New Light on a Great Libertarian

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One day in September 2011, I received the following email:

“I’ve just ordered your book on Garet Garrett, brother to my grandmother, Gertrude Garrett Graham, and my great uncle. There are a few anecdotes from his later years of retirement in Tuckahoe NJ and his relationships with his family and I’d enjoy talking with you, once I’ve read your book.”

It was signed, “Trudy Beth Bond.”

Garet Garrett (1878–1954) author of The Driver, The People’s Pottage, and The American Story, was one of the great libertarian journalists of the 20th century. I wrote a book about him, Unsanctioned Voice, published in 2008.

The book is more about Garrett as a writer than as a person and necessarily so. Most of his papers were lost. He had no children. His third wife, Dorothy Williams Garrett, had a son from a previous marriage, and he also had died, but I found his daughter. She had a few photos of Garrett but was too young to have known him.

Digging for details more than half a century after he died, I found one person who had known him: Richard Cornuelle, who had worked with Garrett in the early 1950s (and who died on April 26, 2011). Cornuelle had gone on to become an official at the National Association of Manufacturers — and had written a book, Reclaiming the American Dream, championing the nonprofit sector as an alternative to the welfare state. In 2007 I flew to New York City to meet him at his Greenwich Village townhouse and hear of his time with Garrett. Cornuelle, then 80, was delighted that someone wanted to know about the man who had been his mentor.

My book was more about Garrett as a writer than as a person and necessarily so. Most of his papers were lost.

Cornuelle gave me some personal details about Garrett, some of them incomplete. He told me one of Garrett’s sisters lived in a farmhouse on Garrett’s property at Tuckahoe. But which sister? Why was she there? What role had Garrett played in her family? He didn’t know. My book wasn’t mostly about things like that, but more personal details would have improved it.

After the book came out, I wondered whether I would hear from some lost relative. Three years went by. Then came the email from his grandniece, Trudy, who lives in the very town, Port Townsend WA, in which Liberty was founded and published for more than 20 years — a town about two hours’ drive and a ferry ride from my house.

Trudy was born in 1941. Through her, I got to talk to her brother Marshall, born 1943, and her sister Connie, born 1945. They knew Garrett as kids, aged 9 to 13. They were also part of a family that would have some stories about him. They might fill in some of the blanks in my account.

I had known that Garrett and his third wife, Dorothy, lived somewhere along the Tuckahoe River in New Jersey. From Connie, I received a satellite photo of the property.

At the beginning of the book I had listed Garrett’s siblings from Census records: Gertrude, Mary, Sarah, Thomas, and “what looks like ‘Clarra.’” But I knew nothing about them. Now I had their full names — it was “Clara” — and the dates of their births. I noticed that all but two of Garrett’s siblings were born in different towns, most of them not far from Garrett’s birthplace at Pana, in central Illinois. Garrett’s father Silas was a tinker — an itinerant tinsmith — and his family moved around.

From my new acquaintances, I heard one story of the children’s youth. Garret’s father, Silas, was a Protestant. What denomination was never said, though his funeral was in a Methodist church. According to Marshall, Garet’s mother, Alice, was a devout Catholic.

“They had made a pact when they married that their children would be allowed to make up their own minds,” Marshall said. “But the priest prevailed on Alice, and she did certain things behind her husband’s back, such as putting them in catechism class.” The effort backfired, and Clara, Gertrude, and Marie embraced the new religion of the time, Christian Science.

Then came an email from the very town, Port Townsend WA, in which Liberty was founded and published for more than 20 years.

“The Christian Science thing was a big schism in the family,” said Trudy, who was raised in that faith but abandoned it. She heard the story through her grandmother, Gertrude, who was zealous enough to become a Christian Science practitioner. Garrett was not a follower of Christian Science, and Trudy says his religious sisters disapproved of his drinking, smoking, and being married three times. But Gertrude and Marie also respected his achievement. They called him “Brother,” as if it were his name.

I learned little about Clara, who had stayed in Illinois. Sarah, whom they called Sadie, married a veterinarian and lived in Missouri and Iowa.

“I met my Aunt Sadie when I was 10,” Trudy said. “She seemed to have escaped the whole religion thing.”

Garrett’s younger brother Thomas had been an artist, and Connie has a painting of his (“landscape on the front, female nude on the back”). Thomas died young, in 1917, of somedisease. He is buried in the same cemetery as Garet and Dorothy Garrett, in Tuckahoe, which suggests that his elder brother had taken care of him — and perhaps had removed his remains, because Garrett didn’t move from Egg Harbor, NJ, to Tuckahoe until the mid-1920s.

The sister living on Garrett’s property was Marie. Trudy recalled the story that Marie had been living in Chicago. She was a man’s secretary for many years, and had become his mistress. “Supposedly his wife was sickly and when she died, he said, he would marry Marie, but he did not.”

His religious sisters disapproved of his drinking, smoking, and being married three times. But they also respected his achievement.

Trudy’s sister Connie writes: “As mother told me, Marie fell in love with a successful lawyer in Chicago. He was married and his wife was in a mental institution, and he told Marie there was some law that prevented a spouse from divorcing a spouse who is in an institution. So Marie consented to stay with him (my impression was that he paid for her apartment), something she otherwise would never have done.” Connie recalls her mother's stories of visiting Aunt Marie in Chicago as a kid, with her sisters Jane and Ruth, and "Uncle Walter" stopping by with candy for them.

When the man’s wife died, he wouldn't marry Marie. Connie continues: “Humiliated, Marie went east to Garet’s, where she stayed on, and where Joe French, Garet’s tenant farmer, fell for her and asked her to marry him.”

French was not an educated or worldly man. His claim to fame was playing baseball in the minor leagues in San Francisco, Topeka, Sioux City, Dubuque, Peoria, and Beaumont in the years before World War I. Trudy recalls that his fingers had been broken from playing catcher.

As Connie recalls the story, Marie went to Garet and asked his advice, telling him, “Imagine. That man is no more than a tenant farmer and he wants to marry me!” To which Garet replied, “At least he wants to make an honest woman out of you.” Trudy says that Marie married French “under duress from Garrett, who didn’t want to support Marie for the rest of his life.”

In none of Garrett’s writings does he talk about taking care of his family, or the stress of an obligation to do so. Garrett left his family in Iowa in his mid-teens. Several of the characters in his fiction are without family, and none of his fiction or his vast amount of journalism focuses on family issues or champions family loyalty. He addresses other things. Yet he takes care of his sister when the gamble of her life fails. He nudges her into a marriage with a man who loves her, and he provides them both with a house.

It is what honorable people do, if they can, when there is no welfare state.

Trudy, Marshall, and Connie recall Garrett as the success, the urban sophisticate, of the family — and, of course, much older than they. As preteens and early teens, they moved with their parents from suburban Chicago to New York City in 1953. She believes they were the only relatives of her generation who lived close enough to visit Garrett, and the only ones today who remember him.

In none of Garrett’s writings does he talk about taking care of his family, or the stress of an obligation to do so.

From the summer of 1953 to Garrett’s death in late 1954, they visited Tuckahoe often, staying at Marie and Joe’s, in the farmhouse on Garrett’s property. This other building was not a farmhouse really. It was a three-story brick house, covered with ivy. It had a ship’s binnacle on the porch, and Connie remembers it as “the captain’s house.” The place was the subject of a feature story in the Atlantic City Press. (Trudy has the clipping.) Part of the Stille Homestead, the house had been built in 1795 “by slaves,” the newspaper said, using “bricks brought from England.” It had thick walls and five fireplaces, two of them in the basement, “where in the cold winter time the first families cooked, ate and kept warm.” Upstairs it had a “borning room” where mothers gave birth, and outside was a small graveyard.

One of the side buildings had been made into a glassblowing studio for Garrett’s wife, Dorothy. Connie has a small bottle that Dorothy created, with a dime in it.

Trudy turned 13 in 1954. Of the captain’s house she remembers “a wonderful attic where I spent many, many hours reading old Saturday Evening Posts” that Garrett had kept in bundles. His articles were mostly above her head, but she saw his name on them in the Post. “It wasn’t really until then that I knew what Uncle Garrett did.”

Garet and his wife lived several hundred yards from the old house in a new house he had built. “Garet and Dorothy's house was enchanting to me,” Connie recalls. “It had the biggest fireplace I had ever seen and I remember very well the bust of Nefertiti that you mention in your book, as well as the high bookshelves that flanked the fireplace.”

Trudy remembers Garrett’s room with the two-story ceiling and the big fireplace. “The room had a cozy feel to it, almost like you would feel in a log home. Garrett was the boss of that room. Really he was the boss of the whole place. Dorothy was pretty much in her cups all the time.”

I had mentioned Dorothy’s alcoholism in the book, and all three of Gertrude’s descendants remembered it. They remembered Garrett drinking, too, but not being drunk.

They also remembered the outbuilding Garrett called his “cave,” where he wrote. “He built that,” Marshall recalled. “He was proud of that. He had a little storage area underground where he kept his ink cool. He had these big bottles of Scripps ink. Four of them. He’d refill the well on his desk.”

I had quoted Richard Cornuelle in the book about how Garrett would research a topic, keeping everything in his head, “muttering and fuming quietly. Then, suddenly, he would seize an old-fashioned pen holder, jam a new point into it, and scrawl on white foolscap, often for hours, panting and sweating, jabbing the pen in the ink now and then, until he had it all down.”

Scripps ink, from big bottles.

I had said in the book that Garrett sometimes hid in his “cave” from kids, and Connie, who turned 9 in Garrett’s last year, recalls:

“Although we did often go over to Garet and Dorothy's house, and I did catch my first fish off their dock, and Garet helped me unhook it, on the whole not too much happened of a family gathering nature when we were over there. We kids generally weren't allowed in his little building where he did his writing, but sometimes we were sent out there to fetch him or take him a snack, and I would look around in awe at all the books and papers around him.”

Trudy and Marshall remember Garrett showing them his artesian well, and how he had piped the water into his house. Garrett did his own plumbing.

In Unsanctioned Voice, I quote Cornuelle saying that Garrett had buckets of silver dollars under his porch as insurance against a feared inflation. (If he had lived another 20 years, they would have paid off.) Trudy and Marshall remember the stories of buried coins, either silver or gold. Marshall recalls that silver coins were found inside the ship’s binnacle, under a layer of sand.

When Garrett died, his property went to Dorothy. She died six months or so later, willing the property to her son, James. That was a setback for Marie and Joe, because they had to move out of the captain’s house into town.

Perhaps Garrett had an influence on the family. Connie was the closest to Garrett in her career: she became a writer and editor of Smithsonian magazine. Marshall is the closest to Garrett in his philosophy.

“I don’t think anybody knew about libertarianism then, if they called it that,” he says. “Most of us are still quite conservative, maybe not to the extent of libertarianism, but pretty near.”

“When I read about the attitudes of Garet Garrett, I see my brother,” Trudy says.

Trudy was an attorney, teaching classes in how non-attorneys could file papers and defend their rights. She recalls once going out with a man who admired Ayn Rand, and telling him, “I am the grandniece of Garet Garrett.”




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From Ayn Rand to . . . Edward Abbey?

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Libertarians of a certain age, when reflecting on their political odyssey, usually invoke Ayn Rand as the source of their epiphany — in spite of the fact that Rand herself repudiated the libertarian movement and labeled her philosophy Objectivism. Most libertarians weren’t persuaded: they continued the one-way lovefest, though many were beginning to feel embarrassed by the dogmatism, stubborn intransigence, absence of warmth or empathy, and cultishness of her aptly-nicknamed “collective.” Gagging on Objectivist correctness, Jerome Tuccille, a former Wall Street Journal writer and libertarian child of the Goldwater campaign, hastened the split between Rand and many of her erstwhile followers with the publication of his 1971 memoir, It Usually Begins with Ayn Rand, in which he lampooned Objectivists as zombie sycophants. Nevertheless, Rand remains the most influential libertarian of the twentieth century, though less and less so as more varied paths to libertarianism open.

Libertarians are radicals. Randian libertarians have especially radical expectations of the world. Relying on a philosophy so internally consistent that its dots nearly connect themselves, they continue to proselytize, believing that exposure to self-evident tenets will result in massive conversions. Next to the Bible, Rand’s philosophical novel Atlas Shrugged remains one of the best-ever-selling books in English. But while the Bible continues to make converts, particularly of the fundamentalist sort, Rand’s oeuvre is not nearly as successful.

Evolutionary psychologists hypothesize, on a smidgen of evidence from the Human Genome Project and other sources, that both religious inclination and political persuasion have genetic bases. Perhaps. On the other hand, I place libertarians smack dab in the middle of the left-right continuum (as does the "world’s smallest political quiz") — and there is some truth to that.

My father, founding CFO of what would later become AIG, admired Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society — its attempt at eradicating poverty. My mother had favored Richard Nixon over John Kennedy — despite the fact that she was a Catholic. Before she died, she’d become a staunch Reagan supporter, despite the fact that she was opposed to the death penalty. Though both had read Atlas Shrugged and Rand’s other major novel, The Fountainhead, neither perceived them as particularly political.Their politically schizoid children became, in turn: a conservative turned Obama-backer with vague New Age inclinations (oldest brother); a seeker settling into religious-right Republicanism (older sister); a liberal attorney who later found Christ and conservatism (little sister); and a left-right flirter slouching into moderate libertarianism and radical atheism (myself). Go figure. It seems that unless chaos theory is resorted to, political hegiras are often unpredictable and the motives behind them inscrutable.

* * *

At first, Ayn Rand didn’t charm me.

Recently graduated from college, I’d joined a group of 14 friends who proposed to kayak the 600-mile length of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula — at the time, a nearly preposterous undertaking considering that back in 1972, kayaking, as a sport, didn’t really exist in the US, and Baja’s infrastructure consisted of widely dispersed fishing villages connected by 4-wheel-drive tracks. We resorted to ordering kayaks from Germany, carrying our own essentials, and fishing for protein.

It was almost more than we could handle. Averaging, at first, only ten miles per day because of winds, contrary currents, swell and some of the highest tides in the world, most of the group abandoned the expedition at Santa Rosalia, Baja’s midway mining town. Still, four of us decided to forge on. Those who departed left us whatever we could use to aid our success. Except for Tek. He insisted that we pay — if not market price, at least something,for his dry noodles, crackers, peanut butter, chocolate bars, rusty lures, and battered reading material. I stared at him incredulously and asked, “Why?”

Unless chaos theory is resorted to, political hegiras are often unpredictable and the motives behind them inscrutable.

Now, on any long expedition, reading material is essential. While I had taken John Steinbeck’s Log of the Sea of Cortez, Tek had taken Atlas Shrugged. “Because it’s my stuff and I don’t owe it to you,” he responded, adding that I’d understand once I’d read the book, which he ended up giving to me. I paid him a token price for his offerings but used the book’s pages as fire starters after reading the back-cover blurb. Not only was his arrogance insufferable, but that title seemed a pretentious conceit, and the book’s catch-phrase, “Who is John Galt?” (touted as cutting-edge slang somewhere — I don't remember where) seemed as catchy and pithy as a bad English-speaking foreigner’s attempt at neologising — which is exactly what it was. (Years later, when I finally got around to reading Rand, I appreciated her perspective, one I was already taking to.)

* * *

The strongest formative influences on my political development occurred around puberty. I grew up in Havana, Cuba, the son of a well-to-do capitalist entrepreneur who’d married his Cuban secretary. Not only had he established Cuba’s AIG branch, but he introduced Volkswagen to the island and opened Cuba’s first paper products factory.

In 1960, a year and a half after Castro’s revolution, my family was forced to abandon everything, pack one suitcase each and flee Cuba for Mexico. All of our property was expropriated. Unsure of their next move, our parents placed us children in boarding schools along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where we perfected our English and experienced the American Civil Rights movement up close.

By the time I entered high school, my political consciousness was being forged by the Vietnam draft and the presidential campaign of 1964. The Jesuit high school I attended in Phoenix, Arizona stressed critical thinking and public involvement, going so far as to hold mock Goldwater-Johnson debates for the entire student body. English classes included up-to-date reports and discussions of the goings-on in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury, interspersed — at one time — with an in-depth study of Emerson’s “On Self Reliance,” a curious albeit insightful juxtaposition. I rooted for Barry, an unpretentious straight-shooter, with a solid grasp of the issues. But it wasn’t just his political values that attracted me. When I heard he’d mooned a censorious group that objected to the carousing at one of his campaign parties, he became my hero.

My friend EB and I decided to get involved. He joined YAF (Young Americans for Freedom) and introduced me to the John Birch Society’s nearby American Opinion Bookstore, which enabled me to buy and read None Dare Call it Treason. EB was sharp as a scimitar, a whiz at Latin and classical Greek, and unbeatable in debate, with a vocabulary that rivaled William F. Buckley’s. Together we joined the Model UN, a national high school mock UN project, where we hoped to be assigned to represent some important country — like France or Canada. We were assigned Ghana. Knowing nothing about Ghana — and just a tad disappointed — we decided to meet with President Kennedy’s ex-ambassador to that country, William P. Mahoney, who happened to live in Phoenix. Ambassador Mahoney was kind enough to grant us an interview just days before the conclave. True to form — and with EB’s command of parliamentary procedure — we brought little Ghana to the forefront by tabling some outrageously radical proposal in the General Assembly. That really got things going.

Later, I put together a presentation, complete with maps and photographs, on the Cuban Revolution and offered it to schools and interested groups. Nothing drives home an abstract news event to an elementary school audience like having a high schooler — only a few years older — recount how a revolution affected his family. Adult audiences, likewise, listened rapt and incredulous at what the kid lived through, always imagining the worst.

We brought little Ghana to the forefront by tabling some outrageously radical proposal in the General Assembly.

I was driven. Already president of my class, I decided to run for the Student Body Council — first for treasurer, then later for president. My libertarian inclinations were evident in my platform. I reasoned that since Student Body funds belonged to the students, my job was to maximize revenues and then return them to the students. The assembled student body had never heard such logical populism before. I could barely get through my speech for all the hollering and clapping, while the faculty members grinned nervously, wondering what their democracy had wrought. I won overwhelmingly. My opponent, Dick Mahoney (son of Ambassador Mahoney), who was later to become Arizona’s secretary of state and a Democratic candidate for governor, never stood a chance.

I kept my promise. To maximize Student Body revenues, I got the administration to fire the snacks and refreshments purveyor for varsity football games and, with a small crew of volunteers working out of the back of a pick-up truck outfitted with counters, ice chests and a till, took over the concession. The money poured in. Unable to convince the administration to issue rebate checks for each and every student at the end of the year, I decided to throw a big party with the funds. Between prom and graduation celebrations, I got Linda Rondstadt and the Stone Poneys — who’d just released their hit single “Different Drum” — to put on a dance-concert for the combined student bodies of my own Brophy Prep and our twin neighbor girls’ school, Xavier High.

* * *

EB and I ended up at different colleges, where we both broadened our horizons: me, in northern Arizona where I discovered girls, drugs, and outdoor adventure sports such as alpinism and kayaking, and acquired a knowledge base that instilled confidence in my developing opinions; EB at the University of Virginia, where he discovered boys, the law, and the power of big government to set certain injustices right. At first, EB was up to his old tricks. He and several right-wing buddies planned a takeover and subversion of the U of V branch of the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), a firebrand, radical left-wing organization that, by 1969, was already falling apart. As he recounts,

“Our strategy was to have some of ‘our people’ attend and cause a disruption and dissention. I, then, would emerge as the voice of reason. The ‘disruptors,’ as the plan called, made impassioned speeches, attacked me viciously (of course, we all reconnoitered later for a few beers to celebrate our triumph), and then called for a massive walkout. Many people followed them. Of course, that meant that the people left in the room would be easily convinced to elect me as their leader. (Others of my ‘planning committee’ remained to make and second the nomination.) From a tactical perspective, it was very successful. The local newspaper ran an article about ‘Young Turk EB.’ After that, I did nothing. I never attended another SDS meeting. The joy was in formulating and executing our plan. We had no intention of going further.”

While at the University of Virginia, EB (with his gay, black roommate) discovered that his tastes ran counter to the norm. Appalled at the social treatment his new friend was subjected to, EB came to the conclusion that it was only through the federal government’s efforts that racial bigotry would ever begin to be eradicated in as short a time as it ultimately was. So he pursued law, a skill that, by the time he passed the bar, he used to advocate gay rights. Today he describes himself as an anti-establishmentarian.

But I was still torn between Right and Left: on the one hand, debating the merits of Nixon’s Vietnam peace plan with fellow Prescott College students Tom and Randy Udall, scions of the Stewart and Morris Udall political dynasty (Tom is now US Senator from New Mexico); and on the other hand, convincing prospective conservative donors such as the Adolph Coors Trust and nascent Goldwater Institute (not today’s Goldwater Institute) that the small, private, liberal arts “hippie” college I was attending was worth supporting. I’d been handpicked for this PR fundraising job by the college’s president as an example of the caliber of student the college was training for "tomorrow’s" leadership role in society — in spite of my Mohawk hair-do, sometimes flamboyant dress, VW van pimpmobile, and of course my outspokenness.

At the trial, Sam defended himself by arguing that "it wasn't criminal damage, it was historic preservation." The jury acquited him after deliberating for 25 minutes. 

The outdoor adventure sports that Prescott College offered as an alternative to the more traditional football, baseball, and basketball at other colleges instilled self-reliance and initiative. They also imbued a passion for the natural environment and its wild places that, over the years, has only grown stronger for me. But it was the academic pursuits that were truly formative, intellectually. I majored in anthropology. Not your garden variety, Samoan-kinship-and-Arunta-fertility studies, but "processual" archaeology, at the time a new, cutting-edge approach to history that attempted to explain the nature and fabric of civilization.

While traditional archaeology collected potsherds, studied changes in art motifs, and concentrated on dating and categorizing sites, processual archaeology studied human adaptation — mostly technological — to changing environmental conditions and increasing population densities. Its corollary in cultural anthropology is known as the "ecological" approach (without the ideological baggage that term carries in common parlance). The specific question that gripped me was, “Why did the people who would become the American Indians, initially a homogenous population at the time of the Bering Straits crossing, develop high civilizations in the Andes and Mexican highlands but remain hunters and gatherers or incipient agriculturalists in the Great Basin and Amazon rain forests?” Today the synthesis this approach yields to the study of humanity is probably best — albeit only partially — exemplified by Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel and its sequel Collapse, and given more scholarly exposition in the works of Karl Wittfogel, Leslie White, Gordon Willey, Marshall Sahlins and Elman Service, among others.

One elementary conclusion from the "New Archaeology" was the correlation that government power and control increases as population densities thicken and civilization becomes more technologically complex. However, correlation is not cause and effect — much less destiny — and, though the association of the two makes intuitive sense at some level, to this incipient libertarian the challenge was to analyze and discover just how much government denser and more complex societies actually required.

* * *

After graduate school I became a Mother Earth News-subscribing, back-to-the-land homesteader on a 160-acre parcel of rural Arizona land where I built my own energy-efficient home (powered by a wind generator), raised cattle, and grew a garden and orchard. I earned money doing archaeological environmental impact studies, building homes and doing some outdoor guiding. My wife made cowboy shirts and managed the local commercial truck garden. It was then that I discovered the Libertarian Party, through Karl Hess’ seminal article The Death of Politics, Roger McBride’s A New Dawn for America, and one of David Nolan’s local screeds. My wife and I both joined and decided to become politically active.

Our nearest municipality, Chino Valley, had just hired its first town manager, deciding that its exponential growth was just too much complexity for its traditional mayor-and-council government. Academically trained professional town managers often have a statist bent. Our newly hired statuesque blonde bureaucrat (with hair tickling the dimples on the backside of her knees), prided herself on her ability to extract state and federal funds through her skill at writing grant applications. Nonetheless, she was young and hip, and found us kindred souls. She hired us to write a pamphlet guide to local government for local citizens, a task we tackled with a libertarian bent. Additionally, she sponsored an Economic Development Committee to attract businesses to Chino Valley. I joined, though as something of a Trojan horse. Our little town wanted a supermarket, such as a Safeway, to locate nearby while I — not averse to the new facility — was afraid our committee members would sell their souls by imposing liens on the taxpayers (such as tax breaks for the chain), issuing industrial revenue bonds, or resorting to any number of other unfair competitive practices — or worse.

He pounced on my uncertainty about eliminating the police force, asking, “What crimes have the police ever prevented?”

1982 was a threshold year for the Arizona Libertarian Party. The popular five-term Republican Congressman, Sam Steiger, an outspokenly colorful character, declared his candidacy for governor as a Libertarian. Sam was a rancher, journalist, and Korean War hero who had twice represented Prescott in the state senate. He was plainspoken in the Goldwater mold, had a contagious smile and an outrageous sense of humor. His very public debate with his new party over conscription and his subsequent flip-flop actually helped him; it indicated that he was amenable to reasoned argument and not afraid to admit he was wrong.

When I first met him, at the offices of thePrescott Sun, the newspaper he published (and for which my wife worked), he was wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots, and was chomping on a big, lit cigar. He shook my hand, twisted his head back — as if to get a better perspective to look me over — and baited me with repartee.

“I’m all for the little guy,” he declared, pausing dramatically. “There goes one now!” he blurted in mock surprise, pointing at the floor, and stomping on the spot with an exaggerated goose step.

Sam wasn’t popular with the intelligentsia. He was once stopped by a traffic cop and the verbatim transcript of the exchange appeared as a full-page article in Prescott’s other newspaper, thePrescott Courier. To every polite request from the officer, Sam responded with a “Fuck off” or some other expletive-laden insult or an accusation of harassment. Neither a reason for, nor a conclusion to, the traffic stop was mentioned — absolutely no explanation other than the implication that Sam Steiger was not a fit citizen. Oddly too, the article was accompanied by a large, close-up picture of Sam’s face — apparently snapped from the passenger side — sardonically yet patiently putting up with the ordeal,.

But he was an active citizen. When the City Council erased a mid-block crosswalk connecting the courthouse with the bars on Whiskey Row in downtown Prescott, because a state highway ran concurrent with that street, the citizenry raised holy hell. Sam took the matter into his own hands and personally repainted the white lines. He was arrested and charged with criminal damage and disorderly conduct. At the trial, he defended himself by arguing that "it wasn't criminal damage, it was historic preservation." The jury acquited him after deliberating for 25 minutes.

Sam lost his bid for governor but garnered over 5% of the vote, crossing the magic threshold that gave the Libertarian Party ballot access. It was a sweet defeat. Years later, in 1999, he was elected mayor of Prescott.

* * *

Ballot access electrified Arizona’s Libertarians. State and county chapters organized. Precinct committeemen were appointed, elected or volunteered. I attended my first Yavapai County Libertarian Party meeting — an intense mixture of misfits, cranks, anarchists, hippies, dropouts, and nerds from both Left and Right, kitted up extremely informally (if not outrageously) — all united by instinct, intellect, and outside-the-box thinking.

There, at the meeting, I ran into Mark Davis — a close friend from high school but the last person I thought I’d run into. He recognized me and gave me a warm hug. He was big — solid and powerful (an amazing Charles Atlas-like transformation) — with long and thick, unruly strawberry blonde hair; but still freckled with his distinctive nostril slit, a scar from a tussle with a dog when he was a kid.

The last time I’d seen him was at "24th & Van Buren," Phoenicians’ euphemistic name for Arizona’s hospital for the criminally insane. I’d visited him there when I heard he’d been committed. Sitting cross-legged on the ground across from him in the thrice-fenced outdoor commons, I’d asked him what landed him there. He said he’d killed someone.

I was speechless. Aghast. Though extremely intense, Mark was no murderer. He was a minor, in the nuthouse. Who knows exactly what he meant by “I killed someone”? He could have meant anything from murder to accident to he just felt responsible for someone’s death to . . . who knows? I assumed it had all been an unfortunate accident and that he’d feigned insanity to ease his plight. (If anyone could fool a bevy of psychiatrists, Mark Davis, with his sharp intellect and determination, could.) I didn’t question him further, fearing that covert eavesdropping might pick up our conversation. I didn’t want to blow his cover. I wished him well and promised to visit again, but never got around to it.

It was now apparent that he’d survived the ordeal. We caught up.

Much had happened. In 1969, he had cofounded Terros, an extremely successful — albeit, at the time, controversial (both for its unconventional methods and staff) — crisis intervention program in Phoenix and had received a citation from the mayor for talking a man out of suicide. (Today Terros is a multimillion dollar enterprise that specializes in drug rehabilitation.) He’d also taken up martial arts and become a Sikh. He'd taken to riding a Harley and trolling for rednecks that didn’t like his long hair, beard, and turban, so he could teach them tolerance. Afterward he’d married and was now raising two daughters, whom he supported as a master craftsman, building high-end, lacquered, exotic-wood, shoji-screened cabinets for rich clients in, among other places, Santa Barbara, California. While there, he’d taken up some sort of Maoist revolutionary ideology. Surprised, I asked him if he hadn’t had a bit of a conflict between his political views and his employment. He responded that he was volatile, his thinking was always evolving, and that his convictions followed his conscience. But now, he was a libertarian — and he was raring to act.

Abbey’s point is that compared to industrial magnitude pollution, which kills people and animals, empty cans along a roadway are not only harmless; they provide income for homeless scavengers.

We discussed political philosophy. Mark’s libertarianism burned with the faith of the newly converted — it gravitated toward anarchy. Mine, tempered by experience, was more moderate. He ran down the list of government functions that could be privatized or eliminated. Mark being Mark (and now a libertarian, a species whose propensity to cavil is only exceeded by Marxist theoreticians and Jewish rabbis), pounced on my uncertainty about eliminating the police force, asking, “What crimes have the police ever prevented?”

Mark could go from convivial to confrontational in the flash of a rhetorical comment — eyes popping out, spit flying, face too close for comfort. But I’d grown up with him, liked him, and could calm him by tactfully pointing out that my opinions were provisional, while subtly reinforcing my affection for him. Luckily, the party chairman called the meeting to order. He announced that he was stepping down. He’d taken a political preference test and discovered that he was more conservative than libertarian. The honorable course, he believed, was to resign. The chair of the Yavapai County Libertarian Party was open.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Mark grabbed the baton and volunteered me for treasurer, adding that my clean-cut good looks, conventional attire, and calm demeanor were a necessary face for the party. It was a done deal: he became chairman and I became treasurer.

* * *

Mark had grown up the son of an oilman, bumping around places like Indonesia and Libya. He was precocious and idealistic from the start, with a sharp mind and boundless energy. He had raged in one direction or another since he was a preteen growing up in Phoenix, with his hidebound father ineffectively attempting to corral the boy’s energies with beatings. By the time he was 16, he’d been in and out of so much trouble that he was put in the California Youth Authority’s Los Angeles rehab center for unruly kids. As Dean Kuipers, in his September 1989 Spin article quotes him, “There was a lot of fighting, rapes, attempted rapes. I’m this screwed-up, basically naïve, suburban white kid, and this is right after the Watts riots. I came out of there pretty crazy, pretty wild.” Swearing never to be taken advantage of, he turned to weightlifting, self-defense and extreme endurance.

After reconnecting at the Libertarian Party meeting, we started to hang out together. Mark loved to take long runs in the mountains near Prescott. At sunrise, he’d run barefoot two and a half miles and up 2,000 feet to 7,000-foot Granite Mountain Pass and back, cutting a maniacal figure as he hurtled over rocks, prickly pear cactus, and blazing decomposed granite. I accompanied him once — with shoes. For us, being far from the beaten track, up on a mountain, down on a river, out in the desert or at sea was a meditation, a challenge, and a love affair all rolled into one. At his cabinet shop, he had a "heavy bag," which bore the brunt of his kickboxing workouts or his frustrations, demons that could materialize unpredictably at any time.

In high school, we’d hit it off: he a misfit, me a BMOC (big-man-on-campus). We’d found what we thought was a discarded B-52 fuel tank and decided to convert it into an outrigger canoe — the perfect undertaking for two hyperactive teens uncomfortable with just hanging out. The project was a big deal for a couple of 15-year-olds; it took most of the year. But we worked well together, and by the time I got my driver’s license, we had successfully launched the canoe on nearby Lake Pleasant. After that we drifted apart. During senior year he either left school or was kicked out.

Somehow, something similar happened after a few ill-attended Libertarian Party meetings where no one but me, Mark, and the new party secretary (of whom I retain no memory) showed up. We drifted our separate ways: me, to teach at an Outward Bound-type school in Colorado; Mark, to apply his boundless energy in new, more radical directions.

* * *

When local author Edward Abbey published The Monkeywrench Gang in 1975, it became an instant cult classic — the Atlas Shrugged of the environmental movement. The novel revolves around an unlikely alliance of four wilderness lovers who wage a war of low-tech sabotage — “monkeywrenching,” as they call it — against mineral exploitation and development of all stripes. The group is composed of Seldom Seen Smith, a “jack Mormon”; Dr. Sarvis, a rich, angry surgeon; Bonnie Abbzug, his (of course) gorgeous nurse; and a Neanderthal Vietnam vet named George Washington Hayduke. While “Who is John Galt?” became the catchphrase of Rand’s followers, “Hayduke Lives!”, appeared on bumper stickers, T-shirts, and graffiti — an expression of solidarity with monkeywrenching.

Monkeywrenchers proliferated — not least in Prescott. At our local college, a small group of activists fired up a chainsaw and, in the wee hours of the morning, cut down a new billboard just outside of town. But the novel’s impact was national. As Kuipers recounts,

“In April 1980, Dave Foreman and four other radical environmentalists took a hiking trip in the Pinacate Desert. They had all read about Hayduke and the Monkeywrench Gang, so as they sat in a dark, rural bar in San Luis, Mexico, they weren’t surprised to find themselves creating an organization that would advocate widespread ‘ecotage’ — property damage used to free wilderness areas from the blight of mining, foresting and commercial development. They named the group Earth First! after the premise of biocentrism that John Muir and Aldo Leopold had put forth: Every species on earth has an equal right to exist, the planet is not meant to be exploited, and measures must be taken to assure this. Today [1989], Earth First! has a network of over 50 ‘bureaus’ worldwide guided by project organizers rather than a main office. Edward Abbey’s fiction has become reality.”

Five years later, Foreman published (as both editor and partial author) Earth First!’s field manual, Ecodefense: A Field Guide to Monkeywrenching — a how-to book that details everything from foiling coyote traps to spiking trees to decommissioning heavy construction equipment to downing power lines.

Sometime between 1983 and 1986, Mark Davis discovered a new cause: saving the earth. He’d later say he was willing to die to prevent the rape of Mother Earth, yet — oddly — was unwilling to join Earth First! formally. Not only was he not much of a joiner; he viscerally disliked Dave Foreman, thinking him a poseur. Later, of course, he’d accept operational funds from him. Mark and the small group of Prescott-area activists that had coalesced for monkeywrenching operations dubbed themselves the Evan Mecham Eco-Terrorist International Conspiracy (EMETIC), deriving the name from the later-to-be-impeached, car-dealership-owning, hyper-conservative Arizona governor.

John Maynard Keynes said, “When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do?” I changed my mind about this particular government intrusion.

Meanwhile, my environmental consciousness was fine tuning itself. Though I had no patience for Abbey and couldn’t get past the first chapter of The Monkeywrench Gang, one contrarian point he made struck a chord — and he made it in a very Randian manner. In a scene in Atlas Shrugged, Dagny Taggart, a railroad magnate and the novel’s heroine, is driving through endless, pristine forest. She’s terminally bored — until she spots a billboard. Her eyes light up, her lips curl into a smile, all her senses come alive, and she comments on the contrast between nature’s randomness and the billboard, an icon of the creative and purposeful effort of an individual.

Abbey, on the other hand, has one of his characters driving across a stunning Monument Valley-like landscape drinking beer and tossing the empties out the window — a monkeywrencher littering. His point is that compared to industrial magnitude pollution, which kills people and animals, empty cans along a roadway are not only harmless; they provide income for homeless scavengers. It got me to thinking about the difference between environmental aesthetics and environmental fundamentals, such as those with public health consequences, including air pollution — a subject first explored from a free-market perspective by Milton Friedman.

As a sometime land speculator, subdivider, and homebuilder, I faced a few decisions that helped focus my libertarian environmentalism — particularly in regard to zoning. At first I favored underground utilities, and was also instrumental in getting the county to institute a zoning ban on mobile and modular homes — both of these on aesthetic grounds. But when I received a cost estimate for underground utilities versus power poles for one project, I quickly changed my mind: the aesthetics were just not worth the price. The huge difference reflected a much greater expenditure of energy, time, and manpower. Aesthetics would have substantially increased the price of the finished product, thereby making it less affordable to more people. Additionally, underground utilities were costlier to maintain and repair.

One day a neighbor dropped by, worked up into a lather. He informed me that the state was planning to register all our wells with an eye, ultimately, to meter them, measure our water usage, and even charge us for the water from our own wells. My first reaction was outrage. But then the calmer strains of research took over. First, an overview of water policy, in libertarian author Terry L. Anderson’s Water Crisis: Ending the Policy Drought (Cato Institute & The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983). Then, a reading of the pending legislation.

The long and short of it was that some critical Arizona aquifers were being depleted at an unsustainable rate. And Chino Valley was smack dab in the middle of one of these. As Anderson had clearly pointed out, aquifer extraction is a "tragedy of the commons" phenomenon. His mitigating proposals were right in line with Milton Friedman’s insights, and, to my surprise, so was Arizona’s new law. The new AMA (Active Management Area) designations were meant to monitor water extraction, granting first-come-first-served rights to users in, as it seemed to me, an equitable solution to our homegrown tragedy of the commons. John Maynard Keynes said, “When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do?” I changed my mind about this particular government intrusion.

But it was zoning that, after one contentious, standing-room-only public meeting of the zoning board, really rattled me. One of my new neighbors (who had bought a 10-acre parcel from me) approached me one day requesting support for a zoning variance he was seeking. He was an elderly man of modest means, living out his dream of retiring to a wooded, rural homestead. He proposed to install a mobile home on his lot and live in it while building a log cabin around it to enclose it, thereby saving time, money and interior finishing materials. Even though, when the project was completed, there would have been no trace of a trailer; its invisible existence was still, technically, in violation of the zoning restrictions. Hence the need for a variance.

I agreed to support him.

His petition polarized the neighborhood. Ideological lines were drawn and factions formed, mostly by those whose visceral hatred of mobile homes was an integral part of their identity. Neighbors who had previously been on friendly terms now avoided each other. I breasted my cards: antagonizing people did not yield beneficial results. Since I’d sold most of the lots and helped establish the zoning restrictions, most people assumed I was against the variance.

When news of the sabotage reached the FBI offices in Phoenix, FBI headquarters in Washington, DC ordered an investigation opened immediately.

At the zoning board meeting the room was packed, the tension was thick and the tumult intimidating — particularly for the elderly petitioner and his wife. Visibly shunned by most attendees, they were so nervous that he stared straight ahead, stoic and impassive, clutching his notebook of prepared comments, while his wife stood beside him, cheeks wet with uncontrollable tears.

My heart went out to them. I approached them, shook their hands, encouraged them, sat with them. The meeting was called to order. For most of us, it was our first zoning hearing, so the chairman explained the procedure. First, the petitioners would present their request, along with their reasons for the variance they sought. Afterward, members of the public could offer arguments for or against the proposed variance.

Watching that man kowtow to the zoning board on its elevated dais with the factious audience murmuring hostile comments gave me a glimpse of what ‘struggle’ sessions in Mao’s China during the Cultural Revolution must have been like. Though already familiar with the political, philosophical, and economic arguments against zoning (see Land Use Without Zoning by Bernard H. Siegan, 1972 — a libertarian classic), I now became viscerally opposed to the institution.

After the old man presented his case and a dozen antis retorted, I spoke in his favor, surprising myself with such an eloquent supporting argument that the local newspaper quoted me and carried my photo.

All to no avail. The couple’s petition was rejected. I walked them out to their car. It was the least I could do.

* * *

In May 1986, three of the four sets of power lines leading to the Palo Verde nuclear power plant outside Phoenix were shorted with hemp cord and medium-gauge chain. The power plant’s lights flickered, the air reeked of ozone, and the technicians inside the control room scrambled to ensure that the backup generator would kick in. When news of the sabotage reached the FBI offices in Phoenix, FBI headquarters in Washington, DC ordered an investigation opened immediately. It was codenamed THERMCOM.

Though monkeywrenching continued throughout the next year, the FBI had few leads. Until October 5, 1987. That night, someone with a propane torch burned through bolts on several of the metal pylons supporting the chair lift towers at the Fairfield Snow Bowl ski area atop the San Francisco Peaks outside Flagstaff, Arizona. The peaks, the highest point in Arizona and visible for way over 100 miles, are sacred to the Navajo and Hopi Indian tribes living just to the northeast. EMETIC claimed credit.

On June 6, 1988, the FBI got its first break. Ron Frazier, one of the Prescott area eco-activists, became an FBI informant. He’d driven Mark Davis to a Phoenix welding supply store to purchase a torch, regulator, and hoses on September 29, 1987 — only one week before the torching. Unstable and jilted by his ex-lover, Ilse Asplund — who had then become Davis’ lover — he rationalized that he was protecting Ilse and her kids from the dangerous Davis. Mark could be arrogant and condescending and was oblivious to jealousy — traits that did not endear him to Frazier, a drug-addled stoner of modest intellect, once described as being a few neurons short of a full nervous system. The welding supply shop manager identified Mark Davis from a photo lineup. It wasn’t hard, given Mark’s distinctive split nostril.

Suspecting that EMETIC was somehow linked to Earth First!, the FBI assigned Michael Fain, an undercover agent, to infiltrate the group. Over the course of two years Fain, using the alias Mike Tait and the persona of a PTSD’d Vietnam vet, finagled himself into the group through the heartstrings of Peg Millet, half-sister of feminist author Kate Millet, an Earth First! activist and close confidant of Mark Davis. Some would say, later, that he was an agent provocateur. But he never gained the trust of Mark — who suspected he was a plant — until Tait accompanied him on his barefoot Granite Mountain run and “heavy bag” workouts.

In one instance, 28 power poles were cut three-quarters of the way through, and the last one finished off with a hacksaw, downing the entire power line when it toppled with an explosive flare of light.

On Labor Day, 1988, Tait, Millet, and a few other activists, hit the site of the proposed Mt. Graham observatory near Tucson, pulling out survey stakes lining the proposed access road to the observatory. Before the month was out, they struck again, cutting the power poles leading to the Hermit, Pine Nut, and Canyon uranium mines on both the North and South Rims of the Grand Canyon. These mines disgorge thousands of tons of earth with radioactive tailings and release a fine uranium dust into the winds — all on the border of national park land. With the North and South Rim mines being separated by a five-hour drive, EMETIC displayed a greater degree of coordination and synchronization than it had ever been credited with before. The EMETIC people had been particularly creative with their sabotage methods. In one instance, 28 power poles were cut three-quarters of the way through, and the last one finished off with a hacksaw, downing the entire power line when it toppled with an explosive flare of light.

The event was front-page news for days. At the subsequent trial, it was revealed that the FBI had known about the uranium mine strikes but declined to act, hoping that later it could somehow snare Dave Foreman, founder of Earth First!, whom it considered the ultimate kingpin.

A month later, on October 25, 1988, EMETIC hit the Fairfield Snow Bowl again, this time felling one of the chair lift’s main supports. EMETIC was getting bold. After the operation it sent communiqués to every radio and television station in Northern Arizona, warning the resort concessionaires to stop developing the San Francisco Peaks.

Now they had big plans, plans to do things that would stun the nation: cutting down the transmission lines leading from the Palo Verde (Arizona) and Diablo Canyon (San Luis Obispo, California) nuke plants, and the lines leading to the Rocky Flats atomic weapons facility near Denver. But the group needed a practice run.

The target was a transmission tower that supplied electricity to the Central Arizona Project’s (CAP’s) water-lift station near Wenden, Arizona. The CAP diverted Colorado River water to irrigate central Arizona. The commando team of Mark Davis, Mike Tait, Peg Millet, and Dr. Marc A. Baker, an ill-tempered botanist, was a nearly literal rendition of Abbey’s script.

After nightfall on May 30, 1989, they prepared to strike, with Mark as the ringleader bearing the torch. But so did the FBI — with a full SWAT team of more than 50 agents, H&K MP-5 sub-machine guns, helicopters with night-vision capability, and even bloodhounds. Davis and Baker were captured instantly. Tait disappeared. Peg Millet, 35 years old and a big woman, managed to elude capture, running into the desert, reaching Highway 60, and hitchhiking back to Prescott, over 60 miles away. She was apprehended the next day at work, where she showed up as if nothing had happened. Ilse Asplund, Davis’s girlfriend, and Dave Foreman were also arrested after the fact.

At the three-month-long trial, Gerry Spence, the celebrity attorney, headed the defense team representing Foreman. In a plea bargain, Asplund, Baker, Millet, and Davis pled guilty to one charge, involving about $5,200 worth of damage to the Snow Bowl ski lift. Foreman, who was thought to have funded part of the operations, got probation and a $250 fine and was forced to foreswear monkeywrenching. It was the end of Earth First!’s first incarnation. Baker served six months, while Asplund served one; each was fined $2,000. Millet was sentenced to 3 years and restitution of $19,821. Davis got six years and restitution of $19,821.

“I don’t want my species to die. I don’t want my kids to die. We are in the process of suicide. It’s all legal, but it’s suicide.”

At the sentencing hearing, the prosecutor wanted Davis to be remanded to jail immediately and to serve time without parole. But Davis had his say: “I have stood in front of men with guns and stopped them from beating women. I have stopped robberies. I have gone up a tower and pulled a man away from a 50,000 volt line,” he said, adding: “I don’t want my species to die. I don’t want my kids to die. We are in the process of suicide. It’s all legal, but it’s suicide.” Judge Broomfield was taken with Davis’ grandiloquence and gave him 17 days to report to prison. Furthermore, he gave Davis a sentence that would allow for parole at any time during his jail term.

* * *

In September 1991, four days before Mark reported to serve his time, the Los Angeles Times provided him with an editorial sounding board:

“An intelligent conservative knows some deep truths, including the illusory nature of free lunches and the inadvisability of taking irreversible actions without understanding the consequences. Our behavior is neither intelligent nor conservative . . . Growth by its very nature means an increase in the speed and efficiency of environmental destruction. Anyone who says aloud that infinite growth on a finite planet is impossible is ridiculed. Denial has become official policy. . . . If what I and my three colleagues did has no effect other than to further damage an already tattered social contract, then I apologize. That was not the point. I acknowledge the necessity of courts and laws, and accept my prison term. But I am not sorry.”

In the late ’90’s I ran into Mark at a local hardware store in Prescott. He’d served four years of his six-year sentence at the minimum security prison in Boron, California. A severe claustrophobe, he had found the incarceration nearly unbearable — he’d lost 40 pounds in the two months of jail following his arrest — as he had found the separation from his two little daughters. Whatever his faults, Mark was a devoted and loving father.

The same month and year that the Los Angeles Times gave Mark a soapbox, Bill Bradford published my first feature article in Liberty. Ever since, realizing that nudging a left- or right-winger toward the libertarian middle is much more productive than attempting to badger him into libertarian purity, I’ve focused my political energies on writing and teaching, two fields where illiberalism cloaks itself in the language of liberalism — always mindful of the adage that “education is the road from obstinate ignorance to thoughtful uncertainty.”




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The Return of Coxey’s Army

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In 1894, Coxey’s Army, a legion of purportedly needy people, came to Washington to demand radical reform of the capitalist system. It was supposed to be a “march,” but some of Coxey’s soldiers tried to make their trip to the capital by hijacking railroad trains. The depredations of the Army were widely feared, especially by communities that lay on its route, but by the time it reached Washington its numbers had dwindled. It ended when its leaders were arrested for walking on the capitol grass. That took care of Coxey’s Army.

During the past few weeks, downtowns across the country have been the unwilling hosts of tribes of ignorant savages shouting about the wickedness of, guess what, the capitalist system.  They maintain that they represent the 99% of Americans whose lives are controlled by the remaining 1%, who supposedly own 99% of property in this country. Ironies abound: people who have nothing better to do than hang out in a park and empty their bladders in a McDonalds restroom are lauded and supported by labor unions; people who want to abolish wealth are bankrolled by “liberal” billionaires; and people who never vote are courted by the highest official representatives of the Democratic Party. Friendly media note with relief that the Occupy mobs are (usually) “peaceful.” I suppose that if you come over to my condo complex, pitch a tent, and refuse to leave, denouncing me day and night and threatening my neighbors with the risk of epidemic disease, you are being “peaceful.”

It’s a safe bet that not one Occupier, or mainstream commentator on the Occupiers, has ever heard of Coxey’s Army. So such people haven’t fully realized what the lowest level of police power can do to wipe up a “movement.” On October 13, all around the country, local mayors and cops started moving against the demonstrators, evicting them from their zones of occupation for reasons of health. Their tent cities were fouling the environment.

Of course, that’s another irony that should be savored.  One of the Occupiers’ great complaints is that capitalism is ruining the environment. Well, just look at what the Occupiers did to New York’s Zuccotti Park (which by the way is privately owned, despite Mayor Bloomberg’s apparent assumption that he owns it and can let protestors in and out whenever he wants). It’s hard to imagine a more degraded environment.  For this reason, the protestors were nearly kicked out of the park on October 14, a mere four weeks after they started to degrade it. On that day and the day after, they were kicked out of parks and other civic spaces in many other cities. On October 16, they were prevented from starting a camp in Chicago’s Grant Park.

A few more run-ins with local government, and the movement will probably go the way of Coxey and Friends. This is yet another irony, because what the protestors, “anarchist” or not, are really screaming for is more government, government that will run everyone’s life in the minutest detail. That’s the only way in which their multitudinous demands — for equal incomes, free money, vast solar energy projects, whatever — could ever be satisfied.

But there’s one nice, nonironic touch.  For once, one of the Occupiers said something correct. According to a CNN report on October 13, Occupy Wall Street spokesman Tyler Combelic promised resistance to any attempt to move the protest out of its usurped location, observing. "It's not an occupation if you can't occupy the park."  How true, how true.




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Age of Gold, Age of Paper

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It lasted for more than a thousand years. Its Great Palace was the seat of imperial and religious government for as long. It claimed to encompass the Roman Empire, and often did. It was the largest and greatest court in Christendom. In its Chrysotriklinos, its Golden Hall, hydraulic engines powered fountains, large organs, golden birds that sang in jewel-drenched trees, and golden lions that roared. Ambassadors bowed to its emperor as his throne magically rose to the ceiling. Gold mosaics dazzled visitors to its court and cathedral.

It was Byzantium.

I’m reading Judith Herrin’s history of that empire. She is a good historian but perhaps not much interested in economics. In her book, Byzantium: The Surprising Life of a Medieval Empire, an essential fact of Byzantine economy gets a fleeting mention as a caption to an illustration: “Byzantium preserved a gold coinage of reliable fineness over 700 years.”

Many empires have been laid low by the degradation of their currency. I think ours is next. No historian will ever say that the US dollar preserved reliable fineness for even a tenth of 700 years.




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Rising Star

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Liberty is always delighted to acclaim the artistic success of libertarians. Our delight is increased when they are Liberty’s own authors.

Today it is my pleasure to introduce a book by one of my own favorites, Garin Hovannisian. The book is Family of Shadows, it’s published by HarperCollins, and it’s causing a stir on several continents.

Family of Shadows is the story of Garin’s family — who were by no means vague or ghostly people. They were vivid presences, taking their part in some of the most interesting events of the 20th century, from the massacres in Armenia during the time of “the breaking of nations” to the destruction of the Soviet Union. The book is a story of survival, and of the individual freedom that makes survival worth the effort.

It’s also a story told with great style and insight. All historians deal with “shadows,” but a good historian makes them more substantial than the ostensibly real people who surround us daily. And a good historian, like a good novelist, makes us wiser as we read. While reading Family of Shadows, I kept thinking, “This is a very good novel.” But it’s not fiction, nor is it fictionalized. It’s an exhaustively researched history, free of the shallow assumptions, inane theorizing, and formulaic prose of normal historical writing.

Read it for yourself. You’ll find that you won’t be able to put it down. In the meantime, I thought you’d be interested in knowing more about the author. So I asked Alec Mouhibian, himself a writer for Liberty, to interview his friend Garin.

Here’s a look into the writer’s workshop.

 — Stephen Cox

***

AM: Stories ask to be told. But some stories prefer to be left alone. Why, and how, did this story call to you?

GH: It's strange; I can remember exactly when and where it happened. It was in the fall of 2007. I was all alone in a computer lab on the eighth floor of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism in New York. I was a student there, writing my master's thesis about a group of magicians who had been meeting in secret for generations. . . . I'm not sure that's important. But what happened to me that afternoon is, I think, what writers waste their lives waiting for, one of those cosmic events — when stars seem to align into a constellation. . . .

What I mean to say is that I discovered, suddenly and for the first time, that all the details and metaphors and meanings of my family history somehow belonged to a great narrative.

My great-grandfather Kaspar had survived the Armenian Genocide of 1915 and escaped to the vineyards of California's San Joaquin Valley. My grandfather Richard had left his father's farm to pioneer the field of Armenian Studies in the United States. My father Raffi had left his law firm, the American Dream itself, to repatriate to Soviet Armenia, where he went on to serve as the new republic's first foreign minister.

So I realized that the family story was about three men who left — individuals who cheated their destinies — but it was also about men who, unbeknownst to them, had been serving a pattern greater than themselves. A homeland lost, remembered, regained — it was a perfect circle!

Then I knew I would have to write Family of Shadows.

AM: You mentioned how this story hit you as you were wandering the world of magic. You're quite the magician yourself. What connection is there between your history with magic and the discovery that led to this book?

GH: My father gave me my first magic set when I was five, and I knew immediately that I would become a magician. I loved to make the impossible happen, to play at the border of reality and fantasy. Of course I also loved to watch the reactions of people — the astonishment spread upon the faces of strangers. Anyway, I long ago gave up the wand for the pen, but not, I think, the passions that run through both of them: mystery and vanity.

AM: Explain where you had to go to write this book, what you had to explore, and how this vastarray of settings get along with each other in the story and in your mind.

GH: I didn't know, when I decided to write the book, just how far I would have to travel. I couldn't imagine that I would have to spend countless hours at the National Archives in Washington or the Armenian academy called the Jemaran in Beirut or the National Library in Yerevan or the Tulare Historical Museum in the San Joaquin Valley of California. But I think it was that other kind of travel — not through space, but into lost time — that was the most exhilarating. I realized that if I were to tell my story straight, I would have to conduct some difficult interviews — to go deep into the minds and memories of my living characters, where so many details of my story had been trapped for decades.

AM: Your book is evenly divided between the histories ofthree men. Before we go further, explain your process for choosing what to include and what to leave out of their story, and the stories of the many characters surrounding them.

GH: The book, as I first wrote it, was about 450 pages long. The one you'll find in bookstores today is 300. You know very well that you were in part responsible for this. I remember the first time you read the manuscript. I was sitting across from you, minding my coffee, pretending not to notice your reactions. You were quiet, mostly, but every so often, you would emerge from silence to sing the blues, and I knew this wasn't a good sign.

AM: I never thought my rendition of "My Baby Ain't No Baby No More" could be so pregnant.

GH: Oh, it was — and actually it made me realize just how big my own book had become. The truth was that those 150 pages were important — they told so much history and gossip — but they weren't important for this book. So I began to cut. It was slow and deliberate and painful at first. But then you remember what happened to me? Suddenly, I was slashing away at my pages — reversing months of labor. I bet I lost a lot of good lines, too, but it was necessary and, ultimately, deeply liberating.

AM: Homeland. Patterns greater than self. These fall under the greater concept of "Armenia," toward which all the dream-roads in your book lead. Define Armenia — in your own terms — for those (including Armenians) who have no idea what it might mean.

GH: To begin with, Armenia is an actual land — stretching between the Black and Caspian seas — where the Armenian people have lived for thousands of years. We used to have our own empire, but for most of history we were content merely to survive the rise and fall of neighboring empires — the Roman, Persian, Byzantine, Arab. Armenia was where kings came to do battle. And so the blood, the ethos, the mythology of countless civilizations is in our soil.

Armenian history forever changed in 1915. Western Armenia was cleansed of all Armenians by the nationalist Young Turk regime of the Ottoman Empire; those who survived the genocide scattered to new diasporas across the world. Eastern Armenia, meanwhile, was absorbed into the Soviet Union as the smallest of the 15 socialist republics. That tiny sliver of land is the Armenia you'll find on modern maps.

But for much of the 20th century, Armenia existed mostly as a dream. My father and my grandfather before him spent their childhoods yearning for a "free, independent, united Armenia." Forgive me, I do have to be poetic, because the truth is that for us, the millions of Armenians living in exile and dispersion, Armenia had become something like a poem: a spiritual landscape blossoming with metaphor and mystery and apricot. It is there that Family of Shadows is set.

AM: Mmm, metaphor. That strangest and most bitter Armenian crop.

Let's talk about Liberty, and its own role in the soil. I've known you for years, but I never really wanted to know you until your byline appeared in this magazine at the tender age of 17. How does individual liberty figure in the Armenian-American dream? How does it contend with the shadows that haunt every corner of the real and imagined Armenia?

GH: You're testing me. "Let's talk about Liberty" — wasn't that the slogan of the Cato Institute conference we attended in San Diego ages ago? That's where we first met Stephen Cox — followed him into literature and then into Liberty. It was our breakthrough!

Now you know as well as I do that Family of Shadows isn't a libertarian manifesto. But it is, I've long secretly believed, a kind of allegory of individualism and rebellion. At its deepest level, it is the story of three men who were born into times and places where they did not belong, who defied the great forces of history, who defied destiny. My great-grandfather defied his destiny of death during the genocide of 1915. My grandfather rejected his destiny on his father's farm. My father abandoned his destiny in the American Dream.

Maybe that's not fair, though. For my father, I think, the American Dream was never about achieving and enjoying liberty for oneself, but about spreading liberty across countries and continents.

AM: Is there no tension between the spread of liberty and the participation in an ethnic-national heritage, which might be at odds with individualism? How can this be reconciled in Armenia?

GH: Governments don't have ethnicities. People do. So I confess not to feel the tension. I don't see why an individual, living in a free society, shouldn't feel free to seek his private solace or meaning or peace wherever he pleases — in philosophy, religion, even national heritage. You build yourself a free country, but then what? You still have private problems. You still have to deal with death and salvation.As the great poet sings, "you're still gonna have to serve somebody."

AM: Classic Milton. Always comes through. Now of course your book is a powerful human drama, and should therefore matter to anyone who ranks himself among the humans. But perhaps you can explain why Armenia should matter to America.

GH: After the genocide of 1915, an unprecedented human rights movement swept through the United States. American citizens collected more than a hundred million dollars to help the surviving refugees; kids who didn't finish their suppers were told to remember "the starving Armenians." The most important witnesses and chroniclers of the genocide had been American ambassadors and consuls, and now it was the president himself — Woodrow Wilson — who was proposing an American mandate to safeguard Armenia.

In those years, the American people invested their spirit in the Armenian struggle — and I think the mysterious logic of that investment has revealed itself slowly through time. It's been forgotten, but in February 1988, half a million Armenians gathered in Yerevan, the capital of Soviet Armenia, to launch the first successful mass movement against Communist rule. Independence followed in 1991. That's when my father, an American citizen, returned to Armenia. That's also about the time when a million Armenians left a newborn Armenia to seek more certain destinies in the United States.

The stories, the histories, the Armenian and the American Dreams, were in conversation long before I tried to capture that conversation in Family of Shadows.

AM: The Russians have a saying: “Every grandmother was once a girl.” Perhaps it can also be said that every answer was once a question. So...any questions before you go?

GH: You know, I have been wondering: who is John Galt?




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Good as Gold

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James Grant is the best-spoken and most accomplished hard-money man in Wall Street. Plenty of people can inveigh against the Fed; the publisher of Grant’s Interest Rate Observer can put it in the context of today’s financial markets and also in the context of history.

Grant is also a historian. He wrote a biography of John Adams, and another of financier Bernard Baruch, and several other histories, including my favorite among his works, The Trouble with Prosperity: The Loss of Fear, the Rise of Speculation and the Risk to American Savings (1996). His new book, “Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!” should be of particular interest to readers of Liberty.

That’s not because of any deep interest I have in his nominal subject, Thomas B. Reed (1839–1902). Reed was a moderately interesting figure. He was fat, he ate fish balls for breakfast, and he spoke French. He was a congressman from Maine, first elected in the centennial year, 1876. He was a man of his time, a Republican stalwart who supported the tariff and gold and opposed foreign wars. Though he was for woman suffrage, he was no progressive, at least in the sense that today’s progressives are. He had no desire to teach other people how to live. “Pure in his personal conduct,” Grant writes, “he had no interest in instructing the impure.”

During the 1890s, Reed was speaker of the House. His claim to fame is how he changed the House rules to give himself, and the majority, much more power to get things done. Whether that was good or bad depends on your point of view.

Parts of the book are about Reed’s parliamentary maneuverings and also about his wit. These parts are well-written, but I was not much interested in them. The greater part of the book, however, is about the financial events and national political battles from 1870 or so to 1899, which I found very interesting.

Now gold is the money of the distant past. In the 1870s, Grant observes, “Gold was the money of the future."

Grant covers several such things, from the collapse of the Freedmen’s Bank to the stolen election of 1876. He has a particular interest in the currency. One story he tells is of Lincoln’s printing of greenbacks during the Civil War, and the struggle afterward over restoring the link to gold. In the ideology of the day, restoration was necessary. It was part of honorable dealing. But people dragged their feet about doing it, because a national debt had been piled up during the war, and what was the need to repay investors in gold if they had bought bonds with greenbacks? And besides, there was a boom on, and shrinking the money supply would spoil it.

The boom went bust in 1873. For the rest of the decade the country was arguing about the commitment to return to gold. The way in which this argument was conducted was much different from the way it would be today. Now gold is the money of the distant past. In the 1870s, Grant observes, “Gold was the money of the future”:

“A 21st century student of monetary affairs may stare in wonder at the nature of the monetary debate in mid 1870s America. A business depression was in progress. From the south, west and parts of the east arose a demand for a cheaper and more abundant currency. Yet such appeals were met with, and finally subdued by, a countervailing demand for a constant, objective and honest standard of value.”

“Resumption day” was Jan. 1, 1879. There followed “a mighty boom.” In the 1880s, prices fell 4.2% and wages rose.

This was the era of laissez-faire. “The government delivered the mails, maintained the federal courts, battled the Indians, examined the nationally chartered banks, fielded the army, floated the navy and coined the currency.” The big social program was Civil War pensions — for the Union side, not the Confederates. By the standards of the day, the Democrats were the small-government party and the Republicans were the big-government party, but policy differences were at the margin only.

The federal government was funded by the tariff, which the Republicans, and Reed, thought was good for American labor. The Democrats quoted the free-trade arguments of Frédéric Bastiat. “The Republicans,” Grant writes, “having no ready answer for Bastiat’s arguments, were reduced to pointing out that he was, indeed, French.”

The ideological atmosphere started changing in the 1890s. The Panic of 1893 brought on a severe depression, and another political battle over the currency. This time the supporters of gold battled it out with the supporters of silver, with bimetallists arguing for both at once.

Grant provides the best explanation of the gold-versus-silver battle I have read, especially the futility of having two metallic standards at the same time. Here he is not so proud of Thomas Reed, who was by then speaker: “One senses, reading him, that he was not quite sure what the gold standard was all about.” Reed’s position “lacked clarity, or, one might even say, courage. [President Grover] Cleveland had one unshakable conviction, which was gold. Reed had many convictions, only one of which — no free silver — was strictly nonnegotiable.”

Reed’s final battle was over war with Spain. He was against it. The new president, William McKinley, seemed to be against it, but lacked the courage really to oppose it. Ex-President Cleveland was against it, as was William Jennings Bryan, the presidential candidate whom McKinley had beaten in 1896. But the Congress was for it, and even with his self-enhanced power as speaker, Reed couldn’t block the war resolution of 1898. It passed the House 310 to 6.

A year later, Reed resigned. He wrote to a friend, “You have little idea what a swarming back to savagery has taken place in this land of liberty.” Publicly he said nothing. Three years later he was dead.

And so Grant ends his book. It is a fine book. I recommend it. Don’t be put off by any lack of interest you may have in Thomas B. Reed. I wasn’t much interested in him, either. You don’t have to be.

Grant covers several such things, from the collapse of the Freedmen


Editor's Note: Review of "'Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!' The Life and Times of Thomas B. Reed, the Man Who Broke the Filibuster," by James Grant. Simon & Schuster, 2011, 448 pages.



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Enforcers of Health

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Libertarians have uneasy thoughts about the enforcers of public health. In my state, the public health authorities banned tobacco billboards — an act that some thought a violation of the First Amendment. This year, they pushed in the legislature to ban the sale of flavored cigars and pipe tobacco. In both cases, they have said that their aim is to make tobacco less attractive to children.

A century ago the fight was much more immediately vital. Then people of libertarian mind were fighting with the public health enforcers over the control of smallpox.

That disease was eradicated in the 20th century by campaigns of vaccination, many of them not entirely voluntary. In the United States, a turning point came in the epidemic of 1899 to 1902, when outbreaks of the disease prompted a political battle over compulsory vaccination. The story is told in legal writer Michael Willrich’s new book, Pox.

The push for compulsory vaccination grew out of the facts of the disease itself. It was a killer. Of people infected by the main strain of the disease, between 20 and 30% died. Smallpox was highly contagious, so that an infected person was a threat to everyone around him who was unvaccinated. First symptoms appeared more than a week after exposure, so fighting the epidemic by treating sick people was a strategy of being perpetually behind. The disease could, however, be stamped out by vaccinating the healthy.

For the progressives, the model was the Kaiser’s Germany. As Willrich says, “German law required that every child be vaccinated in the first year of life, again during school, and yet again (for the men) upon entering military service.” Germany had “the world’s most vaccinated population and the one most free from smallpox.”

In the constitutionalist America of the 1890s, vaccination was a state, local, and individual responsibility. Americans, writes Willrich, were “the least vaccinated” people of any leading country. The federal government had a bureau, the Marine-Hospital Service, to tend to illnesses of sailors; it had been started in the 1790s under President John Adams. The Service had experts in smallpox control, but they were advisory only and expected local authorities to pay for local work.

The antivaccinationists argued that compulsory vaccination would lead to other bad things. And four years later, in 1906, Indiana enacted America’s first compulsory sterilization law.

In a smallpox outbreak, the public health enforcers would set up a “pesthouse,” usually at the edge of town. They would scour the community for the sick, paying particular attention to the shacks and tenements of blacks, immigrants, and the rest of the lower classes, where the disease tended to appear first. People in these groups were subjected, Willrich says, to “a level of intrusion and coercion that American governments did not dare ask of their better-off citizens.”

Public-health doctors, accompanied by police, would surround tenement blocks and search people’s rooms. The sick would be taken to the pesthouse under force of law, and everyone else in the building would be vaccinated.

Often a community would have a vaccination ordinance that on its face was not 100% compulsory. It would declare that no child could be admitted to public school without a vaccination mark. For adults, the choice might be vaccination or jail — and all prisoners were, of course, vaccinated.

The procedure involved jabbing the patient with a needle or an ivory point and inserting matter from an infected animal under the skin. Typically it was done on the upper arm; often that arm was sore for a week or two, so that people in manual trades couldn’t work. Sometimes, vaccination made people so sick it killed them — though not nearly as often as the disease did.

Such was the background for the outbreaks of 1899–1902. At that time, two new factors emerged. First, America had just had a war with Spain, and had conquered the Philippines, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. All these places were rife with disease — and their status as conquered possessions, Willrich writes, provided “unparalleled opportunities for the exercise of American health authority.”

There the authorities had no worries about people’s rights: “The army’s sanitary campaigns far exceeded the normal bounds of the police power, which by a long American constitutional tradition had always been assumed to originate in sovereign communities of free people.” And coercive methods worked. They worked dramatically.

The second new thing in 1899 was that most of the disease spreading in the United States was a less-virulent form that killed only 0.5 to 2% of those infected. That meant that many Americans denied the disease was smallpox, and didn’t cooperate. The public health people recognized what the disease for what it was, and they went after it with the usual disregard of personal rights — maybe even more disregard, because of “the efficiency of compulsion” overseas. And they stirred up, Willrich writes, “one of the most important civil liberties struggles of the 20th century.”

Their fight was with the antivaccinationists, whom Willrich calls “personal liberty fundamentalists” who “challenged the expansion of the American state at the very point at which state power penetrated the skin.”

He continues:

“Many antivaccinationists had close intellectual and personal ties to a largely forgotten American tradition and subculture of libertarian radicalism. . . . The same men and women who joined antivaccination leagues tended to throw themselves into other maligned causes of their era, including anti-imperialism, women’s rights, antivivisection, vegetarianism, Henry George’s single tax, the fight against government censorship of ‘obscene’ materials and opposition to state eugenics.”

Often, antivaccinationists denied that vaccination worked. Many were followers of chiropractic or other non-standard medicine; this was also the time of “a battle over state medical licensing and the increasing dominance of ‘regular,’ allopathic medicine.” Of course, the antivaccinationists were wrong about vaccination not working, but they were not wrong when they said it was dangerous. In 1902, the city of Camden NJ required all children in the public schools to be vaccinated. Suddenly children started coming down with lockjaw. They were a small fraction of those who had been vaccinated, but all of them fell ill about 21 days after vaccination. Several died, and the press made a scandal of it.

Our newly conquered possessions provided “unparalleled opportunities for the exercise of American health authority.”

Under the common law of the day, the vaccine maker — the H.K. Mulford Co. — was not liable to the parents, because it had no contract with them. Nor was the government liable, though the government had required the treatment. Thus, writes Willrich, “The arm of the state was protected; the arm of the citizen was not.”

The medical and public health establishment initially denied that the lockjaw had been caused by the vaccines. This was admitted only after a consultant to a rival vaccine maker, Parke-Davis, made an epidemiological case for it. Congress responded by quickly passing the Biologics Control Act of 1902, which ordered the inspection and licensing of vaccine producers, and required them to put an expiration date on their products. It was one of the first steps in the creation of the regulatory state.

The act calmed the public and drove some smaller companies out of business. The first two licensees were Parke-Davis (later absorbed by Pfizer) and Mulford (absorbed by Merck). And the purity of vaccines, which had been improving already, improved dramatically in the following decade.

The antivaccinationists turned to the courts in a fight about constitutional principles. The argument on the state’s side was that it had a duty to protect citizens from deadly invasion, which might be launched by either an alien army or an alien army of microbes. The argument on the other side was the individual’s right to control what pathogens were poked into his body, and, as the antivaccinationists’ lawsuit contended, his right to “take his chance” by going bare in a time of contagion.

They brought their case to the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, and lost. Citing the power of government to quarantine the sick and conscript soldiers in war, the court said, “The rights of individuals must yield, if necessary, when the welfare of the whole community is at stake.” Then they appealed to the US Supreme Court. In the same year in which the libertarian side won a landmark economic-liberty ruling in Lochner v.New York (1905), it lost, 7–2, in the vaccination case, Jacobson v.Massachusetts. Writing for the court, Justice John Harlan compared the case to defense against foreign invasion, and wrote, “There are manifold restraints to which every person is necessarily subject for the common good.”

It is an unlibertarian answer. The author of Pox thinks it was the right answer — and so do I, in this case. Smallpox was indeed a kind of invasion. In the 20th century it killed 300 million of Earth's people, and disfigured millions more. And though public health people can make similar arguments, and they do, about tobacco as a mass killer, I do not support their efforts to stamp out its use by ever more state intrusion. The difference is that with smallpox the individual’s refusal to be vaccinated put others in imminent danger of death. Collective action — compelled collective action — was the only way to defeat the invader. None of this is the case with tobacco.

Naturally, the progressives wanted to apply their wonderfully practical idea to all sorts of things. Referring to epidemics and the germ theory of disease, Willrich writes, “Progressives took up the germ theory as a powerful political metaphor. From the cities to the statehouses to Washington, the reformers decried prostitution, sweatshops, and poverty as ‘social ills.’ A stronger state, they said, held the ‘cure.’ ”

The antivaccinationists argued that compulsory vaccination would lead to other bad things. They made some fanciful statements; one wrote, “Why not chase people and circumcise them? Why not catch the people and give them a compulsory bath?” But they were right. Four years later, in 1906, Indiana enacted America’s first compulsory sterilization law. This was done in pursuit of another scientific, society-improving cause that excited progressives: eugenics. In 1927, in Buck v.Bell, the Supreme Court approved Virginia’s law of compulsory sterilization of the “feeble-minded.” That was the case in which Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes — supposedly the great champion of individual rights — pontificated: “The principle that sustains compulsory vaccination is broad enough to cover cutting the Fallopian tubes. Jacobson v.Massachusetts, 197 U.S. 11. Three generations of imbeciles are enough.”

Jacobson has been cited in many Supreme Court decisions, usually to approve state power. And the applications have not been confined to medicine. In 2004, Justice Clarence Thomas cited Jacobson in his dissent in Hamdi v.Rumsfeld, which was about a US citizen captured in Afghanistan. Thomas, often regarded as the most libertarian of the current justices, was arguing that Yaser Esam Hamdi had no right of habeas corpus and could be held on US soil indefinitely without charge.

Collective action — compelled collective action — was the only way to defeat the invader. None of this is the case with tobacco.

The smallpox epidemic of 1899–1902 was a pivotal event institutionally as well as legally. The Biologics Act created more work for the Marine-Hospital Service, which a few years later became the US Public Health Service. The service’s Hygienic Laboratory, which was empowered to check the purity of commercial vaccines, later grew into the National Institutes of Health.

From the story told in Pox, you can construct rival political narratives. The progressives’ “we’re all in it together” formula about the need for science, federal authority, officials, regulation, and compulsion is there. And in the case of smallpox, progressivism put its strongest foot forward: it was warding off imminent mass death. Smallpox is one of the least promising subjects for the libertarian formula of individual rights and personal responsibility. Yet here you can also find the bad things that libertarian theory predicts: state power used arbitrarily and unevenly, collateral deaths, official denial of obvious truths, a precedent for worse things later on, and even the favoring of large companies over small ones.

I don’t like the progressive formula. But in the case of smallpox it fits, and I accept it, looking immediately for the limits on it.

Fortunately for liberty as well as health, few other diseases are as contagious and deadly as smallpox. Even Ebola and SARS — two contagious and deadly diseases of recent decades — were mostly fought by quickly isolating the sick. State power was necessary — some people were forcibly quarantined — but there were no mass vaccinations of the healthy.

Still, vaccination surfaces as an issue from time to time. It is, on its face, a violation of the rights of the person. So is quarantine. And yet it is prudent to allow both of them in some situations.

That is an admission that the libertarian formula doesn’t work all the time. Liberty is for rational adults in a minimally normal world. That is a limitation, but not such a big one. Surely it is better to design a society for people who can think, make decisions, and take responsibility, while in a few cases having to break those rules, than to live in a world designed for people defined as children of the state.


Editor's Note: Review of "Pox: An American History," by Michael Willrich. Penguin, 2011, 400 pages.



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Latin America: Autumn of the Antipodes?

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In response to last November’s flooding, mudslides, and destruction of homes that left tens of thousands of Venezuelans destitute in makeshift shelters, Hugo Chávez went camping to show solidarity with his people. The luxurious tent was a gift from Libyan strongman Muammar Gaddafi. Piling insult atop bad grace, Chávez was photographed inspecting the devastation in a Cuban(!) military uniform. He is not one to dwell on the negative. Instead of looking grave, concerned, and statesmanlike, he pursed his lips and spread his cheeks in a smirk that bordered on the manic, sticking his head out the window of a Jeep like a dog without good sense. Not since Mexican President Antonio López de Santa Anna (he of the Alamo) buried his leg with full military honors has a Latin American leader been this much fun.

But for Chávez, the bigger crisis is his impending loss of power. Though the 2010 parliamentary elections netted his United Socialist Party 95 seats, the opposition, successfully united, won 64 seats, thus depriving Chávez of the two-thirds and three-fifths majorities required to pass organic and enabling legislation or fiddle further with the constitution. But never mind, Hugo has a plan.

He requested that the lame-duck legislators grant him unlimited powers to rule by decree for 18 months, limit legislative sessions to four days a month, turn control of all parliamentary commissions over to the executive branch, limit parliamentary speeches to 15 minutes per member, restrict broadcasts of assembly debates to only government channels, and penalize party-switching by legislators with the loss of their seats. The lame duck legislators dutifully complied. Vice President Elías Jaua says the powers are necessaryto pass laws dealing with vital services after the disaster and with such areas as infrastructure, land use, banking, defense and the “socio-economic system of the nation.” For good measure, the lame-duck Chavista legislature also passed a law barring non-governmental organizations such ashuman rights groupsfrom receiving US funding; another law terminating the autonomy of universities; more broadcasting and telecommunications controls; and the creation of “socialist communes” to bypass local governments.

Not since Santa Anna buried his leg with full military honors has a Latin American leader been this much fun.

Opposition newspaper editor Teodoro Petkoff called it a “Christmas ambush,” writing in his daily Tal Cual that Chavez is preparing totalitarian measures that amount to “a brutal attack . . . against democratic life.” Chavez’s end-run around the new National Assembly, which convened on January 5, was blatantly illegal, as such emergency powers can only be granted by the legislature to cover a period within the term of the legislature in office. Chávez demanded powers that extend well beyond the previous legislature’s term and effectively emasculate the new legislature, which would never have given him the two-thirds vote he would need, since 40% of its members are in opposition. Venezuelans have reacted with roadblocks and peaceful but energetic massive resistance. Security forces and government thugs have counter-reacted violently. Many people have been injured, not only physically, but economically as well. On New Year's Eve the Bolivar was halved in value, from 2.6 to the dollar to 4.3.

The most infamous precedent for this maneuver was the German Reichstag’s March 1933 enabling law granting Adolf Hitler the right to enact laws by decree for four years, making him dictator of Germany. No doubt the affair will end up in court — decided by Chávez-appointed judges. Still, it’s only a matter of time before the ship of state either turns or crashes.

By contrast, Sebastián Piñera, Chile’s new president, responded to the March 2010 earthquake with grace and alacrity; and six months later rallied the country behind the 33 miners trapped for 70 days in a deep mine cave-in. Unlike President Obama, in his autarkic response to the BP fiasco, Piñera requested and received international assistance. But Piñera is perhaps more notable as the poster boy of a subtle, newly evolving trend throughout Latin America, a trend only now being recognized: the “normalization” of its politics.

Normalization means the peaceful alternation of center-left with center-right governments, which is the status quo in most developed, liberal democracies. Piñera, a center-right candidate, followed two decades of center-left government.

By definition, normalization is dull, boring, and bereft of transformational ideals. But it is nonetheless great news, especially when compared to the radical swings of the past, when left-wing revolutions followed right-wing golpes de estado (or vice versa). The inevitable mayhem, war, and death were always followed by authoritarian regimes.

Chávez demanded powers that extend well beyond the previous legislature’s term and effectively emasculate the new legislature.

In Chile, the Marxist government of Salvador Allende, which had begun to forcibly expropriate property, was overthrown by a military coup after inflation exceeded 140%. To restore order, General Augusto Pinochet brutally imposed a right-wing authoritarian regime. To his credit, however, he laid the groundwork for the political and fiscal stability Chile now enjoys. He invited the so-called Chicago Boys — Milton Friedman and his acolytes — to design a stable and prosperous economic framework, and he relinquished power slowly and honestly by means of a new constitution and open plebiscites. In 1989, Pinochet lost an election to the Concertación, the center-left coalition that would hold power until Piñera’s election.

As Fernando Mires, a Chilean political science professor at the University of Oldenburg, Germany, has observed, “Everything that does not directly deal with war and death, is a game.” Politics is a game, and games require rules. Once war and death enter the scene, the game of politics is over. Latin America is now anteing up to the table. Though not always perfectly correlated, political stability goes hand-in-hand with some degree of fiscal and institutional stability — preconditions for people’s ability to lead healthy, productive lives.

Independence and Chaos

When Father Miguel Hidalgo’s Grito de Dolores declared Mexican independence from Spain on September 16, 1810, it began a protracted independence movement throughout the continent. Two days later, Chile, at the other end of Latin America, instituted de facto home rule. To be sure, Haiti had already defeated Napoleon in 1804 to gain independence, and Cuba would throw off Spanish rule with US help as late as 1898 (and, some would argue, didn’t actually achieve full independence until the Castro regime nullified the Platt Amendment, which gave the US Congress a veto power over foreign affairs). But the main course of events took place within two decades.

In 1821, Spain recognized Mexico’s independence. By 1823, after it had recognized the independence of much of the rest of Latin America (with Portugal ceding Brazil in 1822), US president James Monroe felt comfortable enough to declare the Americas a European-free zone, in spite of Spanish forces still holding out in what was to become Bolivia.

Latin American independence movements were products of the Enlightenment, influenced by the US Declaration of Independence and subsequent constitution — in the context of the times, left-wing revolutions. But, as Marxist commentators never fail to decry, the American revolutions were not “true,” social revolutions, but rather bourgeois realignments. The original Spanish conquest had left most of the basic indigenous structures of authority intact, replacing Moctezuma and Atahualpa with the throne of Madrid. Latin American independence movements recapitulated that strategy, replacing the Spanish aristocracy with homegrown landed gentry.

Meanwhile, a new model of revolution had emerged: the French Revolution, in which the ideals of the Enlightenment metastasized into a nightmare. The monarchy was decapitated; the ancien regime gone; an empire was founded. Traditional concepts of how societies ought to be organized had been put aside.

In Latin America, would-be liberators, criticized from both Right and Left, became disillusioned and turned away from democracy. Up north, Agustín de Iturbide, the Mexican heir of a wealthy Spanish father, switched sides to fight for Mexican independence and declared himself emperor of Mexico; Santa Anna, another side-switcher, overthrew him and established a republic, then a dictatorship. Santa Anna ended up ruling Mexico on 11 non-consecutive occasions over a period of 22 years. Asked about the loss of his republican ideals, he declared,

It is very true that I threw up my cap for liberty with great ardor, and perfect sincerity, but very soon found the folly of it. A hundred years to come my people will not be fit for liberty. They do not know what it is, unenlightened as they are, and under the influence of a Catholic clergy, a despotism is the proper government for them, but there is no reason why it should not be a wise and virtuous one.

This general sentiment came to be shared by most of Latin America’s liberators.

Meanwhile, Central America (including the Mexican state of Chiapas but excluding Panama), and known as the Captaincy General of Guatemala, seceded from Mexico, becoming “The Federal Republic of Central America” after a short-lived land grab by Mexican Emperor Iturbide who pictured his empire extending from British Columbia to the other Colombia. The Federal Republic didn’t last. In the 1830s Rafael Carrera, led a revolt that sundered it. By 1838, Carrera ruled Guatemala; in the 1860’s he briefly controlled El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua as well, though they remained nominally independent.

Not one to be left behind, the Dominican Republic jumped on the bandwagon in 1821, but was quickly invaded by Haiti. Not until 1844 was the eastern half of Santo Domingo able to go its own way. Sandwiched between Cuba and Puerto Rico (both still held by Spain), in 1861 the Dominican Republic — in a move unique in all Latin America — requested recolonization, having found the post-independence chaos untenable. Spain gladly acquiesced. The US protested but, mired in its own civil war, was unable to enforce the Monroe Doctrine. In 1865, the Dominican Republic declared independence for a second time.

Sebastián Piñera, Chile’s new president, represents a subtle trend only now being recognized: the “normalization” of Latin American politics.

South America fared no better. Simon Bolívar, after a series of brilliant campaigns that criss-crossed the continent, created the unstable Gran Colombia, a state encompassing modern Colombia, Panama, Venezuela, and Ecuador, with himself as president — a model Hugo Chávez aspires to emulate. Bolívar then headed to Peru, to wrest power from Joséde San Martín, its liberator. Bolívar was declared dictator, but the Spanish still held what is now Bolivia. He finished San Martín’s job by liberating it and separating it from Peru. The new state was christened with his name. By 1828, Gran Colombia proved unmanageable, so Bolívar declared himself dictator, a move that ended in failure and more chaos.

Southern South America was liberated by San Maríin and Bernardo O’Higgins, with Chile and Argentina going their separate ways. In Chile, Bernardo O’Higgins turned from Supreme Director into dictator, was ousted, and was replaced by another dictator. A disgusted San Martín exiled himself to Europe, abandoning Argentina to a fate of civil war and strongmen. Uruguay and Paraguay carved themselves a niche — but only after Uruguay’s sovereignty had been contested by newly independent Brazil. In Paraguay, José Rodriguez de Francia, Consul of Paraguay (a title unique to Latin America) became in 1816 “El Supremo” for life. An admirer of the French revolution — and in particular of Rousseau and Robespierre — he imposed an extreme autarky, closing Paraguay’s borders to all trade and travel; abolishing all military ranks above captain, and insisting that he personally officiate at all weddings. He also ordered all dogs in the country to be shot.

Strongmen and Stability

The Latin American wars of independence were succeeded by aborted attempts at unity or secession; wars of conquest, honor, and spite; land grabs, big and little uprisings, civil wars; experiments in democracy, republicanism, federation, dictatorship, monarchy, anarchy, and rule by warlords or filibusters; and even reversion to colonialism; all with radical “left-right” swings — in a word, by every imaginable state of affairs, none long lasting. It all culminated in the era of the caudillo: a populist military strongman, usually eccentric, sentimental, long-ruling, and (roughly speaking) right-wing.

In his novel Autumn of the Patriarch, Colombian author (and confidante of Fidel Castro) Gabriel García Márquez offers a profile of a caudillo that has yet to be surpassed. The stream-of-consciousness, 270-page, 6-sentence prose “poem on the solitude of power” was based on Colombia’s Gustavo Rojas Pinilla (1953–57) and Venezuela’s Juan Vicente Gómez (1908–1935), with dashes of Franco and Stalin thrown in. But its indeterminate timelessness, stretching from who-knows-when to forever, also evokes Mexico’s Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911), Paraguay’s Alfredo Stroessner (1954–89), the Dominican Republic’s Rafael Trujillo (1930–61), and Nicaragua’s Anastasio Somoza (1936–56). It could also easily include Brazil’s Getulio Vargas (1930-54), Argentina’s Juan Perón (1946–55 and 1973–76), Haiti’s “Papa Doc” and “Baby Doc” Duvalier (1957–86), and, yes, the longest ruling military strongman of all — Fidel Castro (1959–201?).

The caudillo period had no specific time frame; it was rather a response to instability (or injustice, in the case of left-caudillos) that varied over time, country, and cultural conditions. Take Mexico for example. Besides the usual post-independence chaos, it also suffered invasions from the US and France. So, in 1846, Porfirio Díaz, an innkeeper’s son and sometime theology student, left his law studies to join the army — first, to fight the US, then to fight Santa Anna in one of the latter’s multiple bids for power, and finally to fight the French-imposed Emperor Maximilian.

Politics is a game, and games require rules. Once war and death enter the scene, the game of politics is over.

In the war against Maxmillian, Díaz rose to become division general under Benito Juárez’ leadership but retired after Mexican forces triumphed and Juárez assumed the presidency in 1868. It didn’t take long for Díaz to become disillusioned. One principle that had developed in Mexican politics and ironically — especially considering the nearly 35 years in power that Díaz would enjoy — became institutionalized, was one-term presidential term limits. So when Juárez announced for a second term in 1870, Díaz opposed him. Losing, he cried fraud and issued a pronunciamento, a formal declaration of insurrection and plan of action accompanied by the pomp and publicity emblematic of Mexican politics. After another pronunciamento and additional revolts much politicking, and a term in Congress, Díaz succeeded in ousting his adversaries. He was elected president in 1877. Having based his campaign on a platform of “no reelection," he reluctantly stepped aside after one term and turned over the presidency to an underling, whose incompetence and corruption ensured Díaz’s victory in the 1884 contest.

He set out to establish a pax Porfiriana by (as he termed it) eliminating divisive politics and focusing on administration. The former was achieved by stuffing the legislature, the courts, and high government offices with cronies; making all local jurisdictions answerable to him; instituting a “pan o palo” (bread or a beating) policy, enforced by strong military and police forces; artfully playing the various entrenched interests against each other; and stealing every election. Porfirio Díaz opened Mexico up to foreign investment, built roads and public works, stabilized the currency, and developed the country to such a degree that it was compared economically to Germany and France.

Classifying caudillos as Left or Right is not always easy. Caudillos who focused on economic development, fiscal stability, and monumental public works are generally perceived as right-wing, while those who improved education, fought church privilege, or imposed economic controls are perceived as left-wing. Nearly all were initially motivated by idealism, followed by disillusionment with democracy and addiction to power. Nearly all lined their pockets. Venezuela alone, between 1830 and 1899, experienced nearly 70 years of serial caudillo rule, which, some would argue, continued intermittently to the present.

In Ecuador, 35 right-wing years initiated by a caudillo were followed by 35 left-wing years initiated by another caudillo. General Gabriel García Moreno had saved the country from disintegration in 1859 and established a Conservative regime that wasn’t overthrown until 1895, when Eloy Alfaro led an anti-clerical coup. Alfaro secularized Ecuador, guaranteed freedom of speech, built schools and hospitals, and completed the Trans-Andean Railroad connecting the coast with the highlands. In 1911, his own party overthrew him and further liberalized the regime by opening up the economy. The Liberal Era lasted until 1925. Altogether, Alfaro initiated four coups — two succeeded, and one finally killed him — that made him the idol of Rafael Correa, Ecuador’s present, left-wing, president.

One right-wing caudillo, the Dominican Republic’s Rafael Trujillo (1930–61), was prematurely Green, restricting deforestation and establishing national parks and conservation areas in response to the ravages in next-door Haiti. His successor (after a five-year, chaotic interregnum that included a civil war and US Marines) was Joaquín Balaguer, an authoritarian who dominated Dominican politics until 2000 and continued Trujillo’s conservation policies.

Some caudillos combined elements from both Left and Right, coming up with ideologies that were internally inconsistent but extremely popular. Argentina’s Perón absorbed fascism, national socialism and falangism while stationed as a military observer in Italy, Germany, and Spain. Back in Argentina he allied himself with both the socialist and the syndicalist labor movements to create a power base. In 1943, as a colonel, he joined the coup against conservative president Ramon Castillo, who had been elected fraudulently.

In Paraguay, José Rodriguez de Francia closed the borders to all trade and travel; abolished all military ranks above captain, and insisted that he personallyofficiate at all weddings. He also ordered all dogs in the country to be shot.

When Perón announced his candidacy for the 1945 presidential elections as the Labor Party candidate, the centrist Allied Civic Union, the Socialist Party, the Communist Party, and the conservative National Autonomous Party all united against him — to no effect. As president, his stated goals were social justice and economic independence; in fact, he greatly expanded social programs, gave women the vote, created the largest unionized labor force in Latin America, and went on a spending spree that nearly bankrupted Argentina (it included modernizing the armed forces, paying off most of the nation’s debt, and making Christmas bonuses mandatory). Perón also nationalized the central bank, railways, shipping, universities, utilities, and the wholesale grain market. By 1951, the peso had lost 70% of its purchasing power, and inflation had reached 50%.

During the Cold War, Perón refused to pick either capitalism or communism, instituting instead his “third way," an attempt to ally Argentina with both the United States and the Soviet Union. Today, Peronism remains a vital force in Argentina, with President Cristina Fernández at its helm.

Sandino Lives!

Not that caudillismo needed any intellectual justification, but the social Darwinism that developed during the late 19th century helped to rationalize many of the abuses committed under its aegis. Then, fast on its heels and in rebuttal to it, Marxism burst on the scene, invigorating the Left by advocating the forcible redistribution of wealth. The Left-Right divide widened, and conflict sharpened.

In 1910, old and ambivalent about retiring, Porfirio Díaz decided to run once more for president of Mexico. When he realized that his opponent, Francisco Madero, was set to win, he jailed him on election day and declared himself the winner by a landslide. But Madero escaped and, from San Antonio, Texas, issued his Plan de San Luis Potosí, a pronunciamento promising land reform. It ignited the Mexican Revolution.

The Zapatista Army of National Liberation now sells t-shirts and trinkets to finance its anti-capitalist jihad.

Though not specifically Marxist, the Mexican Revolution has been interpreted as the precursor to the Russian Revolution. Its ideologies — especially “Zapatismo” — are part of the progressive, Fabian, and socialist zeitgeist of the time. In fact, however, the Mexican Revolution — a many-sided civil war that lasted ten years — was so indigenously Mexican as to elude historians’ broader interpretive models. Yet it was the first effective and long-lasting leftist Latin American movement. Its successors are Cuban communism, liberation theology, Bolivarian socialism, and many others. Out of it coalesced Mexico’s Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI), heir to a coalition of forces and ideologies that were, at last, fed up with fighting. The PRI, a member of the Socialist International, instituted de facto one-party rule, and controlled Mexico for over 70 years.

Other radical leftist revolutionary movements followed — some sooner, some later, not all successful — operating either by force or through the ballot. The earliest (1927) was that of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. Augusto César Sandino identified closely with the Mexican Revolution. Although he was not a Marxist, his movement adopted that ideology after his death. Five years later, in next-door El Salvador, the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (Martí was a Communist Party member and former Sandinista) rose in revolt. Guatemala followed in 1944 with the Jacobo Arbenz coup, then Cuba in 1952 with Castro’s insurrection.

With Castro’s accession to power in 1959, the outbreak of Marxist revolts in Latin America intensified. During the 1960s the Tupamaros rose in Uruguay. In Peru, various groups, including the Shining Path, revolted. The FARC, ELN, and M-19 followed in Colombia. In 1967, Fidel’s own Che Guevara met his death while trying to organize a premature revolution in Bolivia. Then, in 1970, Chileans voted in — by only 36%, a plurality in a three-way race — the first elected Marxist regime in the Americas.

Venezuela was next. Hugo Chávez launched his first, unsuccessful coup in 1992. After a stint in jail he was pardoned, ran for president in 1998, and won.

In Bolivia, Evo Morales, a former trade union leader, and his Movement Toward Socialism won the 2005 elections with a majority.

Latin American Marxism, unlike the European sort, has little to do with the industrial revolution or conditions of the working class. Not only is it currently more tolerant of religious belief; it is more relaxed about ideology and — again, currently — lacks gulags and killing fields. It is more about land distribution and “Social Justice” — a term whose words, innocuous and benign in themselves, don bandoliers and carbines and become fighting words when capitalized.

Social Justice is the concept of creating a society based on the principles of equality, human rights, and a “living wage” through progressive taxation, income and property redistribution, and force; and of manufacturing equality of outcome even in cases where incidental inequalities appear in a procedurally just system.

The term and modern concept of "social justice" were created by a Jesuit in 1840 and further elaborated by moral theologians. In 1971 Peruvian priest Gustavo Gutiérrez justified the use of force in achieving Social Justice when he made it a cornerstone of his liberation theology. As a strictly secular concept, Social Justice was adopted and promulgated by philosopher John Rawls.

The Other Path

Mario Vargas Llosa is a Peruvian writer and 2010 Nobel laureate — pointedly awarded the prize for his literary oeuvre, as opposed to his political writings, but this from a committee that awarded Barack Obama a Peace Prize for nothing more than political penumbras and emanations. Vargas Llosa started as a man of the Left. His hegira from admirer of Fidel Castro to radical neoliberal candidate for president of Peru in 1990 is a metaphor for Latin America’s own swing of the pendulum today.

In 1971 he condemned the Castro regime. Five years later, he punched García Márquez (patriarch of Marxist apologists) in the eye. Their rupture has never been fully healed (or explained), but it is attributed by some to diverging political differences. In 1989, when Peruvian economist Hernando de Soto published his libertarian classic, The Other Path (an ironic allusion to the Shining Path guerrilla movement), Vargas Llosa wrote its stirring introduction. He and de Soto advocated individual private property rights as a solution to property claims by the Latin American poor and Indians. Both the fuzzy squatters’ rights of the urban poor and the traditional subsistence-area claims of indigenous communities were being — literally — bulldozed by corrupt or insensitive governments; the two authors believed that the individual occupiers of the land should own it as their private property. This proposed solution did not sit well with the Social Justice crowd. To them, communal rights trumped individual rights.

But it struck a chord with the poor and dispossessed. So Vargas Llosa declared for the presidency in 1990 on a radical libertarian reform platform (the Liberty Movement). In Peru, the Shining Path guerrillas were terrorizing the country and the economy was a disaster, having been run into the ground by left-wing populist Alan García, who was now running for reelection. In the outside world, Soviet communism and its outliers were disintegrating, both institutionally and ideologically. Between García and Vargas Llosa in the three-way race stood Alberto Fujimori, the center-right candidate. Vargas Llosa took the first round with 34%, nearly the same majority that had put Allende into office in next-door Chile. But he lost the runoff, handing Peru over to the authoritarianism (as well as the reforms) of the Fujimori regime.

Latin American politics culminated in the era of the caudillo: a populist military strongman, usually eccentric, sentimental, long-ruling, and (roughly speaking) right-wing.

Without skipping a beat and less than a month later, Vargas Llosa attended a conference in Mexico City entitled "The 20th Century: The Experience of Freedom." This conference focused on the collapse of communist rule in central and eastern Europe. It was broadcast on Mexican television and reached most of Latin America. There Vargas Llosa condemned the Mexican system of power, the 61-year rule of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, and coined “the phrase that circled the globe”: "Mexico is the perfect dictatorship.” “The perfect dictatorship,” he said, “is not communism, not the USSR, not Fidel Castro; the perfect dictatorship is Mexico. Because it is a camouflaged dictatorship."

But the “perfect dictatorship” was already loosening its grip. Recent PRI presidents had been well-degreed in economics and public administration, as opposed to politics and law. They had already moved Mexico rightward, to the center-left, by privatizing some industries and liberalizing the economy — especially by joining NAFTA. By the 1994 election, the PRI had opened up the electoral system to outside challengers: the center-right National Action Party (PAN) and the strong-left Party of the Democratic Republic (PRD). In the 2000 elections the PRI ceded power to the PAN’s Vicente Fox, though not entirely.

The popular but hapless Fox ended Mexico’s last Marxist uprising, Subcomandante Marcos’ Zapatista Army of National Liberation (they now sell t-shirts and trinkets to finance their anti-capitalist jihad). But he was unable to further the rest of his reform agenda through the PRI-controlled legislature. So Mexico reelected the PAN in 2006. Today, in a move emblematic of Latin America’s change to European-style, alternating center-left/center-right administrations, the PAN and the PRD are exploring avenues of cooperation to pass legislation through the PRI-controlled Congress.

But Vargas Llosa wasn’t through yet. During one of Hugo Chávez’s marathon television tirades in 2009, he challenged Vargas Llosa to a debate on how best to promote Social Justice. When Vargas Llosa accepted, Chavez — in his most humiliating public move to date — declined.

Ho-hum

Peru’s increasingly discredited Fujimori resigned because of corruption, a questionable third presidential term, and the exercise of disproportionate force, once too often. He was followed by Alejandro Toledo, an economist so centrist and dull that he bored his people into not reelecting him. By the 2006 elections, Peru’s centrist politics were entrenched in the most ironic of ways. Alan García, the disastrous, populist left-wing ex-president, ran on a center-right, neoliberal platform — and won. And against all odds, he kept his word. In 2009 Peruvian economic growth was the third highest in the world, after China and India. In 2010 it remained in double figures. The 2011 elections won’t include García, as he can’t succeed himself. They are expected to be contested by the technocratic Toledo and the center-right Keiko Fujimori, Alberto’s daughter and leader of the Fujimorista Party.

It’s much the same — with few exceptions — in the rest of Latin America. Brazil’s widly popular, fiscally prudent, and social justice-sensitive center-left Lula da Silva administration was reelected, this time led by Dilma Rouseff, Brazil’s first female president. She has promised more of the same. In next-door Paraguay, the exceptionally long-ruling (61 years) Colorado Party ceded power in 2008 to the country’s second-ever left-wing president, Fernando Lugo, an ex-bishop and proponent of liberation theology. But Lugo has moved to the center, distancing himself from Chávez and tempering his social and fiscal promises by seeking broad consensus. GDP growth in 2010 was 8.6%.

In 2009 Uruguay elected as president José Mujica, a former Tupamaro guerrilla. But Mujica, described by some as an “anti-politician,” has moved radically to the ceemnter. The tie-eschewing, VW Beetle-driving president has promised to cut Uruguay’s bloated public administration dramatically. He identifies with Brazil’s Lula and Chile’s Bachelet rather than Bolivia’s Morales or Venezuela’s Chávez. After 6% growth in 2010, Uruguay is expected to level at 4.4% in 2011.

With the unexpected death of her husband and her disastrous left-wing populist policies (inflation is close to 30%), Argentina’s Fernández is not expected to win reelection in 2011. Reading the writing on the wall, she (unlike Chávez) is tiptoeing toward the center.

In Colombia, the feared authoritarian tendencies of Alvaro Uribe turned out to be wildly exaggerated; and his successor, Juan Manuel Santos, has moved even closer to the center. The two — Santos was Minister of Defense under Uribe — brought the FARC insurgency to its knees, reducing the guerrillas to little more than extortionists and drug dealers. With Colombia’s new-found safety, high growth, and low inflation, its tourist industry is booming.

El Salvador, long the archetype of extreme polarization between the now-peaceful FMLN Marxist revolutionaries and the ex-paramilitary rightwing Arenas coalition, elected Mauricio Funes in 2009. Funes, the FMLN’s surprise candidate, ran on a centrist platform and has stuck to it — throwing the Arenas coalition into disarray. He enjoys a 79% approval rating, which makes him Latin America’s most popular leader. Neighboring Honduras, after deposing a power-grabbing Chávez clone in 2009, elected the center-right Pepe Lobo, who promised reconciliation and stability. Even Guatemala shows signs of progress. The 2007 elections inducted Álvaro Colom, the first center-left president in 53 years.

Latin American Marxism, unlike the European sort, has little to do with the industrial revolution or conditions of the working class.

Costa Rica, long Latin America’s exemplar of democracy and moderation, is becoming ever more so. The 2009 elections turned Laura Chinchilla into Costa Rica’s first female president (one even more stunningly beautiful than Argentina’s Fernández). In spite of being socially conservative, she continues Óscar Arias’ vaguely center-left policies. With the traditional center-right and center-left parties always closely vying for power, the libertarian Partido Movimiento Libertario (PML), which retains a 20% popular vote base (and 10% of the legislature), has emerged as the policy power broker in the Congress.

Latin American politics’ move to the center is even mirrored in its ancillaries. The Cuban American National Foundation, largest of the Cuban diaspora’s political representatives, abjured the use of force after the death of its founder, Mas Canosa, and advocates a more open US policy toward Cuba.

Not all is good news. Though Cuba is showing microscopic hints of change (as reported in Liberty’s December issue), Chávez’ power play in Venezuela after his electoral defeat is yet to play out, and Bolivia’s Evo Morales holds steady after a barely avoided civil war, Nicaragua’s anti-capitalist tyrant Daniel Ortega is bound and determined to hold onto power come what may. But their days, too, are numbered.




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