Yesterday (Friday, Dec. 7) I sat in the corner booth of the Peterborough Diner, my back to the wall. Across from me sat my nephew, David, 28 years old, looking far older than he should. I was finishing my BLT and fries, while David talked between bites of his bacon cheeseburger. We were pretty quiet despite the fact that the diner, one of those old metal railroad car-type dives that dots the American landscape, was nearly filled to capacity. Plates chimed in the dish washing-room out back; diners tapped coffee spoons on the edges of white ceramic mugs. There was chatter at the counter; newspapers crinkled.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
Blahs, Blues and Barack
Friday. A blogger's nadir, the Death Valley of the week. How is it that folks stop visiting on this day of all days? Is Friday 'dress down day' at the office, when everybody takes off for an early and long lunch? Is Friday 'home office day,' where countless workers huddle around laptops -- coffee, spouse and kids nearby -- with Saturday scratching at the door and blogs tossed into the garbage bin?
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Better An Honest Grief
It is not writer's block. That sort of thing assumes a writer has something to say, to pass along. The metaphor implies obstruction of an otherwise glorious flow of verbiage; it implies a log jam interrupting the normal flow of a sure and powerful river.
What is it called when the river itself is empty, dried up? Writer's drought? What if there is nothing to block, no flow to impede? Or what if the writer's well is filled with dust? What do we call that?
I have nothing to say. At least, I feel like I have nothing to say. The Virginia Tech shootings were my last real reason to craft anything resembling an essay, a poem, something literary. How sad that I should only find a muse in grief. But is that even true? Did I find inspiration in sorrow and tragedy?
Perhaps. But today I've found something else in my gnawing gut; I've a belly full of disgust. I am sickened by the transitions. We humans, or most of us, seem to move from issue to issue, tragedy to tragedy, searching for smooth segues from bit to bit, from pod to pod (as news/documentary items are called on "Current TV"): We want something. We move from pod to pod like rats from switch to switch; we will electrocute ourselves for a new bit of bitter cheese. And I recoil at the thought that we are DONE with Virginia Tech, or Don Imus, or 9/11. That we have "moved on," emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. That we are hunting for the next big distraction, the next Beltway sniper or car chase or racial slur or outrageous political misstep. We look through blogs and news feeds; we grope about, snickering as we dismiss x and y and z; we take hold of A, and we write or film or opine in harried insistence that we have to say something, we have to move the debate, to push the national conversation. We must have A, we must shape it just so; and we shape it so we can have, as quickly as possible, B.
I walk through bookstores, I scroll through blogs and search engines; I sift through news pages and flip through YouTube clips or newsreels and I see nothing but words: words and words and words. We jam words into every void, every crevice. Windbag thinkers tell us that bad speech is fought with more speech; advertisers jam words into scoreboards and dashboards and every readable surface on the planet. We have so many words offered as answers we cannot see that words serve as cataracts to our eyes: we cannot make out the form of the questions that we ever even asked. There is just a dull, hazy light, double, triple vision: two moons in the night sky in our waning, aging light.
What is the solution to Don Imus' alleged racial slurs? Words. What is the solution to Seung-Hui Cho? More words. What to do with Iraq, Harry Reid, Rosie O'Donnell, Bill O'Reilly, Randi Rhodes, poverty? Words and more words. What is the solution to the estrangement of man's existence from his essence? Words. Declarative statements. No question marks.
My word.
Immediately after 9/11, TV networks went days and days without running any advertisements. Why? What purpose did that serve? Did it suggest that to hawk one's wares in sight of thousands of dead people was too tawdry, too decadent and heartless and rapacious and mercenary? How many dead people DOES it take for the networks to stop advertising, two, three? Why 5,000, 4,000, 3,000? What is the magic number necessary for a nation to stop and grieve properly? Who sets that number? What number tells us we can move on?
And how long must I wait before I can write about anything other than all that has preceded this moment? How long, really, do I have to forget the martyrdom of Peter or the destruction of Jerusalem or the Black Plague or the desolation of the American Indian or the savagery of the fur trade or the decapitation of infidels or the garroting of babies or gunshots in a classroom, before I can call myself au courant?
Yesterday I wept at a funeral for one of my dearest friends. Afterwards, as I approached my friend's now-empty house where a luncheon was to be held in her honor, I stopped to talk to Barbara, another friend who had moments earlier eulogized (so boldly, so elegantly) our dead friend. In the midst of our gentle, teary conversation, I said, "Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy." I shocked myself with the sentence, having no idea where it came from, or why exactly I had said it. But in a moment's pause both Barbara and I knew that it fit the moment perfectly; it was the very summation of her wonderful eulogy and what we were searching for on the shoulder of Lookout Hill Road.
Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy.
It is the sort of sentence one might find in Bartlett's, if only its author were noteworthy. It is also made up of mere words. It is more words, words that blind like tears, the cataracts of grief flowing over cheeks, pouring from the dulled eyes that search for a friend who is now a question mark.
Sometimes the only word we want to hear is not a word at all.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
What is it called when the river itself is empty, dried up? Writer's drought? What if there is nothing to block, no flow to impede? Or what if the writer's well is filled with dust? What do we call that?
I have nothing to say. At least, I feel like I have nothing to say. The Virginia Tech shootings were my last real reason to craft anything resembling an essay, a poem, something literary. How sad that I should only find a muse in grief. But is that even true? Did I find inspiration in sorrow and tragedy?
Perhaps. But today I've found something else in my gnawing gut; I've a belly full of disgust. I am sickened by the transitions. We humans, or most of us, seem to move from issue to issue, tragedy to tragedy, searching for smooth segues from bit to bit, from pod to pod (as news/documentary items are called on "Current TV"): We want something. We move from pod to pod like rats from switch to switch; we will electrocute ourselves for a new bit of bitter cheese. And I recoil at the thought that we are DONE with Virginia Tech, or Don Imus, or 9/11. That we have "moved on," emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. That we are hunting for the next big distraction, the next Beltway sniper or car chase or racial slur or outrageous political misstep. We look through blogs and news feeds; we grope about, snickering as we dismiss x and y and z; we take hold of A, and we write or film or opine in harried insistence that we have to say something, we have to move the debate, to push the national conversation. We must have A, we must shape it just so; and we shape it so we can have, as quickly as possible, B.
I walk through bookstores, I scroll through blogs and search engines; I sift through news pages and flip through YouTube clips or newsreels and I see nothing but words: words and words and words. We jam words into every void, every crevice. Windbag thinkers tell us that bad speech is fought with more speech; advertisers jam words into scoreboards and dashboards and every readable surface on the planet. We have so many words offered as answers we cannot see that words serve as cataracts to our eyes: we cannot make out the form of the questions that we ever even asked. There is just a dull, hazy light, double, triple vision: two moons in the night sky in our waning, aging light.
What is the solution to Don Imus' alleged racial slurs? Words. What is the solution to Seung-Hui Cho? More words. What to do with Iraq, Harry Reid, Rosie O'Donnell, Bill O'Reilly, Randi Rhodes, poverty? Words and more words. What is the solution to the estrangement of man's existence from his essence? Words. Declarative statements. No question marks.
My word.
Immediately after 9/11, TV networks went days and days without running any advertisements. Why? What purpose did that serve? Did it suggest that to hawk one's wares in sight of thousands of dead people was too tawdry, too decadent and heartless and rapacious and mercenary? How many dead people DOES it take for the networks to stop advertising, two, three? Why 5,000, 4,000, 3,000? What is the magic number necessary for a nation to stop and grieve properly? Who sets that number? What number tells us we can move on?
And how long must I wait before I can write about anything other than all that has preceded this moment? How long, really, do I have to forget the martyrdom of Peter or the destruction of Jerusalem or the Black Plague or the desolation of the American Indian or the savagery of the fur trade or the decapitation of infidels or the garroting of babies or gunshots in a classroom, before I can call myself au courant?
Yesterday I wept at a funeral for one of my dearest friends. Afterwards, as I approached my friend's now-empty house where a luncheon was to be held in her honor, I stopped to talk to Barbara, another friend who had moments earlier eulogized (so boldly, so elegantly) our dead friend. In the midst of our gentle, teary conversation, I said, "Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy." I shocked myself with the sentence, having no idea where it came from, or why exactly I had said it. But in a moment's pause both Barbara and I knew that it fit the moment perfectly; it was the very summation of her wonderful eulogy and what we were searching for on the shoulder of Lookout Hill Road.
Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy.
It is the sort of sentence one might find in Bartlett's, if only its author were noteworthy. It is also made up of mere words. It is more words, words that blind like tears, the cataracts of grief flowing over cheeks, pouring from the dulled eyes that search for a friend who is now a question mark.
Sometimes the only word we want to hear is not a word at all.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
A Central (Yet Not Comedic) Irony
Comedy Central's, The Colbert Report, is truly a funny, funny TV show. I've only managed to watch it a few times, my TV habits being anything but habitual. But I did manage to see Thursday night's episode in which Mr. Colbert interviewed Markos Moulitsas Zúniga, an author and blogger. In fact, Mr. Zúniga is the face behind the politically left blog, The Daily Kos.
In what was a singularly unfunny moment in Mr. Colbert's talk with Mr. Zúniga, Mr. Zúniga offered this assessment––received with explosive applause––of the Republican Party:
The Republicans do a really good job telling you when you can be born and when you can die. They just have a really hard time with everything in between...
Let us parse this for a moment, shall we? But before we do, let it be understood that this statement of Mr. Zúniga's is not one confined to America; it is not just about the two political parties in the United States. For Mr. Zúniga could easily be speaking about conservatives or traditionalists vis-á-vis liberals or progressives. So it is a slight that crosses geo-political boundaries, really. But let us focus on the American two-party system for a moment.
What Mr. Zúniga is averring is that because Republicans are pro-life, i.e., against abortion and euthanasia, they're the ones who tell "you when you can be born and when you can die." And this, assuredly, is a bad thing. Against this, the Democrats stand as a party of thoughtful liberation from such tyranny of mind and body.
But what Mr. Zúniga sadly fails to apprehend is that if Republicans are indeed generally pro-life and anti-euthanasia, then it is the pro-choice Democrats, in all their progressive finery, who are dressed as executioners: They're the ones who tell you when you shall live and die. A mother who aborts her child tells it––exactly––when it shall die. If she chooses not to abort, then she surely tells her child exactly when it shall live. Similarly––and with the Terri Schiavo case still fresh in American minds it is immensely important to note this––it was the Democrats who wanted to tell Ms. Schiavo exactly when she would breathe her last, or at least when she was going to begin starving at the hand of compassion and mercy.
How strange (or is blindness not all that strange?) that Mr. Zúniga should not understand this simple fact: Republicans prefer to let nature take its course, as true naturalists, when it comes to birth; and Republicans let life last as long as it can, particularly when medical and nutritional aid has already been offered to the dying and incapacitated. Had Republicans really had their way, Terri Schiavo might still be alive today, with no one able to guess the date of her death. As it stands, the record shows that Ms. Schiavo's last day was pre-determined by those who only embrace liberty through the right to impose death. That's liberal, and progressive, in a sort of mind-numbing way.
I am sure Mr. Zúniga is a brilliant man. It is hard to understand how it could be otherwise when he has created one of the most popular blogs on the web. But brilliance takes many forms; I am certain it takes a genius to exploit the market of the stupid. He deserves his success, earned launching sallies here and there to wild applause. But who, really, is applauding? Not thinking people; not people attentive to language, plumbing its depths, mining phrases for meaning and truth.
How curious to find in The Daily Kos another example of psychological projection: Mr. Zúniga points away from himself, naming the Republicans the party of life and death. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that I can see the irony, despite the laughter and the applause.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
Related posts: Howard Dean IS, A Foolish Consistency
Related poem: Hearings From The House
Technorati tags: Colbert Report, The Daily Kos, Markos Moulitsas Zúniga, Markos Moulitsas Zuniga, Abortion, Pro-life, Pro-Choice, Terri Schiavo
In what was a singularly unfunny moment in Mr. Colbert's talk with Mr. Zúniga, Mr. Zúniga offered this assessment––received with explosive applause––of the Republican Party:
The Republicans do a really good job telling you when you can be born and when you can die. They just have a really hard time with everything in between...
Let us parse this for a moment, shall we? But before we do, let it be understood that this statement of Mr. Zúniga's is not one confined to America; it is not just about the two political parties in the United States. For Mr. Zúniga could easily be speaking about conservatives or traditionalists vis-á-vis liberals or progressives. So it is a slight that crosses geo-political boundaries, really. But let us focus on the American two-party system for a moment.
What Mr. Zúniga is averring is that because Republicans are pro-life, i.e., against abortion and euthanasia, they're the ones who tell "you when you can be born and when you can die." And this, assuredly, is a bad thing. Against this, the Democrats stand as a party of thoughtful liberation from such tyranny of mind and body.
But what Mr. Zúniga sadly fails to apprehend is that if Republicans are indeed generally pro-life and anti-euthanasia, then it is the pro-choice Democrats, in all their progressive finery, who are dressed as executioners: They're the ones who tell you when you shall live and die. A mother who aborts her child tells it––exactly––when it shall die. If she chooses not to abort, then she surely tells her child exactly when it shall live. Similarly––and with the Terri Schiavo case still fresh in American minds it is immensely important to note this––it was the Democrats who wanted to tell Ms. Schiavo exactly when she would breathe her last, or at least when she was going to begin starving at the hand of compassion and mercy.
How strange (or is blindness not all that strange?) that Mr. Zúniga should not understand this simple fact: Republicans prefer to let nature take its course, as true naturalists, when it comes to birth; and Republicans let life last as long as it can, particularly when medical and nutritional aid has already been offered to the dying and incapacitated. Had Republicans really had their way, Terri Schiavo might still be alive today, with no one able to guess the date of her death. As it stands, the record shows that Ms. Schiavo's last day was pre-determined by those who only embrace liberty through the right to impose death. That's liberal, and progressive, in a sort of mind-numbing way.
I am sure Mr. Zúniga is a brilliant man. It is hard to understand how it could be otherwise when he has created one of the most popular blogs on the web. But brilliance takes many forms; I am certain it takes a genius to exploit the market of the stupid. He deserves his success, earned launching sallies here and there to wild applause. But who, really, is applauding? Not thinking people; not people attentive to language, plumbing its depths, mining phrases for meaning and truth.
How curious to find in The Daily Kos another example of psychological projection: Mr. Zúniga points away from himself, naming the Republicans the party of life and death. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that I can see the irony, despite the laughter and the applause.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
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Technorati tags: Colbert Report, The Daily Kos, Markos Moulitsas Zúniga, Markos Moulitsas Zuniga, Abortion, Pro-life, Pro-Choice, Terri Schiavo
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