially painless. Death, of course, is completely foreign there ("Whate'er Death is," says Adam when the topic comes up (425)), and wickedness is likewise unavailable. In short, the Garden of Pleasure** is truly a paradise: All of the things that make life beautiful, none of the weaknesses that make it miserable. Milton, I think, does this on purpose: If we as readers are to feel like we've truly lost something, it can't be a conditional paradise. Eden must be a place that we long to be in, so that when it's lost (the spoiler is in the title, people), we care. So when I ask the kids if they'd want to be Eden, their number one critique is that it would be boring--and I don't get it. A lot of kids argue that without opposition, there's no growth. No growth is, essentially, uninteresting (or, rather, boring). And while I understand that from a postlapsarian point of view, Milton goes to show that there's plenty to do in the Garden--gardening, as a matter of fact, to say nothing of exploring all of the cool and beautiful things in Eden--because, again, Eden has to be a place that we'd unreservedly want to go to. "But you wouldn't have anything to do after a while," the children groused. "Eventually, you would waft yourself heavenward," I rejoined, "refilling the celestial halls with humans-turned-angels to refill those numbers lost by the fall of Satan and his Atheist crew!" "What would you do, though? Just, like, tend a garden?" "Yeah." "Nothing else?" "There's an elephant who writhes his lithe proboscis…" And what they're saying--or, rather, what I'm hearing--is that they don't realize just how monotonous life really is. You'd think they would: They are, after all, students. There is a constant grind of schedules, bells, expectations, and repetitions. But they have summer to look forward to, or graduation, or a job… …but that's where I am, and I have to say, it doesn't feel like there's a lot of growth here. There are small lessons here or there, but life has hit the this-is-life-for-the-foreseeable-future-and/or-until-you-die plateau. I've been teaching the same curricula (with some noteworthy exceptions) for over a decade, going through the same jokes, asking the same questions, pointing out the same cool things. I get quite a bit of satisfaction from that, but when I zoom out, the monotony of day-in-day-out living is grinding. Living becomes habitual. Mountain peaks of the past fade into rolling hills of the present and it gets to the point where speedbumps give me nosebleeds. Part of the reason that I can see so far into the future is because there's nothing to climb between here and death. In other words, this brave new world that is filled with so many possibilities--more possibilities than I can ever hope to touch--will collapse until there's variety in the names I memorize and that's about it. Oh, sure, there are changes. My children are still at home and in school, so watching them grow and learn and burst out into the world will be moments to look for and savor. I don't deny that there will be changes, of course, and new joys--and also new sorrows. A life in Milton's Eden would omit that last part, which is why I'm still baffled by my students' responses to the question "Would you want to live there?" When they answer, in effect, "I wouldn't want to live a boring life that's the same every day," I realize that I need to refrain from telling them that I ask myself almost daily: Is this all there is? --- * In LDS doctrine, our First Parents were told that they had to "multiply and replenish the earth"--which is interpreted to mean that this "commandment" was in effect at the same time as the prohibition on the fruit. Where Mormonism and Milton differ is that LDS doctrine claims that childbearing was impossible whilst Eve was in Eden. Until she and her husband departed from the Garden, they couldn't have kids. Milton just assumes that, had Eve not partaken of the fruit, all of humankind would still be in the Garden all the way up to present day. ** Eden in Hebrew means "Pleasure". Over the many hundreds of essays I've vomited out and then published to my website without even running over it again for editing purposes, I have written about Harold Bloom, in one mode or another, quite a bit. On the whole, I've long liked his work (with qualifications intact), but haven't put a lot of effort into reviewing his works lately. Now, however, with the cantankerous old scholar passing away this week, I thought it might be fitting to throw my own two cents into the well of well-wishers and detractors who are commemorating and excoriating the legacy he's left behind.
What put me onto this dichotomous thinking was a tweet (not worth dredging up right now) about how all of the laudatory essays about Bloom were written by males. And, to be certain, my quick search for a news report (as opposed to an op-ed) for Dr. Bloom's death proved to be rather tricky, as everyone had a take to give--and almost all of them were, indeed, by men. (This one from the Mary Sue has some nuance, as well as treading over familiar critical ground.) And, being as I am a guy-fellow, another think-piece about Dr. Bloom really would be one snowflake among a blizzard. But I'm going to do it anyway. And here's why: Harold Bloom was one of the best professors I never had. It's difficult to reconcile the impact of a person's work when so much of (in this case) his work is tied up in something that I also love. He gave me the vocabulary of a Bardolator, with a concept of how to read Shakespeare that provided a pathway into the Bard that I may not have otherwise found. He was the anathema that we all spoke of during the Wooden O Symposium 2018 where I presented. I've heard him quoted (and, more often, misunderstood) in casual conversations about Shakespeare. His polemical, belligerent, curmudgeonly character (or, perhaps, caricature) gave me a sense of validation in loving unabashedly what I love. This is a mighty gift: Aside from salvation, I can think of no thing that will better a human's soul than being able to hear Shakespeare's multitudinous voices. These are difficult voices to hear, in part because of the four hundred years of static that makes some of his nuances garbled or missing. But Bloom's ear was attuned to Shakespeare's levels in a solid, committed way, and his ability to express that was masterful. And though he may have missed the mark occasionally (how occasionally depends on how much you've read of him and how much you agree with his fundamental positions), his unabashed love for richness in literature is inspirational, powerful, and worthwhile. Yet he's accused of having sexually harassed one of his students*. This is not something that ought to be swept under the rug or dismissed as a "those times were different"--no, it's still wrong, regardless of timing. The tension of what to do about this--the tangled knot of separating the art from the artist is a Gordian one that I've yet to undo--makes accolades conditional at best and ill-distributed at worst. How much poor behavior is excusable? Ideally, none at all, but in a real world that isn't divided into Death Eaters and everyone else, there has to be some level of forgiveness? "Treat every man after his dessert," asks Hamlet, "and who shall 'scape whipping?" Does the art that's created likewise generate exculpation? It's easier for me to pass off poor behavior as a quirk of personality in someone like John Milton or William Shakespeare--men whose art is, undoubtedly, more impressive than Bloom's--in part because they're far removed from me and my time. Any direct victims of them are no longer hurting; so is that long enough? Oh, sure, I definitely acknowledge the misogyny or racism that their particular works endorse or operate with--I don't pretend their violations aren't there. It isn't a really satisfying answer, but it's the best I can come up with for my centuries-dead idols. Modern artists, however, are in a different situation. Those they harm in their ascent are still living, too, and dealing with the consequences of their crimes. (And a few months away from the comedy circuit doesn't count as penitence or "being cancelled", Louis C.K., no matter how much you may think otherwise!) How long does pain preclude progression? This is not an easy question, and it spirals into larger and more important dialogues than the death of an august literary critic. And that, I think, is part of what makes hard writing any sort of eulogy for the man so difficult. He contributed mightily to the English language, and was as staunch a defender for aesthetic beauty and humanistic value as you could find--provided the aesthetic beauty was one that he likewise recognized. Part of his charm was his belief in his own correctness--it also, paradoxically, was one of his great detriments. His unflappable assurance allowed him to make assertions that people still grapple with--that Shakespeare "invented the human" is perhaps his most visible one--and his sense of unassailable interpretation gave us a great deal to think about. That is a valuable thing. It is no easy thing to do, what Harold Bloom did. Regardless of whether or not you agreed with him, he made you think and stretch. It isn't like the nonsense of other poor polemicals such as Ben Shapiro where two seconds' thought lets you know the guy's an idiot and should be dismissed**. Bloom may not have hit the level of his idol Shakespeare in being a writer who can be embraced or rejected but never ignored, but he still managed to make a large impact. To paraphrase and invert Othello, Harold Bloom wrote wisely, but perhaps not too well. Still, as far as writerly goals go, he will be someone continually debated for at least a generation--far longer than the half a year a good man may be remembered, according to Hamlet. Harold Bloom probably would smile at that. --- * As a matter of principle, I believe Naomi Wolf--and, let's be honest: A crusty old white guy who believes in the unfailing superiority of the white West as a cultural zenith not thinking women are objects for his use? Yeah, not very likely. ** Easiest example: Benny boy argued (with a straight face no less) that people on the coast shouldn't worry about climate change and rising sea levels because they can "just sell their houses" and move elsewhere. Sell them, I suppose, to Aquaman, right Ben? My eleven year old son, Puck, has half of his heart. He's a survivor of hypoplastic right heart syndrome, which is when the right side of his heart didn't form correctly. He nearly died a couple of times in the first six months of life, and he's been through three major heart surgeries to keep him on Earth.
When a body's heart operates differently than normal, it can cause additional trials inside of the body, as the physiology has changed markedly. Those changes can cause traumas that are unknown from the outset. In the case of Puck, it could be damaging his liver. We've known for a few years that his liver was a potential problem. We thought that blood tests alone would be enough to let us know if there were any issues. It seems, though, that might not be the case. A neighbor has a kid with heart problems--and a host of other issues, too, as it so happens--and so the neighbor and my wife commiserate and swap news and stories on a fairly regular basis. Today, the neighbor chatted with my wife and explained that kids Puck's age are having a significantly higher chance of liver problems than originally believed. As Gayle explained some of what the neighbor had to say, a familiar feeling began to creep over me. There's this particular sensation that I get in no other situation save when my kids' health is at risk. A tension builds in my shoulders and a hollowness inside of my chest deepens. I find myself less able to focus on any one thing and, more often than usual, utterly absorbed in thoughts that are thought and forgotten, the mental equivalent of stroking a cat without noticing you're doing it. Then, when the cat jumps off your lap, you're left with fur and a sense that something happened, but you can't quite say what. This is similar to how I felt much of the first year of Puck's life. It eventually became the norm for me--so much so that when Oberon, our second-born, was due to have an ultrasound, I found myself incredibly nervous the day of the actual procedure. When the technician said that she couldn't see anything wrong with Oberon's heart, I felt an immense flood of relief pour out of me. I hadn't realized I'd dammed so much of my worry. Upon hearing that news, I felt physically lighter than I had in a while--a feeling that I hadn't recognized was weighing me down. Now that weight has threatened to resettle. I should point out that I'm not saying anything has happened to Puck so far. He is healthy (sadly, that's part of the problem: the liver problems don't necessarily manifest in poor health) and happy. I'm not announcing anything. Instead, I'm trying to keep that weight off of me. I don't think it's working. Each time I look into my son's gray-blue eyes, I wonder if I'm going to see them close for the last time. I think of Theoden saying, "No parent should have to bury their child." I see the orange-haired Puck, thick-framed glasses tight against his face, and then I see him in repose, the lid to his coffin raised. On an early summer day, these are dark clouds. It makes me want to treat him more gently, more kindly, more generously--which can be hard, because he can make me pretty angry with surprisingly little effort. In some ways, it makes me want to spoil him, because what if he doesn't get a chance to experience anything else? Can I live with a family of four? The thing about these questions is that they're only answerable once the unimaginable transpires. And though there are lots of questions that I really want to have answered, these aren't in that category. Passing through the early years with Puck, his different health concerns and the sundry stresses of finding a career, buying a home, and growing a family were years that, in all honesty, I was happy to put behind me. Yes, there are always mountain peaks that tower over the valleys of despair, but I should point out that I have dysthymia…the valleys are my baseline. So, while there were absolutely wonderful moments and experiences that happened during Puck's early life, they are subsumed by the memories of direness and worry. I don't want to go through that again. I'm not so egotistical as to think that I've passed my Abrahamic test…but I was not-so-secretly hoping I had during the difficult times of 2007-2008. I've often wondered what helped me go through the experience. I'm certain that God was helping me, but my own ignorance helped out a lot, too. I didn't know any different. Puck was our first child, and I didn't know how (comparatively) easy it is to go through the first few months of being a parent when your child is "normal". I think of all the ways that I've plotted out my life. How frequently I do a head count of three. How excited I am for my sons to experience some of the joys of life. I think of how they help anchor me--that their lives have, in a very literal way, saved my own. I don't know if I can survive losing one of my pillars. I don't know if I can handle the regret and self-loathing that would come along with pallbearers and eulogies. I don't want to learn that about myself. I'm too scared. Much like when we first learned about Puck's heart problem, we had to wait a month before getting any explanation about what we could do to help him. We have an appointment with his cardiologist exactly one month from today to discuss the future. God willing he has one. Please, God, let him have one. I'm a comic book reader (when I can manage it) and I love superhero films (when I can get to them) and I also have a very simple expectation for movies when I get to see them: Do they have dinosaurs in them? If yes, I like them.
I'm not willing to dismiss something just because it doesn't have dinosaurs, of course. I will take building punching as a worthwhile substitute, and maybe even a little bit of kissing--though not too much, because then everyone starts feeling awkward as the actors slurp each other. Funniness and funness both also factor in. If it makes me think afterward, I like it even more. So, did I enjoy Avengers: Infinity War? Yes. Yes, I did. (Since there weren't going to be any dinosaurs, I would've liked to have had more Hulk in it, as an alternative. But we live in a flawed world, so…) And with that as enough of a preamble about the movie to avoid accidental spoilers, let me get into this: S P O I L E R S What just happened? I know that this is a familiar refrain, since so many of the characters died in the final few minutes of the movie. After all, this is Captain America and Iron Man we're talking about. They don't lose. And even when they lose against each other, they still defeat the bad guy. I'm not ashamed to admit that my eyes went wide when Thanos snapped his fingers. That isn't supposed to happen. The bad guy isn't supposed to win. Marvel Studios (or Stud10s, I guess? Celebrating a decade of these films is cool, but…yeah, the logo didn't do it for me) has spent, well, the last ten years grooming audiences to understand this form of storytelling. Everything is going well, then the bad guy's plans become clear, the heroes stop her/him, and the smaller pieces of the broader universe rotate a bit more into position. Film after film, this is the formula. Punch, quip, punch, punch, emotion, quip, punch, credits, after-credits. So when it came to Infinity War, I wasn't entering the theater with anything but a preconceived notion that I was going to see Thanos fail and the Avengers reign continue undisputed. That finger snap left me shaken. Let's consider how gutsy it was for Marvel to do this: They've released almost twenty films with these characters, pushed massive amounts of merchandising, theme park attractions, small-screen adaptations, and much more. In other words, they've given us enough superficial changes that we feel there's a variety, but enough familiarity that we feel comfortable. Then the finger snaps. There's another thing that Marvel movies have been subverting since the beginning, which is the classical model of tragedy and comedy. In a classical tragedy, the world is in order and then things fall apart. In a comedy (not necessarily comedic), the world is a mess and the ending comes when things are put in their proper order. Many of the Marvel movies start off with things put together, then they fall apart--a tragedy--but, because they're superheroes, they reverse the ill fortune and they put the world back together. Infinity War doesn't do that. The world starts off broken--thanks to Captain America: Civil War--and the process of putting it all together, in the end, is futile. It's following a comedic pathway throughout the film--Steve Rogers coming back, the joining up of the Guardians of the Galaxy and pieces of the Avengers, the unification of Wakanda to the rest of the MCU. Things are coming together. Generic (meaning, here, "of the genre") conventions, these comedic expectations, are being met all the way throughout. Then the finger snaps. Because we've been programed to find catharsis through the journey of the hero--since the ending was foreordained thanks to marketing and formula--there was never the genuine possibility of the finger snapping. They push this possibility farther and farther, even having Thor soar in, a deus ex axina, to stop Thanos at the absolute last moment. But still, the finger snaps. The aftermath of Thanos' decision* is particularly heartbreaking, seeing that almost everyone is scared or afraid or confused…except for the Scarlet Witch, who wants to die because of her loss. I don't know how to feel about this, as I didn't realize that Scarlet Witch and Vision were a thing until this movie. I mean, they kind of had a relationship in Civil War, but I didn't see it as anything substantial. That leads to the effect of detailing backstories so thoroughly. A two hour movie can let an audience feel connected to characters they've never met before to the point that tears are shed when the character dies. Having, in some cases, years of affection for the characters is bound to make for an emotional response. My wife was crying, and some of the young kids sitting on the rows in front of us were sobbing at the end of the movie. The trauma of that kind of on-screen death was enough that Gayle and I decided we don't want our boys watching the movie until there's the next one on the horizon. We don't want them to be too traumatized for too long. I would have to say that Peter Parker dying was really affecting. His death, in particular, had him dying in the arms of the man who had brought him into this colorful, violent world. The father/son dynamic is unmistakable, despite Tony's denial of it. The death of a civilian weighs heavily on Tony's conscience in Civil War, and as a leader he's taken on greater responsibility for the people under his sphere of influence. Seeing him sit, surrounded by a world on fire, far from home and having lost a would-be son…that was a powerful moment, one that can only have that kind of emotional weight because of the enormous amount of time we've spent with him as a character. The ending of the movie is where most of the focus of this essay has been, but I should say that I enjoyed it throughout. Having so many storylines that needed to be connected is no small feat, and though there was a Return of the King problem--large chunks of time focused in one area, then shifting to the other area with a sort of "remember these guys?" jolt--near the end, I thought they handled it fairly deftly. Editing didn't stand out much to me, and I disliked how much shaky-cam they incorporated in the fight scenes. That being said, they did allow more of the punches, explosions, dodges, and shots to land on camera than I am used to. Here's hoping they step further away from that as they move forward. The score was serviceable, the acting was all great, and the CGI only kind of bothered me. I don't think Thanos could have been done with prosthetics, but…yeah, it is what it is. I know that they made all sorts of technical breakthroughs by making this movie, but I'm still sad that there's an overreliance on CGI work**, regardless of the high caliber and talent of the artists who make it. I will say, however, there was not enough Hulk. His refusal to come along for the ride probably has to do with having lost to Thanos, but Bruce Banner wasn't the only one wanting to see the Jade Giant come screaming into the battle--like they'd shown in the trailers! Another great way of making sure that expectations were shaken up, though there's a bit of bait-and-switch feeling. Obviously, if you've read this far, you've already seen the movie, so I don't have to recommend it. What I'm thinking of doing, though, is going through the Marvel movies, in order, so that I can see what was--and wasn't--taken care of*** in Infinity War. --- * Which, let's be honest, is a guaranteed way of killing off most everyone else in existence, as losing out such a huge portion of an ecosystem so rapidly will essentially condemn the survivors to extinction…also, was it only sentient life? Did half the dolphins, pigs, and monkeys die? Or other weird alien creatures? Also, how did Thanos know he wouldn't be one of the one half? Then again, he uses the "half" measurement earlier in the film, when he kills off Gamora's mother and reduces the surplus population. In that, he was never in the running to be on one side or the other. Perhaps the Infinity Gauntlet precludes him from being part of the equation. If that's the case, he's showing his selfishness--despite his protestations about what he's given up for the infinity stones. It reminds me of something my student said the other day: Sacrifice means giving something up, not taking something from others. ** At the very end, when Bruce is in the Hulkbuster suit and looking down, super sad, he looks really photoshopped. Like, bad. *** Does Tony Stark not remember that Pepper has superpowers? She didn't lose them at the end of Iron Man 3, right? I'm not misremembering that? Because she can fight, too. Why is he willing to risk a teenage kid from Queens during Civil War, but not his superpowered girlfriend? And if it's about "he wants to protect her", then we need that conversation on screen. That's a crucial part of their relationship, I should think. This year, my birthday has both snuck up on me, and has been a date on which I've kept a wary eye. The former because of the latter, as it turns out.
I talked about this before, albeit three years back, but the pattern is always the same: By the time we get to my birthday week, I have to talk about the Holocaust. This year, it lands on my birthday exactly. Because I've been eyeing the emotional trial that is coming, I haven't been able to think about my birthday as my usual time of celebration. You're familiar with this sort of thing, I'm sure: There's a large event--birthday, baptism, wedding, final…whatever--and that requires so much pre-planning and mental effort that the world after the date has to sit a bit and wait its turn. Gayle's been bothering me about what I want to do on my birthday. She knows that this is the hardest day of the year for me, and since it's supposed to be a happy day, there's an additional kick in the pants. But it seems so incongruous to go from the horrors of the Holocaust and the emotions and thoughts that I've been saving for this day, then slip into something light and fun and…comparatively less significant. I realize that it's a bit of a martyr complex for me to say that I have to make my birthday weeks so rotten, but in terms of the momentum, schedule, and depth that I have come to expect of myself in my classroom, there really isn't anything to do for it. It is what it is, and I dread it. I don't think a person ought to dread birthdays. Anyway, having so much sadness on my "special day" this year has proven only one of the difficulties of the week. My son, Puck, is turning eleven tomorrow. We were born twenty-four and one day apart, so we always celebrate our birthdays together. Usually, I ask for a specific cake for me and then he gets one for himself. That is, he gets a lemon cake and I ask for a brownie/ice cream/raspberry layered cake. But I just couldn't summon the energy to request it. Part of it is that Gayle is always really stressed out at this time of year. Finishing off a scholastic year requires quite a bit from the teachers--to say nothing of the students--and Gayle piles her plate high whenever we hit the late-April, early-May spot on the calendar. I know she likes to make food for her family--it's one of the ways that she shows her love--and so I know she wants to make my frozen raspberry heart-attack. But she's also finishing off a new curriculum that she hasn't taught before, we have two boys in the Cub Scouts who need pinewood derby cars (and, in case you know me not at all, I neither much care for the Scouts nor have any capacity to make a pinewood derby car; that's an area of expertise that falls more within my wife's purview than mine). There are probably another half-dozen other things that she's working on right now. So I didn't ask. This essay, though, isn't about the fact I didn't choose my favorite cake in favor of something simple, or the idea that I didn't set in motion any great plans. It's about the fact that, because of how chaotic this week has been, I have a Barnes and Noble gift card in my pocket that I won't be able to spend for a couple of days. And there's a brand new book that came out today that I've been waiting for*. Yet here we are, you reading this essay, hoping for I don't even know what from it, and me writing this essay, still not owning The Rise and Fall of Dinosaurs. What a world. Anyway, because of the birthday stuff and pinewood derby and my own dread of Thursday, I'm having a hard go of it, to be really honest. I use Barnes and Noble as a bit of retail therapy, going there when I have some spare cash or too much dysthymia, using the smell of books and the hope of finding something worth buying as a way to cope with the sadness that all too often accompanies me. I know this is a strange connection--in the face of the horrors of history that I'm teaching this week (Leningrad tomorrow, Stalingrad next week, with Pacific battles and the a-bomb** not far behind), and a lamentation that oh, woe is me***, I won't get to the bookstore--but there's something to be said about seeking out the small and inconsequential in the emotional aftermath of such a topic. It is less about trying to diminish the hardships of the past, and even less relishing the gratitude one feels after revisiting the details of the Holocaust (which isn't a bad thing, necessarily, but I feel like one should be grateful for life because it's life, rather than comparing it to someone else's). Instead, I see it as the only way to make sense out of the world. If I spend all of my time mourning the atrocities of the past, not only will I never have cause to stop, but I will become yet another victim, struck through time by people like Hitler, robbed of my life because of how he robbed others of theirs. In my own weird way, I feel like me finding comfort and some modicum of happiness by wandering through Barnes and Noble for a couple of hours is a way of pushing back against the horrors of Third Reich Germany. The bookstore becomes a place of solitude and solace and where I can beat back the darkness that I've waded through. I just have to make it to Thursday night. --- * I totally get the idea of preorders. In fact, authors love preorders because it gives them, essentially, money in the bank. There are books that are guaranteed to walk out the door, because they've walked out before they even had legs. Okay, that metaphor got away from me. The point is, while I love supporting authors and try to, whenever possible, buy new books from still-living writers, I don't like to buy online. Part of it is that I get discounts when I buy at B&N in real life (teacher perk), but part of it is that buying a book the day it comes out is the perfect excuse for me to go to the bookstore. ** Back in 2013, when Iron Man 3 came out, Gayle and I postponed my birthday date to the first week of May so that we could watch that movie. The day before we went to see the film, I was teaching about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, complete with terrifying photos from the aftermath. If you don't remember much about that movie, just know that one of the plot points was to have people be annihilated so thoroughly that only their shadows were left on the walls. Yeah, that didn't help my sadness. *** Yeah, yeah, I know: It's grammatically correct to say "Woe is I", but it doesn't sound quite right so I didn't write it that way. Sprawling along the highway that leads to my hometown there is a section of the adjoining city that feels like the French countryside. I can't do much more than pretend to know what it's like to pass over those fertile lands, as the best I've done is drive over it at 100kph in a chartered bus as we trundled from Belgium to Paris, then from Paris to Normandy. Still, the way that mist can cling to the trees and the sprawling flatness of the area, punctuated by the shrubs or the occasional shape of the livestock is reminiscent of those fleeting hours driving through France. If the day is much like today was, with mountain-erasing smudges of clouds, I can almost, for a moment or two, pretend that I'm back in Europe, steeped in the history and sadness of the country.
The bend in the road comes, the illusion shatters, and Lehi, Utah, with Utah Lake spreading its polluted waters ever southward, snap back into my reality. I'm not in France: I'm in Utah, and I likely always will be. When it comes to Paul Bäumer and his experience within the covers of Erich Maria Remarque's moving and traumatic book, All Quiet on the Western Front, I'm transported to a very different version of France than what I saw. Every year, as the February frosts retreat before a more hopeful March, only to make a last-ditch effort to reclaim control of the weather, I wade into the noise and hunger and madness and melancholy and desperate longing for squadmates that is All Quiet. Paul's experience in the Great War, pushing through a chunk of Belgium--though maybe he's in areas of France, too, it's not perfectly clear--are chilling and shocking and cause me to pause every time I read them. This is the seventh or eighth time I've gone through this novel, but it still surprises me. Last year, it was the way that a butterfly landed on the teeth of a skull in the middle of No Man's Land, a splash of color on the otherwise grim grimace of death. This year, it was the last page. The entire book is written from the point of view of Paul. It's the only novel* that we read that's written in first person. On page 295, Paul stands up, declaring within himself that his life will escape from him, regardless of what he wills. Upon turning the page, the reader is surprised to see two paragraphs on the bottom of the next page. Written in third-person (and past tense, as opposed to the present tense of the rest of the novel), the "narrator" describes that when they found "him", it was clear that he hadn't "suffered very long" before dying. This happened, writes the narrator, on the day that, all along the line, the army reported "All quiet on the Western front". This is, in some ways, the most shocking death in a book that's brim full of gruesome exits from life. Body parts adorn some of the battles, and for those that survive the bullets there's always a bombardment. Dodging daisy-cutters one day, a person may die of disease the next. Noise, chaos, pain, terror--the book is loaded with all of these and much, much more. So to have Paul die in quiet, to die without us seeing it, to have it transpire when the war is approaching its peace…it's startling. More than that, though, it's the phrase that he didn't "suffer very long" that really got to me this year. I had just reread almost three hundred pages of suffering. The pain and agony attacked from almost every angle--the inhumane treatment of volunteers and draftees in the training camps; the sleep-deprived nights** filled with the screams of dying men and horses; the agony of being on leave and seeing family again, only to know that this would likely be the last time; the feeling of being unhappy unless on the front with the men he called his friends. With these resurfaced memories fresh in my mind, seeing the way that the narrator assumes the man hadn't suffered much or for very long is almost insulting. I understand, of course, that Paul is a character from Remarque's imagination, but Paul's experiences are culled from disparate sources, including Remarque's own time in the trenches. The misery and confusion, the trauma of the war ripples throughout this book, and--as does all great literature--it leaves an impression on the reader. My students didn't like this book this year. And by that I mean that the pain of the war was harder for a lot of them to stomach. I don't know why. Maybe my own storytelling abilities have increased to the point that the history and the literature finally fused in their minds. Perhaps it's the book itself (the more likely answer) that has a perverse power over its audience--perverse not because of what the men do, but what's done to them, all in the name of patriotic duty. There's a senselessness to the story, the realization that all the killing and death were done for no true purpose. This is the conclusion that many people make of the First World War*** and I can't fault them for that. And maybe that's why I feel so strongly about the Great War, why I drive myself into depression in preparing for this annual wallowing in the misery and sadness. Part of it is that I know a lot about it, and, on a purely practical level, it's satisfying to be able to share things I know about. Indeed, that's partly why I love my job so much: It gives me an excuse to do that often. But more than that is the fact that saying the Great War "didn't matter" because it was pointless seems to me a miscarriage of justice and an insult to the Forgotten Generation that fought it, died in it, suffered through it, starved through it, and persevered through it in order to keep it from happening again. Sure, the Second World War is flashier, with bigger guns, larger explosions, and more dynamic villains. But pushing away or dismissing the Great War for those reasons denies the meaning of the sacrifice of the millions who died in the conflict. The millions. The European war of 1914-1918 wasn't "meaningless" to those who went through it. Quite the contrary: It meant everything to them. Especially those who lost it all. That's why I read this book. Every year. Despite the pain and heartache it causes me and my students. Despite the sadness that I have to study. In whatever small way, as the inheritor of the future they fought for over one hundred years ago, I feel an obligation to the people of the War to End All Wars, a duty to remember their deeds, their names, their sacrifices, and their miseries--to teach about them as pointedly, powerfully, and profoundly as I can. If you, perchance, have not read All Quiet on the Western Front, I would immediately recommend it. --- * We also read Maus, which is a graphic novel--part memoir, part biography, part oral history of Auschwitz, Maus defies categorization. In one sense, then, we read two novels in first person. ** Though it doesn't happen to Paul, it was not uncommon for soldiers who fought at Verdun (1916) to go eleven consecutive nights without sleep. *** People, I've noticed, are fond of considering the Second World War as one with a purpose, a clearer delineation of good and evil. While that certainly is true, the idea that World War II--an event that would have been impossible without World War I--has meaning and purpose when it came out of meaninglessness and purposelessness is a strange gestation indeed. I'm not sure how I feel about that concept, so I'm going to table it for now. Whenever discussing war, there's an inevitable angle that presents itself: What does God expect of people who claim to follow Him? There's a lot that can be said from any number of traditions. Islam preaches*, "whoever kills a soul unless for a soul or for corruption [done] in the land - it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one - it is as if he had saved mankind entirely" (Quran 5:32). Yet it's pretty clear that many are willing to kill in the name of Allah. In the Hebraic tradition, there's a flat out commandment, the sixth**: "Thou shalt not kill" (Exodus 20:13). Yet it's pretty clear that the House of Israel, as much in Old Testament times as today in Palestine, is okay with killing in the name of preserving their land. In the Christian tradition, Jesus says***, "Love one another" (John 13:34-35). Yet it's pretty clear that self-proclaimed (is there any other kind?) Christians are content with killing those whom they see as enemies--those whom they're taught to forgive. My point here is that, though I'm going to focus on the last example--due, mostly, to my own familiarity with the tradition--it's hardly a situation unique to Christians. Obviously, there are centuries of apologetics about the proper behavior of a Christian in fighting for God, with the Crusades being only one of the easiest examples, but it should be noted that early Church Fathers thought and taught about just war principles in an attempt to create something resembling guidelines to help, well, justify war. But theology is one thing: living and dying and killing in the trenches is another. And what does the priest say to the woman who comes to him and says, "You told me my son would be safe if he trusted in the Lord. Why is he blown to bits?" Or, as Siegfried Sassoon so powerfully put it in his poem "They": The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back There's an idea that, provided a person is fighting a war because of a personal belief in the rightness of the cause, his belief in God, or the patriotic inspiration he's imbibed, it absolves him of having to square the Sixth Commandment with his behavior. Based on my studies--which, admittedly, aren't all-encompassing--I don't see this in many veterans. If war was all it took for a person to believe in God, we wouldn't need war.
It also interests me when pious demand blood--insist, in fact, that killing is right in certain situations. I wasn't aware that the Sixth Commandment has an asterisk, which makes me think that maybe there's one on the thing about robbery and maybe adultery can also be justified. What if I cheat on my wife because it's my belief that tells me to? Or if my country tells me to? Is the sin on the head of the country? Can countries be damned? Perhaps the most troubling thing is when I think of Jesus saying this dichotomous saying: "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword" (Matthew 10:34). What am I to make of that? I've spoken about my problem with the Nephic example before, so arguing Machiavellian terms for God's standards doesn't really jive with me. "Maybe there's more context in the verses around it," some might say. "Surely that helps explain it." There's some: It could be read that the sword is Jesus' gospel, making people split over Christianity, over his teachings. That, at least, can fit in with Jesus telling Peter "Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword" (Matthew 26:52). It's easy to take scriptures out of context and make them say something other than intended…and I think that's the problem with people arguing that professed Christians are justified in killing. There are plenty of people who are Christians or Mormons who have killed for their country. I can't speak for them, nor for their experiences. And, so far as veterans go, I have nothing but respect for them and their choices. I don't know that I feel the same way as they, which is part of what they fought to preserve. So, however you may take this particular rumination, don't misconstrue what I'm saying as condemnatory against veterans. I'm saying only this: I don't see how people can go about killing in the name of God. Country? Honor? Duty? Defense? Yeah, sure, I can see that. But God? I just don't get it. --- * I'm aware of the fact that this is a highly contested translation and interpretation, just as I'm aware that Muslims of various stripes read it as is while others insist that there's additional context. I'm not diving into that debate here. ** I'm aware of the fact that this is a highly contested translation and interpretation, just as I'm aware that Jews of various stripes read it as is while others insist that there's additional context. I'm not diving into that debate here. *** I'm aware of the fact that this is a fairly straightforward and clear admonition, just as I'm aware that Christians of various stripes read it as exclusive to their own race, denomination, or interpretation. I'm not diving into that debate here. |
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