On J. D. Salinger: Holden Holds In

Permit me to preface this essay with a quote from Ambrose Bearce's amusing The Devil's Dictionary:

DISTANCE, n. The only thing that the rich are willing for the poor to call theirs, and keep.

I did not initially write at Contratimes about J. D. Salinger's death because I did not think there really was all that much to say. Surely there were others with analysis to offer, and mine, should I offer any, would be aptly inferior.  But I did draft a note right after Mr. Salinger's death, posting it on my Facebook page; perhaps those words are a fitting start for what follows:

Though I was not a big fan of The Catcher in the Rye, I remain an avid fan of Franny and Zooey. A legend has died; may J.D. Salinger finally be at peace.

_________________

Let's take a look at a passage or two from the Wall Street Journal essay about Salinger's death, "J. D. Salinger's Long Goodbye":

How can you grieve for a writer who has been, for all practical purposes, dead for half a century -- one defined by his refusal to publish or even to appear in public?

As the WSJ astutely suggests, if only by implication, there is really nothing to say about Mr. Salinger's work that has not already been said, precisely because the man stopped writing a long time ago. Salinger has given us nothing new; he has been utterly invisible for half a century. The WSJ continues:

Salinger, uniquely among major writers, seemed to go in the opposite direction, from public storytelling to private, until he reached the point where it was unnecessary to admit any readers into his fictional universe.

The purpose of "Franny and Zooey," with all its Zen exhortations, was partly to predict and justify this development. When Salinger declared that he was writing for himself, not for the world, he was echoing the words of the Bhagavad Gita that Seymour and Buddy Glass posted on their wall: "Work done with anxiety about results is far inferior to work done without such anxiety, in the calm of self-surrender." Yet this philosophy seems incompatible with the writing of fiction, which is nothing if not an engagement with the world and the self. It seems highly unlikely that the books Salinger wrote for his own pleasure—if they exist—could be as lovable as the books he wrote for the pleasure of his readers.

Really, what more can be said? Salinger's pen turned inward, too inward, apparently, for him to share with the world what it was in the literary life that he found so lovely, so wonderfully freeing and instructive.

When I first read The Catcher in the Rye my sophomore year in high school, my teacher told all of us in class that the easiest way to remember the essence of The Catcher in the Rye was simply to pronounce the narrator's first name -- "Hold In". Our teacher would note, "Just notice what Holden has had to 'hold in', and note what remains 'held in' even after he completes his plaintive confessional at the story's end." It was an easy hook, a helpful if incomplete mnemonic device, to share with listless and distracted sophomores, though perhaps too easy for purposes here. But it makes some sense, as does a college professor's observation that the family Salinger seemed most interested in writing about was the Glass family -- a fragile, lucent collection of souls (Seymour Glass = see more glass). Holden Caulfield was always holding something back, and it seems J. D. Salinger was, too.

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Permit me to talk a moment about envy. Envy is a very subtle, pernicious vice. It is hard to descry as it silently wends through the grasses, through the reeds, thistles and thorns. Envy is sly, and always well-camouflaged.

And let me like others observe that both J. D. Salinger and his Holden Caulfield came from privileged backgrounds. So, too, does Salinger's Glass family. And now that I've made an observation of the rank obvious, I will delve into some of envy's psychology.

Sometimes the privileged don't like to be envied. They see it in the eyes of those they pass; they see it in the doorman or cab driver, or the young children who live in the "mean houses" at the end of the estate's driveway. They hear it in voices -- "You live there?!" -- "You went to Exeter?!" -- "You work in that building?!" -- and what they hear often makes them feel ashamed. Also, sometimes they worry that if they are not charitable enough, or earthy enough, or "authentic" or "common", they risk losing their wealth, their privilege; that the gods or the masses will smite them for being selfish and rich.

Of course the rich and privileged are not exempt from envying each other; when I traveled around the Hamptons, perhaps America's only truly super-rich enclave, I could not help notice how massive and imposing were the hedges circling each estate. But these, or so I felt, were not merely to keep the riff-raff at a distance, they were designed to keep the Vanderbilts from noticing that the Dupont's house was a bit ostentatious, or too big, or impractically small. There is profound envy among the rich; let us not be fooled.

Salinger fell into this whole game, or so I believe. His Holden Caulfield was doing one thing, and one thing only: he was sabotaging the image of wealth and privilege because of envy. On the one hand, he envied all those who still had more -- whose Christmas recess was celebrated not at Stowe, but at St. Moritz. He envied all those who had not just second homes on a lake in New Hampshire, but third and fourth homes in exotic lands; and he damned them. On the other hand, in venting -- in letting out what he held in -- he was also sabotaging the riff-raff's perceptions: he was saying to all the riff-raff out there that "we, the privileged, are not to be envied. We're as phony and unhappy as..." (As whom, everybody else?)

But notice, too, what the benefit of an attack on the life of the privileged has on those who live such a life: it keeps it out of reach. Recall the Bearce quote above, that the wealthy like to give away distance -- liberally. Don't descriptions of the privileged life showing it to be as empty and meaningless and vain and phony as any other type of life protect the privileged life?

Let me put it this way: If you have a friend who recently bought a huge, imposing mansion, and you say, as you tour the estate, "It is so lovely here, it is so beautiful! What a blessing to live in such a place. I am so happy for you," will he not respond with something like this: "Why thank you, but I have to tell you, the taxes are murder"? Might he not say, "We're happy, but boy, the upkeep is absurd"? Yes, he will say something like that, and his intent is this: "Please, don't envy me." And he responds this way because he fears that if he says merely "Thank you," the gods and the mobs will strike him with cancer or take away his wealth, or that he will be judged "greedy" or "avaricious" or "careless"; or that outsiders will declare,  "He thinks he's better than everyone else."

My sense is that Salinger's work was partly this sort of thing: Don't envy me. And yet, as a member of the privileged class in which much was expected of him, perhaps too much, he wrote what he did in part to set for himself what he perceived life's all-consuming goal: an enviable life.

For some people, when faced with the competition inherent in living, they rise to the occasion and they compete. Others, fearful, perhaps, of failure, runaway altogether. Envy is at work even in competition; it could be said that all competition is fueled by envy. But envy's most devastating act is this: feeling that it can't compete, that it can't live the most enviable life of the family or win father's love, envy rejects the idols of the family. So, James' older brother went to Harvard, and James, fueled by envy, rejects his own acceptance to Harvard and thus declares his brother's success as being beneath him; James chooses something more authentic, or earthbound, or domestic; he becomes a writer. But this is not James acting nobly but ignobly: his envy metes out justice on his family by rejecting the family's expectations. And yet, even in so doing, James finds success in that very act; he flees the good life and chooses a life of hidden letters in the remoteness of some wilderness. There he thinks, finally, he has created one of life's most enviable lives: A man from wealth and fame, who rejects it all for a life in the hills, alone, sickened by the phonies who want his attention.

And what does he really get? He lives a life of privilege, in the hills, with the riff-raff and even the muckety-mucks kept at a suitable distance, leaving his family and their privileged neighbors,"talking."

In other words, J. D. Salinger appears to this writer to have written a life with envy's pen solely to carve out a niche in the world of privilege that stands out from the phonies who live in the Hamptons or the Upper West Side. When I hear Holden Caulfield speak, I hear envy's whine, and little else.

It seems to me Salinger created Holden Caulfield merely to be the vicar of envy's ugliest machinations.

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Granted, Salinger may have left us two lifetimes' worth of work in his Cornish, NH home. Perhaps he will explain everything, showing that envy had no hand in his work, his eccentric silence. Perhaps. But there is no doubt he seemed a man who had little peace. May he finally find the peace he was looking for.

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Lastly, I must blame this essay on the very engaging essays of Contratimes reader, Randall Sherman, who wrote two interesting pieces on Salinger, which you can read here and here. 

Also, if you want to read a short story that I think exactly captures the struggle the wealthy have with envy, please read "The Garden Party," by Katherine Mansfield. She ably describes the anxiety the wealthy feel not only about their wealth, but about the gaze that comes from the "mean houses" (I borrowed this as shown above). And just note the irony in this line of hers when you read it in context: "Don't be so extravagant."

Blessings, from my little house in New Hampshire.


©2010/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved. 

Let Sleeping Goats Sleep

There is, not far from here, a new wind farm. (Just imagine raising wind: it costs nothing to feed but there remains quite a lot of overhead.) It is a fascinating spectacle. This writer has traveled past it several times in recent months. His one unshakeable curiosity? To get close enough to the giant windmills to "hear" them. Unfortunately, time has not allowed a scurry uphill; one can't readily get near enough to hear what has to be an impressive "whop -- whop -- whop."

Indeed, these are giants. The dozen windmills each stand nearly 400 feet tall and their three-bladed turbines arc an impressive 278-foot diameter† circuit through the air. Think of a pinwheel about the size of a football field. And, as one 18-year-old said as he watched the blades cut through the atmosphere, "Those babies are cruisin'!!" Cruising indeed. It would be interesting to calculate the tip speed of each blade.

Ever since I saw the future -- and these turbines seem almost other-worldly -- as I drove over Lempster Mountain, I have pondered how wildlife might "feel" about the concussive sound produced by scissor-like blades ripping through air. Again, let me reiterate, these blades are massive and they are indeed ripping. What do deer feel in the deep dark when they hear such turbulence? How do owls behave near the towers when hearing is such a key component to their nightly survival? How about insects and bats? What is the long-term effect on the fauna -- and the flora -- of a forest in which such sweeping noises are heard and felt 24 hours a day? How has the dance of survival, and the dance of reproduction, changed beneath those spiralling towers?

Well, I know one answer, and it is found in this headline: Wind Turbines 'Killed Goats' By Depriving Them Of Sleep. (I note that recent reports from Amnesty International prove that the CIA has been secretly using windmills at Gitmo and various rendition camps around the world. One AI spokesperson, speaking anonymously for fear of the installation of a wind turbine near his home, revealed that "green energy" is code for torture.)

Ironically, or so it seems, these local turbines are used to create 24-megawatts of power that will be used to generate lights and gadgets that will in turn illuminate and disturb the dark in more than 10,000 homes. But the disturbance of sleep, the war on true darkness by artifical lighting, and the smashing of silence by ticking clocks and buzzing buzzers and annoying alarms, are all born in the deep once-silent woods atop a small and ancient mountain ridge. The wind is an utterly consistent "renewable" resource; and the whop of the blades is humanity's whopping penchant for insomnia. Hear the gentle breeze. It's so electric.

And yet the forest can't sleep. Think of the energy wasted staying awake on the very cutting edge of madness.

(†Each blade is 139 feet long. I do not know the radius of the axis/nacelle; Gamesa, the manufacturer of the turbines, does not provide such data on its website. So the actual size of the rotor might be larger than 278 feet. I also note that Gamesa has designed each blade with the aim of minimizing "noise emissions.")

PEACE.

©2009/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

TO THE GOVERNOR OF NEW HAMPSHIRE (with attached note to Republicans)

(The first of two emails to Governor Lynch of New Hampshire. Unfortunately the email field for the governor limits each comment to 800 characters, including spaces. The emails printed here are rounded out more fully, though not completely, for clarity.)

Dear Governor Lynch,

HB 436 -- or the same-sex marriage bill -- is just bad legislation. It should be rejected in large part because it is poorly crafted. That is not your fault; you should veto it without remorse.

If same-sex marriage is a civil right, how can a bill conferring that right also include an exemption (HB 457:37) for those religious who do not wish to solemnize and confer such a right in their churches? Can anyone imagine a religious leader being given essentially a "conscientious objector exemption" because his/her church has a religious issue serving communion to African Americans?

In other words, if same-sex marriage is a CIVIL RIGHT, no one with the authority to confer and solemnize that right should be LEGALLY permitted NOT to confer that right.

It is truly astonishing that those legislators who have been most vocal about same-sex marriage being a civil right undermine their own argument by granting exemptions to people who don't believe it to be a right.

Governor Lynch, please veto HB 436. It is fraught with difficulties, legal AND religious. Signing it is to open a veritable Pandora's box. And please, don't accept the demonstrably false assertion that HB 436 won't be bad for the people of New Hampshire. It will be bad precisely because it contains a massive legal and religious contradiction that will only cause confusion, resentment, and bitterness. This is essentially divisive and not unitive legislation. It deserves your complete rejection.

Blessings to you in your decision. Follow logic and you will not make a mistake

PART TWO (the second of two emails to Governor Lynch)†

I need to point out that HB 436 also includes language that is ridiculously vague. I've already pointed out the problem with what could be called the "conscientious objector clause." But there is also a problem with the language in the bill listing who CANNOT marry, e.g. a man cannot marry his cousin, etc.

For example, what if the cousin is an adopted child, or the man's uncle or aunt was adopted, or a half-sibling to the man's biological parent? What if the man is adopted himself? And why is it illegal for a man to "marry" his cousin if the cousin is a gay male? There is no possibility of incest-related birth defects affecting their offspring if it is impossible for two men to procreate.

Because the law is poorly written, it cannot help us discern a clear path through these more complex marital arrangements.

What is clearly evident is that HB436 actually will create a NEW category of marital relations that ONLY gays and lesbians can enjoy. If we believe that a man should not marry his female cousin or a woman should not marry her male cousin because of the threat their shared DNA poses to potential offspring, then it follows that since two male or female homosexuals CANNOT procreate, they are legally permitted to marry each other if they are indeed cousins (and uncles and aunts). Or is there some arbitrary reason gays and lesbians cannot marry their same-sex cousins? What is that reason? Is it just about fairness?

Hence, since there is no legal or biological reason why two same-sex cousins (or other relations) cannot marry (and HB 436 says nothing about same-sex aunts and uncles who are adopted or only half-uncles/aunts), HB 436 has either imposed an arbitrary divide or it has opened the door to conferring legally protected special marital rights to gay cousins because its language is pathetically vague. If the latter, then we have not solved the marriage equality issue if gays and lesbians can marry their same-sex cousins and heterosexuals cannot marry their opposite-sex cousins.

HB 436 is rife with legal problems. Reject it.

Peace,

Bill Gnade

______________________

New Hampshire's HB 436 is another sad example of the rather problematic political model of LEGISLATE NOW, THINK LATER.º

_______________________

A NOTE TO REPUBLICANS AND CONSERVATIVESª

It is rather common to think that gay marriage has little to do with anything important. All kinds of people sigh that there seem to be more important things to worry about than gay marriage, and they may be right. But it should be noted that if ANYONE were to suggest that all Americans should set aside gay marriage for now so the MORE IMPORTANT things can be addressed, pro-gay marriage activists would scream to high heaven. It is a lie that gay marriage isn't important; it is THE most important thing, at least to gay activists who constantly ask Americans to worry about all those other MORE IMPORTANT things.

If you are a Republican solely because you would like to see government wastefulness and services reduced; if you are a Republican solely because you want lower taxes, a more vibrant free-market economy, and less government intrusion on your personal (and your business's) income, then you need to consider two things.

First, if the extent of your political activism is solely about money, spending, taxes, economics; if this is your constant concern, you appear, at least to your opponents, as a person fixated on yourself. In other words, you come across as greedy, avaricious, materialistic, selfish. And if economics, private and public, are your sole political concern, you MIGHT deserve to be called a heartless materialist.

Second, if you as a fiscally-minded Republican would broaden your mind, you would see that gay marriage IS a threat to your wealth, your good fortune or the rewards you've enjoyed as a result of your hard work. Why? Because the spirit of egalitarianism that is behind gay marriage is the same spirit behind higher taxation and expanding distributive government. Gay marriage is about what YOU have that "they" don't have -- unfair! unjust! unequal! -- just like the death or estate tax is about what YOU have that they don't have. It's unfair that you can send your kids to a school of your choice. It's unjust that you can leave your estate to your children in order to give them an advantage. It's unfair that you can afford health care when others can't (or that you can afford "better" health care). It's a gross inequality that you can have a bigger share and not be forced to "give back" your "fair share." (Even abortion rights are of the same spirit: it is not fair that a woman should be forced to bear the result of the sex act when the man does not.)

Alas, if you as a Republican neither see nor care to see this connection, then you should rethink your allegiance to the Republican Party. Sorry. For the GOP is really not about egalitarianism for the sake of egalitarianism: the GOP really believes that there are ontological differences between people, things, circumstances. The GOP really believes that FORCING charity, beneficence and equality, all by law, is to deny freedom. The GOP really believes that competition is OK, that not everyone deserves a blue ribbon. The GOP really believes in the possibility and the reality of gaining a just advantage over others and passing that advantage -- in accord with EVOLUTION -- to one's offspring. The GOP really believes that envy politics as embodied in legislative "reforms" such as reparations, or gay marriage, or increased taxation on the rich or corporations, is detrimental to the health not only of the individual but the collective as well.

In short, the GOP recognizes that where egalitarianism reigns, freedom MUST DIE. What are the most egalitarian systems in the world? Prisons, gulags, concentration camps -- where all men are equal.

Let me put it this way. When the founders of our country (I note Thomas Jefferson in the following clause) wrote that "All men are created equal," what was NOT written is that "All men ARE EQUAL." Nor was it written that "All men must be MADE EQUAL." No, the brilliance of Jefferson is that he saw that all are CREATED equal, by "nature's God." Naked is each of us born, and naked we shall die (from dust to dust). But nature, society, circumstance, God: all of these combine to make dynamic inequalities (some no doubt sad and unjust) that make each human -- and humanity -- stronger, better, more adaptable. SAMENESS and EQUALITY are anathema to survival; natural selection, or survival of the fittest, is only possible where there are inequalities.

In closing I note that Republicans fixated solely on moral issues are vulnerable to accusations that they only care about controlling what occurs in America's bedrooms. Fair enough; some people are overly fixated on minding others' private lives. But the fact is that the morality of egalitarianism, so to speak, does not stop in the bedroom or the boardroom. It is a pervasive morality. Once Americans allow egalitarians to codify the irrational assertion that two gay men in matrimony EQUALS a man and a woman; once Americans allow egalitarians to insist that it is unfair that 1+1 is NOT equal to 2+2, America has allowed envy and the irrational to gain a foothold. If the irrational is allowed to redefine what the demonstrable building block of all society is; if the envious are allowed to define marriage (and equality and fairness), then the irrational will rule throughout society, culture and government.

Stand against envy and the irrational. Please.


©2009/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

†Added at 4:53 pm EST
º Added at 5:53 pm EST
ª Added at 11:03 EST, May 10

Not In Unity

Early yesterday afternoon I called a friend of mine, a veteran photojournalist. I was certain he'd be in Unity, New Hampshire to cover the The Great Event, when Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton would publicly unify their heretofore antagonistic political campaigns. But when my friend answered his cellphone, I learned that he was still at home. Why was this award-winning photojournalist not in Unity? Why would he, a life-long Massachusetts Democrat, actually hand over such an historic photo assignment to a colleague?

His answer:

"I am so sick of politics, I don't care if I ever see another politician again. It's just going to be more of the same old crap. No thanks."

Perhaps my friend's cynicism is more than the result of so much political abuse. Maybe he's somewhat prophetic. Take, for example, the following quote from yesterday's Unity event, given by Mr. Obama as he praised his former foe, Hillary Clinton. Recall that much of Mr. Obama's campaign -- until yesterday -- consisted of him insisting that America did not need Hillary Clinton's vision for America. America needed his.

"I have admired her [Mrs. Clinton] as a leader. I have learned from her as a candidate… [Woman in crowd shouts, “Hillary rocks!”] She rocks. She rocks. That’s the point I am trying to make. (Mr. Obama laughs.) I am proud to call her a friend and I know how much we need both Bill and Hillary Clinton as a party and as a country in the months and years to come. They have done so much great work … But we need them. We need them badly, not just my campaign but the American people need their service and their vision and their wisdom in the months and years to come because that’s how we are going to bring about unity in the Democratic Party and that’s how we are going to bring about unity in America and that’s how we are going to deliver the American Dream in every corner of every state of this great nation that we love [wild cheering and applause]." [emphasis added]

Surely this sort of adulation of Mrs. Clinton is precisely the sort of thing my friend could not bear, knowing how just weeks ago Mr. Obama was adamant that the Clintons represented "more of the same." One can't forget Mr. Obama's insulting and humiliating quip during a televised Democratic presidential debate, "You're likable enough, Hillary." The slights, jibes, and insinuations have now turned to compliments and kindness; and the man who is presumably the Democratic Party's presidential nominee is now insisting that America needs the Clintons, and that we "need them badly."

Perhaps my friend would have been put off by this absurdity:

"I know that there have been times when those [outdated, allegedly sexist] biases have emerged and Senator Clinton has always brushed them off [gestures brushing things off his shoulders], dealt with them with her usual grace and aplomb. But I also know that while this campaign has shown us how far we have to go, it’s also proven the progress we have made. I know because of our campaign, because of the campaign that Hillary Clinton waged, my daughters and all of your daughters will forever know that there is no barrier to who they are or what they can be in the United States of America. They can take for granted that women can do anything that the boys can do, and do it better [Hillary nods approvingly to the audience] and do it in heels!" [emphasis added]

How nice, and how utterly inflated and foolish. Women and men cannot do the same sort of things, at least in many areas. It is a nice sentiment, of course; and there is no place in Unity for Mr. Obama and Mrs. Clinton to be as realistic as I can be here. But what is curious is that there is surely going to be silence in the wake of Mr. Obama's diminution of women's strength: "Women can do anything that the BOYS can do, and do it better." Indeed, I am sure most women can outperform the boys, Mr. Obama, but how will they fare against the men?

Maybe my photojournalist pal would have collapsed in a heap of disbelief as he listened to this bit of Obama hyperbole:

"That’s why in this moment, we have to come together not just as Democrats but also as Americans, united by our understanding that there is no problem we can’t solve, no challenge we cannot meet, as one nation, as one people."

No problem? Really. Today a family in Vermont grieves over their missing 12-year-old daughter. She is presumed abducted; she is one of thousands of girls who've disappeared in this country. How, pray tell, can Mr. Obama and his united country solve the problem of a missing, perhaps murdered, girl? No problem we can't solve, sir? Perhaps we'll -- together and united -- find out who murdered Nicole Brown Simpson.

And then there is this vacuity regarding Mr. Obama's commitment to ending the "war" in Iraq:

"…or we can decide that it is time to be in a responsible, gradual withdrawal from Iraq. … it is time to bring this war in Iraq to a close and that’s what we will be working with and working on when I am president of the United States, that’s the choice in this election. " [emphasis added]

Perhaps my friend would have disintegrated in the heat of the Unity rhetoric, noting that Mr. Obama's odd locution "that's what we will be working with and working on" lacks all conviction; Mr. Obama will be working on but not actually ending the "war" in Iraq, should he be president. And, like any candidate, Mr. Obama has promised that withdrawal from Iraq will be "gradual." Maybe the wild cheering at such inane and vacuous promises would have sent my friend rushing to the first aid kiosk for help with his sudden nosebleeds.

We can all concede that there is nothing new under the sun, particularly in politics, and those of us savvy to political rhetoric know that there is nothing ideologically or politically new to Barack Obama. Yesterday's Unity speech proves that if he represents "change," the change is ever so slight. And superficial.

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Death At The Diner: A True Story

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.

Can You Say "Oy Vey?" How About "Oops?" Sorry?

[I tip my hat to James Taranto for directing me toward the absurdity -- one that incites laughter and tears -- pulled from the Letters to the Editor section of the Concord Monitor (I used to work for its sister paper) that has inspired this post.]

It is striking how interesting -- and perhaps even prejudiced -- some people can be. Take Mr. Peter Davis of Laconia, NH, for example. Here is a passionate man, full of fire and political consternation. Here is a man clearly given to analyzing the most complicated issues; he is probably noted around the house for his scrupulous attention to detail. He's probably got a ferret's relentlessness for sniffing out balderdash and rot. Surely his recent letter to the editor of the Concord Monitor ably bolsters that perception. If it doesn't, well, then surely it might present him a moment to reflect on his presumed certitude.

In response to an opinion column published in the Monitor on Sunday in which the word 'kafuffle' appeared, Mr. Davis takes a very curious tack. (How could he know that kafuffle can also be spelled 'kerfuffle' and that it comes from the Gaelic words meaning 'confusion' and 'disorder?') See for yourself:

For the Monitor:

What is a "kafuffle"? It's not in the dictionary. Is it just another proofreading error? Or is it a further example of your acquiescence to the Israelization of American culture by attempting to pass obscure Yiddish words into the mainstream of the American language?

It's bad enough that we are steered toward war with the entire Arab world and beyond because our "friend" Israel won't relinquish its occupation of Palestine and make peace with its neighbors. Still we are suckered into giving Israel, the 14th richest country on earth, billions and billions of our tax dollars in foreign aid every year, and we gave it carte blanche to rampage through Lebanon destroying everything in its path and inflicting collective punishment on its people, an aggression internationally condemned as a war crime, yet condoned by the Bush administration and sheepishly accepted by the American people.

How can we hold our heads high and proud when our own county illegally attacks and invades an Arab country that had done nothing to us, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and wrecking their entire infrastructure, clearly Bush war crimes, all for the benefit of Israel because Saddam was assisting the families of Palestinian martyrs in their struggle against the illegal Israeli occupation of their land? We shouldn't be proud to be associated with Israel, and I don't appreciate their insidious adulteration of our language.

PETER DAVIS
Laconia

What Mr. Davis fails to note is that the word was actually coined by George W. Bush during a pig roast in Texas. The president had a huge and happy mouthful of ice cream and peach cobbler when he was asked, "Why are the Israelis building a wall?" Bush replied, "They're fearful." But all the scribes heard was "kerfuffle." So, in a roundabout way, the word does have Jewish origins.

But only to Mr. Davis from New Hampsha!

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Listening From Afar

The photo of this moose appeared on page 1 of the local daily yester- day under the banner, "All Ears." It was a perfect title. And it remains a perfect title for how I feel about returning to this blog after a significant hiatus: I want to listen. 

Perhaps you have something to say. Anything?

Peace.

Bill Gnade

(see related moose story at In The Pantry)

Blazing To The Top Of The Charts

Just a hasty observation, but if I was, let's say, Hillary Clinton, I would be delighted with the early excitement over Senator Barack Obama. In fact, I would be fueling it at every turn. I would even attempt to move the media towards Mr. Obama. Why? Because I would want Mr. Obama to peak too early. And it is, quite likely, exactly what he is going to do. People in New Hampshire gathered on Sunday to see the man, to touch the hem of his garment; and I mean people gathered by the thousands. Over 100 reporters captured his every move and jotted down his every word. And all this -- all this money and hoopla and passion -- for a man who has not even announced he is running for president. The only other phenomenon in New Hampshire's primary history that closely resembles the Obama-Nation† was when John F. Kennedy announced his candidacy for president while standing on Main Street in Nashua.

And all this for a man who is, to be honest, utterly unseasoned, with nary a stitch of experience. That some critics of George W. Bush like to point out that he himself was hardly a fireball of political activity prior to his 2ooo run miss several points, the most salient of which is that many Republicans were utterly aware of Bush's lack of experience. In New Hampshire, at least, George W. Bush was hardly a Republican favorite. But at least Bush had some experience simply by being a President's son. I might have this wrong, but George W. actually worked in nearly every office of the White House during the Reagan-Bush years. This qualifies for something, though it does not entitle any man to have the Oval Office.

But I will not detract from Mr. Obama's popularity by suggesting he is too inexperienced. I will merely point out that those who also seek the office can only be encouraged that Mr. Obama is peaking early.

Or so they hope.

THE CULT OF PERSONALITY

I think it is important to note how many folks are indeed already committed to voting for Mr. Obama should he run. How can this be? He is hardly known, he is hardly seasoned in the public eye. On what are his enthusiasts basing their enthusiasm? I have already heard much about his charm and charisma. Is that it? I have heard Harold Ford Jr. describe Mr. Obama as brilliant. But is that all? And I know Mr. Obama has written a couple of books. But is that enough? Is this, at least right now, merely the cult of personality, the adoration of persona? Surely it is not the cult of substance, or the cult of strong political record, right? It is something other than these things. Is it more hosanna politics?

I wonder.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

†I note the word the term Obama-Nation for a host of reasons. Obviously, no supporter of Mr. Obama could ever refer to his followers as Obama-Nation, largely for its homophonic cousin, abomination. Moreover, yesterday I saw the word "obamanible," penned by an Obama defender upset by criticisms over Mr. Obama's middle name (which is Hussein). But Mr. Obama's name will no doubt lend itself to all sorts of wild headlines in the Daily News or New York Post: "Barack Star!" "Running Out Of Money: Barack's B-roke!" "Obama's Meandering State of the Union Speech: Barack's Baroque!" "Southern Vote is Clear: A'bama Says No To Obama!" "Barack Urges Kids: Obey Ma!" OK. These are foolish and, I dare say, unfortunate. But the reality is not to be denied: Headline writers are going to have a field day. "O-BAM!- A: Barack smashes O'Reilly's fastball in Factor interview."

Technorati tags: Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, New Hampshire, Cult of Personality

When Michael Helps Michael

His name was Michael Briggs, and he was 35 years old. I did not know him, but I wish I had. He was a good father of two boys; he loved his wife, Laura. And he loved to help people. In fact, he was awarded the highest honors for helping rescue normal folk -- as normal as you and me -- from a burning apartment building in the early morning hours in July 2004.

Michael was a police officer in Manchester, NH. He worked on what was dubbed the "Jeep Patrol," that late-night shift where cops tour neighborhoods on mountain bikes. He loved his job, his colleagues, and the neighborhoods he watched so carefully. Today, and tomorrow, and for days to come, those neighborhoods and colleagues will gather together in small clutches of grief -- candles and cards and flowers in shaking hands -- and they shall find solace in memory, and inspiration in courage.

Michael Briggs probably did not know that the man he was approaching at 2:45 in the morning was familiar to him, even intimately familiar. Nor could the man he was approaching, Michael "Stix" Addison, 26, know that the cop who came toward him was someone who had helped him in a moment of pain and panic; Officer Briggs had responded to a shooting at an apartment in March 2003 and, as the first officer on the scene, gave first aid to a wounded Addison, who suffered a gunshot wound to the collarbone in the incident. Neither man could have known the brutal irony of a hero cop helping a bleeding man more than three years ago as they now came within a few feet of each other on this early Monday morning, heartbeats still vibrant, a wedding ring round Briggs' warm finger.

Pain and panic had brought them together before; it would separate them now in a twitch of a finger on a trigger. One Michael would stand in the darkness; one Michael would collapse on the asphalt, blood pouring from his brain. A dying man who gave succor and aid to a man had in fact given comfort to his killer; Michael Addison would runaway, too selfish to return a favor.

The granite of our little state shakes beneath our feet. There are no gauges or seismographs to record the quake that courses from the tip of a finger to a head hitting the pavement, and then on through to the collapsing hearts of thousands. Sadly, these quakes happen all day long. But we cannot feel them all, too many waves coming from too many sorrows, but we strain to feel what we can. Some of us will feel this local sorrow, the sorrow of a family and friends that we have not met. But we know them nonetheless, because Michael Briggs is the sort of man we all meet everyday, in our homes, our churches, our synagogues; he is that man on the street who smiles and waves and will lay his life down for you and me and Michael Addison in a flash, in a final heartbeat. Knowing men like him, we know his family, we know his friends. We know their grief.

Tomorrow there is a funeral, a massive procession through crowded streets, perhaps thousands lining the route. Take a moment and pray for two little boys, a widow, and a man just courageous enough to kill the man who helped him live so he could think about what he has done, and what has been done for him.

Peace, at least for just one minute.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

Technorati tags: Michael Briggs, Michael Addison, New Hampshire, Police