[Written 10 days ago.]
It is Friday, the end of the week. This is the day of silence in the blogosphere, the day when few people pay attention to things said. Here, at Contratimes, I will be lucky if I raise a single comment from the swirling waters I am fishing, the waters flowing toward weekend plans and vacation getaways.
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This morning, I attended a Republican gathering in a town north of here. It was a breakfast gathering at a local diner, and it was my first time to attend this twice-monthly event.
And I spoke.
You see, as I mentioned earlier, I have several folks encouraging me to run for the NH House of Representatives, perhaps the lowliest elected position (I am not complaining) a person could attain in NH state governance. Of course, since I am a conservative, the natural fit for me is the Republican Party. But I have a confession to make: I've never been a member of ANY political party. Not only that, I have never given a penny -- and not even a dollar -- to any political party, candidate or PAC.
Granted, some will perceive this as evidence of indifference. But it isn't. Instead, it's about appearances: since I've tried to work and live as a journalist and writer, I have wanted to be as unattached as possible so readers, colleagues, friends and neighbors were certain my loyalties were not rooted in purely financial or partisan interests. Not being attached to anything kept me free of the charge that I was a mere ideologue of the Republican establishment. Plus, my reluctance to join a party was rooted in a fierce independence, even a rebellious streak. I readily admit this borders on vanity and conceit on my part, that I think I am too sophisticated or self-reflective to join the mob, or follow what is vogue, hip, chic. Abhorring pop-culture, for instance, is for some a great boast, as it draws attention to their singularity and their single-mindedness, and to their allegedly impeccable taste.
This morning I still find myself reluctant to identify with a party, despite the undeniable fact that I am a socially and politically conservative person through and through. Of course, I feel like the word "conservative" has come to mean something nearly grotesque, suggesting nothing but a press backwards toward some age of unenlightened living. My impulse is to cry out against such a crass claim, denouncing it as an attack on history: that to be truly conservative is nothing more than to learn from one's mistakes and to stop repeating them when history has proven them foolish, ineffective. In fact, I see conservatism as far more rebellious than progressive liberalism; I see conservatism as counter-cultural and even, in a sense, subversive. It is for me a protest against mediocrity, insipidity, and the suppression of the human spirit. History is anathema to progressives; standing in their way with its constant reminders of human failures and the futility of so many humanitarian efforts toward utopia, history in all its fulness is derided as quaint, racist, sexist, and even laughable by many of my progressive peers. For progressives, most history is to be viewed with embarrassment and shame, particularly in those areas where "tradition" or "conservatism" seemingly held sway. The only type of history progressives study is that perceived to be marching toward some great improvement and enlightenment. Progressives only see "the progress," without noting that progressivism has destroyed in its wake countless victims in the gulags of state and mind. It does no good reminding a progressive that his ideas have led to genocide and a bleakness beyond imagination. A progressive, really, is too busy looking "forward" even to notice how the progressive vision hurts those that vision is supposed to help.
I believe conservatism is a protest against marching forward merely for the sake of marching. As I noted earlier here, G. K. Chesterton said we need to have some idea what our destination is if we want to progress. If progressives have no idea where we're going other than toward some vague goal of fairness, then how do we know if we're progressing at all? If I begin a journey without a destination, how do I even begin?
But I am reluctant about something else, and this is particularly poignant for me. You see, I am reluctant to tell "my story." Let me be candid: After I spoke this morning, one man sidled up to me and told me that I might come across as a little bit snobbish, even "elitist", in how I present myself. (Odd that I should have expected this. I can come across as bigger than I ought.)
There is, however, a trap here. There is the obvious stumbling block about "telling your story", that it is a fallacious appeal to emotion, engendering the sympathy of one's audience. But that is not the trap. The trap is much more subtle.
If I were to stand up and tell my story to a group of Republicans gathered in a country diner in a tiny town, and I just happened to be a Rockefeller, I am sure I would lose my constituents the moment I said that I am "one of them"; that I, too, understand what it is like to work hard, to be anxious about paying the bills or making payroll. If I was a lofty Rockefeller claiming to be a man of the people I would no doubt inspire sneers among those people who not only worry about the bills, but about lunch. Surely people would accuse me, a Rockefeller, of "putting on airs," even if those airs were lowly.
OK. But what if an articulate, fairly well-educated and fairly well-dressed man were to stand up and tell a story that borders on destitution? What if he stood up and told about his childhood, one where poverty and mental illness and despair wracked his family, his mother, his father? What if he were to demonstrate beyond any doubt that he was indeed a man "of the people," the lowliest, simplest people who struggled and suffered in their decrepit homes tucked along the country roads that settle into forsaken wetlands and dells? What if he proved he was from the humblest of America's classes, or at least close to those classes, in origin, in achievement; in pedigree?
Wouldn't it be the case that some listeners might mutter that such a man is "putting on airs"? Isn't it reasonable to assume that some might snicker, "Who does this guy think he is, all dressed up and wordsmithy?" Might not some even say, "He needs to know his place. He's out of his league"?
Of course, not everyone would respond that way. But the fact is some would. The fact is that some do. I've heard it before. And this, I am afraid, can be the subtle and nasty trap of telling one's story: there's no pleasing everyone.
One thing this writer learned growing up is that one's social class appears much higher than it is if one has mastery over language. If you can speak well, especially well, people will think you're of much higher social standing than you might actually be. (And if you can also speak French, German or Italian, well, you're something very hard to define.) But this is really an accident of education and interest; it is not intended out of vanity, but out of intellectual curiosity. Besides, speaking well is a form of courtesy. If a person wants to express his or her feelings and thoughts, the best way to do so is to possess the language skills -- the grammar and diction and syntax -- that make expressing oneself easy. Such skills are a must, are they not, for an effective political leader?
However, it is also true that once someone knows your origins, if those origins are not the least bit enviable, being particularly lowly, and if they perceive your personality, language and skills depart too far from those humble origins, they will peg you as uppity, or proud, or worse.
As I said, there's no pleasing everyone. And that, I am afraid, is exactly the unavoidable risk in politics.
Sad, though, that fear of being trapped in telling one's story might lead a person to lie.
Peace.
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